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“I will not be swayed from taking you to wife as I know you believe, Freya. Not by my mother, nor my father. My sister or cousins. There is only one person who could stop this wedding.” His lips turned up, Rory’s meaning clear.

That one person was her, and he clearly wished to ensure that did not happen.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Welcome to Bristol Manor.”

He waited expectantly for her to respond. Rory wanted Freya to like his home. He wanted it too much, in fact. Reminding himself, as he had often on the journey from Shenworth, to temper his expectations, he instead watched as Isaac left them to reunite with his wife. Rory watched familiar faces pass them. Though not as grand as Shenworth or Edyington, there was a tranquility to the fortified manor house that could not be found in any of the others.

“There are glazed windows on the upper floors,” Freya exclaimed as Rory dismounted and walked toward her.

“My mother had those added recently,” he said, “though the lower ones have shutters still. It cost more coin than Father wished to pay to have the work done, but my mother insisted. She enjoys the sunlight during winter months when the shutters would normally remain closed, and even my father admits it was an addition that pleases him.”

“’Tis as lovely as the land surrounding it.”

Not as lovely as you.

“We traveled through the Blacklands. In spring the heather-topped moorland is even more beautiful than it is now.”

“An odd name,” she said, allowing Rory to help her dismount.

“’Tis in contrast to the Whitelands, a stretch of moorland on the other side of Bristol Manor to its village. Both names were given by those who lived here to see Bristol change hands from Waryn to Kerr and now, to both. Come, I will introduce you to my parents. They are likely preparing for supper.”

Rory did not miss the glances sent Freya’s way. He escorted her up the stone stairs, turning at the top toward the great hall. Unusual for a manor house such as this, there were two entrances, one into the hall and the other directly into the South Tower. Modest inside, with eight trestle tables in addition to the dais placed against the courtyard-facing wall, its grandiosity lay in the arched timbers above them spanning two floors high.

With few people milling about to see, Freya’s head tilted upwards. “’Tis magnificent.”

He should not care that Freya seemed impressed, but as with all things when it came to her, Rory found it increasingly difficult to feign indifference. “They are original to this hall, though reinforced perhaps ten summers ago.”

“It seems you misunderstood the mission.”

Both he and Freya turned at the sound. Entering from the same door as they, Conall strode toward them. He embraced Rory, his hand slapping him on the back hard enough to let Rory know he’d been missed.

“You remember my cousin, Conall? Conall, Lady Freya?”

“My lady,” Conall said, taking her hand. “I am pleased to see you safe.” Kissing it, he turned to Rory, who asked, “Where are my parents? Rylee?”

“Your mother and father, riding. Rylee has gone to visit Skye.”

His sister and his cousin Skye, Uncle Garrick and Aunt Emma’s eldest daughter, were more like sisters than cousins. Often Rylee could be found at Clave Castle or his cousin Skye here at Bristol. “You’ve been here since we parted?”

“Aye.” They stepped to the side of the hall to allow the servants to work. White cloth was being draped over the tables. Odd. That was typically done only for important guests or on feast days. “I will admit, I’d not expected you so soon.”

And though he did not say it, neither had Conall expected Freya to accompany him. The air in the hall, the demeanor of those around them, suddenly changed. All three of them looked again toward the entrance.

His parents.

Rory’s mother reached him first. She looked at no one else, saw no one else, and ran to him. Rory became a boy again as her arms wrapped around him. Fierce. Loving. Perhaps the only woman in the world who could have tamed his father. He breathed in the scent of her. Of home and warmth and family.

“Do not cry,” he whispered to her. “I am safe.”

“No thanks to that damn council. Sending you with only Conall by your side.” She let him go, maybe realizing for the first time there were guests with them. “No disrespect to you, Conall,” she said.

“None taken, Aunt Catrina.”

And then she looked at Freya, too polite to ask the obvious question.

“Mother, Father, I would introduce Lady Freya of Edyington.” And then to Freya, “This is my mother, Lady Catrina of Brockburg, and my father, Sir Bryce Waryn, lord of Bristol Manor.”