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Surely, he jested.

Before she could stop him, Rory was partway to the wooden screen where the serving maid had gone. Since her brother was not behind that screen, Freya simply watched and waited. A moment later, Rory emerged carrying a pitcher of, presumably, ale.

He sat, filled both mugs, though hers was partially filled already, and drank. Deeply.

Exhaling, he replaced the mug and sat back in his seat.

“Do you wish to explain?” she asked.

Rory raised his mug. “’Twas empty and the serving maid was not returning to us. I’ve little patience when it comes to ale.” He smiled. “Or women.”

The man was incorrigible. “I meant the statement you made before you fetched the ale.”

“Oh,” Rory said as if it was so inconsequential that he had nearly forgotten. “The one about your brother?”

“Aye, Rory, that one.”

“If I am ever in his presence, I will do precisely as I said. He harmed your maid, took your inheritance, and was responsible for your father’s death. He does not deserve to live.”

Freya was uncertain how to respond. Whether or not Eustace deserved to live after what he’d done was a separate matter from Rory claiming he would be the one to determine his fate. As he finished the mug of ale and poured another—the man could drink, of that she was certain—she asked in a different way. “How, precisely, do you plan to be in my brother’s presence? You will escort me to my grandmother’s, leave for Bristol, and ’tis unlikely either I, or my brother, will ever see you again.”

“Does he attend the Tourney?”

The Tournament of the North, held every year since before Freya was even born. Englishmen and Scots came together to hone their skills against each other. Like any other tournament, there were accidents and men died. Even so, ’twas the one time each year, even as they sat on the precipice of war with the other, there was some semblance of peace.

“He does.” Every border lord, and even mercenaries and reivers who had the coin to enter into it, attended.

Rory said no more.

“You are not jesting?”

“I would not jest about ending a man’s life, especially one who was brought into the world from the same womb as you.”

Freya blinked. “I do not understand you, Rory.”

From the opposite corner of the room to the screen, the sounds of a gittern’s strings being plucked began to ring out. She strained to see who played it, but the lighting did not afford Freya the ability to see that clearly. Still, ’twas a pleasant sound, and the other patrons seemed to appreciate it as well. A table of three men, merchants from the look of them, clapped as the musician began to play.

“I am a simple man, really,” Rory said. “I love my ale, women, and family. Though not in that order. I despise men like your brother almost as much as discussing people like him. I’d much prefer to talk about that which brings us pleasure than pain. Do you not agree?”

First lie to herself: Freya was completely unaffected by that grin.

Second lie: Freya did not wish to be one of the many, many women Rory had been with.

“I’ve not had much pleasure in my life these past days. And see little of it to come,” she said, ignoring for now Rory’s outrageous statement about her brother.

“As is life, Freya.” A new song began. No patrons came or left. It seemed they would be the last newcomers this evening. “There will be difficulties ahead of us all. My family is now firmly in the king’s crosshairs. Inevitable, I suppose, but the fact does not bode well, as you know Edward can be a ruthless master. If we somehow manage to escape the worst of his wrath, a new threat will emerge. Such is being a borderer. Which is precisely why . . .” Rory stood, but this time, he did not leave for more ale. Instead, he dragged his seat to the side of the table closest to her, with his back now to the other patrons. “You should take pleasure when it is offered.”

He was much too close to her now. Freya feigned disinterest. “Are you offering?”

His hand shot out to the wooden tray between them, where she’d been reaching for a piece of cheese. Something to distract her from the conversation. When his finger touched hers, she stared at it. When he gently glided it away from the tray, Freya let him.

And when Rory picked up the cheese and leaned toward her, she found herself opening her mouth. The way he was positioned, coupled with the relative darkness of the tavern, meant none could likely see him. But that was not the only reason she should reach up and stop his hand from moving toward her.

There were plenty of others, but at this precise moment, Freya cared less for them than for the no-longer-steady beating of her heart. For the look in Rory’s eyes as he leaned in even closer. For the smell of him. The nearness of him.

“Open your mouth, Freya,” he commanded.

She did not think, not even for a moment, to disobey.