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“It feels as if you say goodbye already.”

Goddammit, he’d been right not to love again. Rory gritted his teeth and steeled his heart behind the walls he had built. “We will likely not speak alone again.”

She knew it as well as he did. “Aye.”

Thankful for the growing darkness that meant he could not fully see her expression, Rory remembered himself back at Bristol, walking into the hall to find Alys gone. He could feel his mother’s hand pulling him from the hall, bidding him to speak privately with her. He remembered crying, as if he were a little boy. And then shame from having done so. Neither of them ever spoke of it again. One of so many reasons Rory loved his mother with an intensity not matched by any other relationship. Not his father or sister or even his cousins. She was so fierce, and yet, the most tender of women alive.

She would see herself in Freya, as he did.

“I would ask one thing of you, Rory.”

“Anything,” he said, knowing she’d never ask of him that which he could not give.

“Please do not kill my brother.”

His back straightened. “Anything but that.”

Chapter Eighteen

Thus far, Freya had not yet seen her grandmother. She’d been escorted directly to the same bedchamber she’d used on every visit. And after their travels, Freya would admit that having a hot bath and chambermaid, as well as a fresh gown, was a welcome respite.

A greeting from her grandmother would have been more welcome, but Freya had not been surprised by its absence. Though she’d never actually met the queen of England—neither the new one nor Edward’s first wife—Freya had always imagined her grandmother as emulating her. Elusive. Dignified. Intimidating.

When her husband died, she had appealed to the king and was awarded Shenworth suo jure. It was unusual, that Freya’s father, as the sole male heir, should not have inherited both land and title. But by then he’d married her mother, and Freya’s grandmother still was not speaking to her son.

“Shall I plait your hair, my lady?” the maid asked, brushing it.

“Nay, the veil will do,” Freya said, fingering the gold fabric. Along with the cranberry velvet gown, its neckline and sleeves inlaid with gold thread, she looked quite different than on their travels. Would Rory notice?

It did not matter. In the morn, he would be gone.

Why that should pain her as it did, Freya could not be sure. She’d lost her father. She’d also lost the man who’d instructed her on how to wield a bow and arrow. She’d lost so many, including her home now, it seemed. That Freya would lose a man she hardly knew . . . of all she had been through, it should be the least painful of all the losses.

And yet, it was Rory’s face she saw in her mind each morning as she rose. What he’d made her feel . . . Freya could but wonder if she would ever experience such again. All of her future was now uncertain, but Freya knew, at least, she would not marry a man of the king’s choosing. Her brother would never again hold sway over her. She may not wish him dead, but neither would Freya allow him to harm her, or Loretta, again.

Which meant this yearning for a man who had been so hurt Freya doubted he would ever be whole again . . . must cease. She was here for one reason alone, and that was to gain her grandmother’s support. Riding through the gates had reminded her that it was, indeed, possible. If she wished to take back Edyington, even with all of the men the king left behind, they could do so easily.

“Shall I escort you to the hall, my lady?”

Freya stood. “There is no need. I know the way well.”

The maid, one not recognizable to her, bowed.

Shenworth Castle was styled in a circular fashion. At least four times the size of Edyington Castle, having been added onto over the years, it also had the distinct pleasure, as her grandmother liked to boast, of being the one holding along the Welsh border that had never changed hands. Since it was built, it had been ruled by not only an English family but the same family.

Freya made her way through corridor after corridor and finally down a set of stone stairs.

Her grandmother had always been extremely direct with Freya. She cared for her, but had never forgiven her father. When he married Freya’s mother, Lady Miriel carried out the threat she had made. Though he would inherit Edyington, Shenworth would never be his or his children’s. Not Eustace’s. Not hers. With no other heirs, it would instead revert to a distant cousin of Freya’s on her grandfather’s side of the family.

Emerging just outside of the great hall, Freya waited. She knew walking into the hall unescorted would displease her grandmother. It seemed the evening meal was well underway, the hall filled with at least fifty retainers. Though she’d been here many times throughout the years—in his later years, her father had more often attempted to repair his relationship with his mother—it still did not cease to amaze her.

Not even a countess, and yet her grandmother held the most spectacular court in this very spot. As torn as she was about Rory’s leaving, Freya was equally torn about her feelings for this living, breathing legend. Like her brother, Lady Miriel was family. They shared the same blood. And for that, Freya could not wish her ill. For her treatment of her, especially when her mother had died, Freya would always be grateful. And yet . . .

Lady Miriel had spurned Freya’s father, her only son. Caused him grief and sorrow for years. And why? Because she disapproved of his marriage. Not because Freya’s mother was unkind or cruel, but because she lacked coin and title. For that, Freya had difficulty forgiving the woman who watched her approach the dais much as a hawk eyes its prey.

A hush descended as she reached her grandmother. Freya could not help but think she looked lonely sitting by herself at the long head table. Freya bowed, the music having stopped playing as she approached.

“Grandmother,” she said, rising. “You are looking quite well.”