In apparent prayer he knelt, his cross-guarded sword propped against the pew, but his face held nothing of piety, Viking features set grimly for battle. The spill of light through painted glass lit his sword in brilliant green and vermilion, but the man himself knelt in shadow. Although she’d been fleeing the king, running as she burst into the chapel, her steps faltered when she saw his theyn. He levered upright and buckled the sword around his hips, then trudged toward her, moving heavily as if encased in mail, though she saw no glint of steel beneath his mantle. A battalion of emotions assailed her: shuddering reaction from her encounter with the king, gratitude to see Eomond, followed by a scalding flood of embarrassment, as if somehow he knew she’d dreamed of their carnal congress the night before. But nay, she knew why he waited—because his liege had bidden him, and for no other reason. Eomond ducked his head in token respect.
