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“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Freya said with not a hint of apprehension, courtesy of years of training, and with the same confidence as his mother. Hers was born from dealing with three brothers—a clan chief, a second, and the third brother, his uncle Reid? He was a man that made Rory’s father appear almost meek. But it was Freya who impressed him. With no mother for much of her life, a weasel of a brother, and an absent grandmother, Freya had taken the lessons of her father and embraced each and every one.

“As are we,” his father said.

“Shall I introduce Lady Freya to Sir Thomas?” his mother asked.

The knight and steward of Bristol would see Freya settled after their journey, but Rory, not willing to part with her just yet, hurried to say, “I would show her Bristol first and take her to the South Tower myself.”

That earned a curious glance from his mother.

“Perhaps a tour before supper instead,” Freya said quickly. Clearly wishing to please his mother more than he, Freya smiled to placate him. “You’ve much to discuss, I am sure. And I fear this is no longer appropriate for the meal,” she said, fanning out the hem of her gown. Indeed, caked with mud from their travels, it was likely ruined.

“We shall meet Sir Thomas later,” his mother said. “I will settle you myself. Come, Lady Freya.” She offered the crook of her arm. “You must be weary indeed. You’ve traveled all the way from Shenworth, have you not?”

Neither woman gave him another glance as they strolled away.

“What precisely,” Rory asked, “just occurred?”

“I believe you’ve been overruled,” Conall answered. “Set aside. How else does one say it, Uncle Bryce?”

His father clapped Rory on the shoulder. “The words matter less than your reaction, son. Take it as a fact of life, that they will do whatever it is they please, and you will be grateful for it.”

“I’m quite accustomed to Mother and Rylee’s bond, but not to how quickly Freya abandoned me.”

Conall and his father exchanged a glance. Before Rory could inquire on it, with his hand still on his shoulder, his father steered him from the hall. “Come with us,” he told Conall, who’d begun to walk in the opposite direction.

When they made their way up a set of stone stairs at the opposite end of the hall, Rory knew immediately they were heading outside to the same section of parapet where his father had first explained the Brotherhood to him. Where they’d had countless conversations, all looking over the courtyard where retainers and servants came and went. His father’s favorite spot in all of Bristol Manor, despite the sweeping vistas a short distance from the gatehouse.

The people, his father always said, not the countryside or the manor, were Bristol. So it was there he liked to observe as deep thoughts ran through his mind.

“It is as you said, Conall,” his father said when they reached the wall.

“Worse.”

“What did you tell him?” Rory asked his cousin.

“The truth,” Conall hedged. Which was when Rory really wished to know what had passed between his cousin and father. Rory had expected Conall to remain at Bristol to await his safe return. And he’d expected him to explain that Rory had escorted Freya to Shenworth. But it was apparent Conall had told his father much more.

“And which truth is that?” he asked, curious now given the way his father looked at him.

Conall shrugged. “Just that you were in love with Lady Freya.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Have you told them?”

Freya sat beside Rory on the dais, enjoying the hall’s pleasant hum of voices as they began the meal with him beside her . . . She felt poorly for such pleasurable feelings. Her maid and the others were still under her brother’s rule. Sir Walter, continuing to gather support for their cause. And she, dining next to a man who consumed her thoughts even as she knew the danger of such a thing.

He might claim this marriage would take place, but until his parents knew of it, and of his plans, Freya was still uncertain. Even then, knowing she would marry a man who desired her, aye, would fight for her—it was more than she ever expected. But this man would never give her the one thing she’d come to want most of all.

His heart.

Freya had lost hers to him. Of that, she was certain. But unlike Rory, she’d not had hers broken into two. Indeed, she never expected hers to be filled. A marriage chosen by another, whether her father or brother or king, or even Freya’s grandmother, was what she’d expected.

Knowing he wished to do so, Freya had not spoken to Rory’s mother about it. Though she was everything he claimed her to be—kind, intelligent, and quite beautiful—Lady Catrina was intimidating too. And, most importantly, Rory’s mother. Freya trod carefully, accepting her offer of a gown, thanking her graciously for the bedchamber and use of a maid. But said nothing of consequence about her and Rory. Neither did Lady Catrina ask.

“I’ve spoken briefly with my father but not my mother yet,” he said. “I would do so after supper, with you by my side.”

Freya sat at the very end of the table, her back to the wall. Next to her were Rory and then his father, Lady Catrina beside him and Rory’s cousin Conall on the other end.