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“I would return to my grandmother, my own family, and spare you the necessity of marrying a woman you do not love.” There, she’d said it. Rory could deny it or say nothing.

He said nothing.

“I care deeply for you, Freya. I’d not have offered marriage simply for the fortification of our borders to the west if I did not.”

“You do,” she agreed. “And you desire me also.”

“Very much.” Without warning, Rory pulled her arm toward him as he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was brief, but powerful. It spoke of longing and near loss.

And of goodbye.

At least for Freya. She’d been selfish to ask so much of him. Rory’s own family needed him not to bring destruction to their family for a woman who was nothing more than a mission. One he’d accomplished. And now, it was time to let him go.

She pulled away, glancing about to ensure none watched them. Thankfully, they did not.

“Caring is not love,” she said. “Desire is not love.”

“Many marry for much less.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “They do.” As she would, no doubt, when she returned to her grandmother. But still better than returning to her brother. Her stipulation to her grandmother would be clear. She would willingly marry, be used as a pawn even, if her husband was not one to strike a woman. Said husband must agree to her terms as well. Namely, allowing Loretta and her family into their new home. Freya may not be able to save everyone at Edyington, but some of the men who wished to leave had escaped. Now it was time for the ladies, servants or nobles alike, to do so. That would be her condition.

The longer she waited, the more he confirmed her suspicions. If Rory did love her, as she did him, he would have said as much by now. Instead, he looked at her with horror. Daresay, even anger.

When she stood, Rory shot up as well.

“Where do you go?” he asked. Surely Freya imagined the desperation in his voice. He could easily convince her to stay. To marry him. She’d not said it but had hinted at it. Freya had fallen in love with a man she’d known, from the start, would be dangerous to love. And yet she had done it anyway, despite herself. And now she would be forced to leave him. The alternative, having him someday resent the sacrifice he’d made for her, was much worse.

If she told him, Rory would not allow her to leave. She knew him well enough by now, and so she said simply, “To my bedchamber, for some rest. I did not sleep last eve.”

Rory opened his mouth but closed it just as quickly. He would not keep her from sleep, it seemed, and so she stared carefully at his face, memorizing every feature as if she could forget even one, and turned to walk away.

Never to see Sir Rory Waryn of Bristol again.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“I am surprised to see you here.” Rory’s mother passed him as he left Thomas’s chamber. Though he did not stay for long, not wanting to tire him, he had wished to see for himself that Thomas was, indeed, alive and healing well.

“Where else should I be if not visiting a man who’s been like a father to me?”

“Perhaps making your way to the village to stop Freya from leaving Bristol?”

Rory froze, his hand reaching out to the frame of the door for support. “What did you say?” he asked, uncertain if lack of sleep interfered with his hearing.

“That I am surprised you are not in the village stopping Freya from leaving.”

“Freya is resting in her chamber,” he said. “I left her not long ago.”

“And I left Fergus, who had just left Mary, who told him a most beautiful woman had passed her on the road as she made her delivery. Suspecting Freya, I went to her chamber and discovered these.” His mother handed him a piece of parchment with his name on it. “I would expect it to be much the same as mine. Freya thanked me for Bristol Manor’s hospitality and bid me well.”

He had torn open the missive before his mother even finished speaking. Reading it quickly, his eyes roamed to the top and did so again. She was gone. Freya thanked him for his escort, for all he had done for her, and explained she did not wish to burden him further. She’d signed it, “With Love,” and . . . his mother was not jesting.

Freya was gone.

The memory of another woman who’d left Bristol came into his mind before he quickly dismissed it. She had been hunting for a title. Freya had simply been attempting to save him from what she believed was an ill-conceived attempt at protecting her.

“The village,” he said, thinking. Freya had jewels with her that she’d likely attempt to use to secure safe escort back to Shenworth. “Did she really believe I would not come for her? That she would simply leave—” Rory’s breath came quickly, his heart beating out of his chest.

“Lady Freya is a woman of means,” his mother said, “and I do not doubt she will easily secure safe passage to Shenworth.”