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“As soon as Father Simon agrees to do so. I love her, and would have Lady Freya as my wife.”

Before he finished, Rory’s mother was already out of her seat, walking toward her. Freya stood and welcomed the other woman’s arms around her. Inexplicably, as they stood there, tears began to form. She’d been so consumed with the loss of her father and her home, and her feelings for Rory, it was not until this moment Freya realized what else she would gain from this union.

“I would not think to replace your mother,” Lady Catrina whispered in her ear, “but will be one to you nonetheless, in whichever way you like. Thank you for what you’ve done to him.”

Fighting back a flood of tears, Freya took two deep breaths. Maybe sensing that she attempted to calm herself, Lady Catrina waited until Freya regained her composure. Then, breaking away, she moved to Rory, whispered something in his ear, kissed his cheek, and then sat back in her chair.

Rory seemed surprised. He looked at Freya, and she knew immediately something was amiss. Not necessarily bad, it seemed, as there was the faintest of smiles on his face. She would ask him later what his mother had said. For now it seemed everyone spoke at once. His mother, of their wedding plans. Rory, of bringing the seamstress to Bristol Manor for Freya. The excitement in the air was tempered only by the knowledge that the need for Freya to have gowns made was because her wardrobe remained at Edyington. Some of those she loved remained there too. The hope that she could avenge her father, take back Edyington and hold it, as her grandmother had achieved with Shenworth, was gone.

Freya was not the Lioness of the West. Nor was she even Lady Freya of Edyington any longer. Instead, she reminded herself, she was a woman lucky enough to find love, and a loving family too. ’Twas enough.

Forcing a contentment she did not quite feel thinking of her home, Freya glanced at Rory’s father, who’d said little since his wife began to make wedding plans. He was looking at her in the most peculiar of ways. As if . . . as if he wished to tell her something.

Freya had not imagined Rory’s reaction to his mother, nor was she now imagining his father’s odd countenance. She nearly blurted the question aloud, asking what they knew that she did not. But just then, his mother rose, announcing ’twas time for the evening meal.

Her question, it seemed, would have to wait.

Chapter Thirty-Two

In the days since they’d announced their intention to marry, Rory had seen his intended less than he’d have wished. That first night, he’d attempted to sneak back into her bedchamber but was greeted instead by the maid Lavena. Apparently his mother had elevated the woman’s status to lady’s maid to Freya. Which his betrothed seemed pleased about, but he, less so. Lavena admitted to Rory that she’d been encouraged by Lady Catrina to stay the evenings with Freya. Rory had immediately confronted his mother, to which she had insisted, “Your wedding night will be sweeter for the wait.”

Of course, Freya could send the maid away, but it seemed there was now a conspiracy against him. His mother and Freya were together nearly every moment while he attempted to learn more about the reivers’ attack. He and his father visited their closest allies, but their clan chief had heard nothing of it. Returning to Bristol now, he wished for nothing more than to seek out Freya, but it seemed their reunion would have to wait. When he entered the hall, Rory was nearly attacked by his sister. Rylee tossed her arms around him just as he spotted Galien and Reina. No sooner did he greet her than Rylee was already off to speak to their cousin Oriana, Galien’s sister. In fact, in the three days they’d been gone, it seemed the entirety of Clan Kerr had arrived.

“Uncle Toren,” he said, approaching the long trestle table. They’d just sat for the midday meal, but now the food was abandoned. “Aunt Juliette.” As he spoke with his aunt and uncle, his sister huddled with Galien’s sister, whispering about someone near the entrance of the hall, though Rory could not determine who it was.

Unfortunately, Freya was nowhere to be found. His mother was conspicuously missing as well, though Rory’s father presided over the meal. He would be forced to share the disappointing news about their lack of information regarding the reivers. Thomas was also missing from the reunion, though he mended nicely in his chambers, and Rory was thankful for it.

“Where is Rodric?” he asked his aunt and uncle about his youngest cousin.

“He’d gone to visit Boyd when there was apparently some trouble near Norham. Breac asked for Rodric to come to him.”

“Which means it is serious.”

“Aye,” his uncle said. “Uncle Reid thought it best Rodric remain at their home with his cousin Boyd until he deems it safe again to travel.”

“I’m sorry they will not be here to attend . . . the wedding,” he said carefully.

“As are they. Conall will stand in his father’s stead, but Reid sends his congratulations. And vote.”

He nodded. “How do you fare, Aunt Juliette?”

“Better now that I am home,” she teased. As she likely expected, her husband made a face at that.

“Home is Brockburg. Not England,” Toren said.

“Aye.” She laughed. “’Tis so.”

His aunt was from England but had lived many years as the chief’s wife in Brockburg. She was as much Scottish as Toren now, but she did enjoy reminding him of her roots.

“Ironic,” he said to his uncle, “that your son should find a wife south of the border as well.”

“Ironic,” Toren shot back, “that you should find a wife as you did, given your own parents’ unique courtship.”

“Touché,” he said, his voice trailing as he sensed her presence. Indeed, Freya had just walked into the hall. Their eyes met, followed promptly by a hearty laugh from his uncle. “First Galien and then Rory,” he said to his wife. “I fear ’tis just the beginning.”

Rory clapped his uncle on the shoulder.

In response, Toren patted his hand, much as a father would with a son. “I am glad for it,” he said more seriously. “Go to her. There will be time enough to speak later.”