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His father gave no hint to his thoughts on the matter. Rory had admitted he’d returned with the intent of marrying Freya, after denying Conall’s claim that he was in love with her, to protect her from forces that would use her as a pawn. Rory also asked for permission to call another council with the intent of gaining support to take back Edyington Castle in Freya’s name. Understanding the seriousness of such a request, he’d not been surprised when his father indicated he would need time to consider it.

And then, the attack.

The moment his father looked at him, Rory knew the answer. And it was not the one he hoped for. “I sympathize with her plight, son, but the council made its decision already. They chose not to attack with good reason. The king will see such an action as an open declaration of treason and war against him.”

“The king,” he said, disgusted, “ordered Haydn to marry a woman whose orders were to spy on our family. He knows well we stand with Kerr, and with Scotland’s freedom from his rule. Otherwise he’d not have gone to such extreme measures.”

“Which was discussed at the first council, son. You were there. You know all of this.”

“He had her father hanged,” Rory ground out.

“For standing against his king.”

“So if that same king were to come here, to Bristol, and do the same, it is within his rights to do so, is it not?” Rory’s voice rose as he spoke. “We would simply hand the manor to him?”

“The son stood by the king's side,” his father reminded Rory.

“Freya’s brother is a traitor to his own father and has abused both Freya and her maid. He will die for such treachery.”

“You will not mark yourself a target for the king, Rory.”

“If it were Mother we discussed, would you sing the same tune?” His mount, sensing Rory’s agitation, began to dance beneath him.

His father raised his chin. “I am deeply in love with your mother, Rory. Men do foolish things for love. But you,” he said, “are not in love with Lady Freya, by your own admission.”

Rory gritted his teeth, wanting to deny the words but knowing he could not. Rory would never love another woman. Not again. “I am willing to marry her,” he said instead.

“A sacrifice is not the same as love, Rory, and well you know it. I commend your sense of honor, and wish no harm to come to Lady Freya. Marry her, if you wish, though I advise against it. I would see you love your wife as I do your mother. Either way, think on the matter carefully, Rory. Her own grandmother will not send men to Edyington. Surely you do not believe the Brotherhood will do so?”

“It could be as strategic a location for us as it is to the king,” he argued.

“What use is a safe corridor between our countries when we also fight battles to the south? King Edward is a powerful enemy to have, son. We must tread carefully with him. Your plan will see the Waryn family drown.”

“Father—”

“My decision is made. Come, your Lady Freya will wish to see you.”

Rory did not move as his father rode again. Though he looked back, his eyes sad, his father said nothing more. He may offer more smiles than frowns. He may make those around him laugh and may slap his mother’s buttocks as she passed, something done by no other noble Rory knew of. But he was also steadfast. His decision, once made, would never be reversed. Not by him, his sister, or even Rory’s mother. The lord of Bristol Manor had spoken.

Rory had made promises to Freya that he could not keep. He looked down to his hands, still bloody from the battle, and gripped the reins until his knuckles turned white. He was angry with his father, with the attackers, with Freya’s brother and the king. But most of all, Rory was angry with himself.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Will you walk with me?”

As if Freya had not been waiting for Rory to appear, to ask that very question, she rose unhurriedly from the chair. There were few in the hall, the morning meal having ended. Earlier, when Rory’s father had rushed into the hall, Lady Catrina had run to her husband, the two of them disappearing together and Freya expecting Rory to be just behind.

One by one, men returned. Others left the hall. The servants began to take away remnants of what had begun as a solemn breaking of their fast after a long, sleepless night. But then word that the men had returned, all safe, reached them. Freya continued to watch the entrance of the hall, waiting.

When he did appear, as calmly as possible, Freya walked toward Rory, holding back the urge to toss her arms around him.

“Of course,” she responded to his greeting, following him from the hall. They passed the maid who had been watching Rory closely the night before, though she did not spare a glance for him today. They passed the solar chamber and climbed a set of stone stairs to the second floor. There, a corridor opened to a courtyard-facing alcove. Rory sat on the cushioned seat and patted his knee as if Freya should sit upon it.

She laughed, not doing so, of course. “You are incorrigible.”

“You are sitting much too far away for my tastes.”

Though the corridor was empty, doors on each side of them indicated upper rooms that anyone could come from at any time.