Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
One year later
"Secure that line before the whole damn ship breaks apart!"
Magnus shouted the order over the howl of wind and spray, watching his men scramble to catch the rope thrown from the royal birlinn as it fought against the current.
The vessel pitched violently in the gray water, waves crashing against Barra's rocky shore with enough force to shake the dock beneath his boots.
"Lighten up," Torvald said, securing the rope to the dock post with practiced efficiency. "It's nae like ye're being murdered."
"I'm being married."
"Aye, well." Torvald's grin flashed brief and infuriating. "Some would say there's nae much difference."
Magnus didn't answer. His jaw was already tight enough to crack teeth. He would soon have a bride he'd never asked for. Never wanted.
Another year. That was all he desired. One more year to put Freydis behind him, to bury the rumors and whispers that followed him like shadows. But the king's decree had arrived three weeks ago, sealed with wax and stamped with royal authority that left no room for argument.
The Lairds' Pact requires yer immediate compliance. Ye will wed the Highland bride chosen fer ye, or forfeit yer lands and title to the Crown.
As if he had a choice.
"Things didnae turn out well the first time," Magnus said, more to himself than Torvald. "I've nay interest in marryin’ again."
"Freydis was nae yer fault."
"She’s dead." The word came out flat. Final. "And we ken that everyone thinks I killed her."
Torvald's humor faded. "Nae everyone believes it. What happened that—"
"This one's different," Torvald said, hauling on another line as the ship finally drew alongside the dock. "A Scotswoman. Highland born. The king chose her himself tae bind the peace."
Magnus felt nothing at the words. He'd tried to feel nothing about any woman since Freydis had died—had succeeded, mostly. Except for one.
That damn lass from the festival a year ago.
The one with wild, desperate eyes and lips that had tasted of honey mead and fear.
She'd kissed him like her life depended on it, then vanished before he could even learn her name, leaving him standing over two unconscious guards with nothing but questions and a memory that refused to fade.
He'd told himself it was just the novelty of it.
The boldness. The way she'd used him without apology and disappeared without explanation.
But late at night, when sleep wouldn't come and the keep was silent around him, he found himself wondering where she'd gone.
Whether she'd escaped whatever she was running from. Whether he'd ever see her again.
Foolish thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.
She was probably long dead, or married, or a thousand miles away.
"A Scotswoman." Magnus's voice carried all the warmth of winter steel. "Even better. I'm to marry the daughter of some Highland laird who likely thinks I'm a savage, seal a peace I never broke, and pretend this is nae the king's way of keeping us under his boot."
"When ye put it like that it sounds bad."
"How else would I put it?"
Torvald opened his mouth to respond, then wisely closed it again. They both knew there was no good answer. Magnus had tried to feel nothing about this marriage, to treat it as the political transaction it was.
The gangplank dropped with a heavy thud against the dock. Royal guards descended first, their tabards bearing the lion rampant of Scotland, their faces pale and miserable from the crossing.
Magnus had seen hardened warriors look more comfortable before battle than these men did stepping onto solid ground.
One of them stumbled, his legs unsteady. Magnus moved forward instinctively, catching the man's elbow before he could fall.
"Easy," Magnus said. "The land willnae move beneath ye."
The guard nodded gratefully, then seemed to remember who he was speaking to. His expression shifted, wariness replacing relief. He pulled his arm free and stepped quickly aside.
Magnus's mouth tightened. Even the king's own men had heard the rumors.
More guards followed, then servants carrying chests and bundles. Finally, a tall man in fine robes descended, Brian MacLeod, the king's representative. Magnus recognized him from court gatherings, though they'd never spoken directly. The man had clever eyes and a politician's smile.
Behind him came a figure in a heavy cloak, moving carefully down the slick gangplank. A woman. She kept one hand on the rope railing, her steps measured and deliberate despite the ship's continued rocking.
The cloak's hood was drawn up, hiding her face, but strands of wet hair escaped, blond catching the gray afternoon light.
The woman reached the dock and paused, lifting her head slightly. For a moment, the hood fell back just enough for Magnus to see her face. Recognition hit him like a fist to the gut.
Her.
The woman from the festival. The one who'd appeared out of nowhere, desperate and wild-eyed, and asked if he was married before pulling him into a kiss that had stolen the breath from his lungs.
For a year he'd wondered if she'd been real—if that desperate woman at the festival had been flesh and blood or some fevered dream conjured by too much ale and too little sleep. He'd told himself she didn't matter, that she was just another mystery in a life already full of them.
But standing there, watching her hood slip back to reveal those same haunted hazel-green eyes, Magnus felt something cold settle in his chest.
She was real. And she was his bride.
How many others had there been? How many men had she kissed to save herself, used and discarded like tools? How many had fallen for those desperate, pleading eyes only to watch her disappear the moment she got what she needed?
Trust was a weapon. Loyalty, the only measure of worth. And this woman—this stranger who'd used him once already—had proven she possessed neither.
Now she stood on his dock, soaked and shivering, staring at him with the same wide hazel-green eyes he remembered.
His mind raced, connecting pieces he didn't want to fit together. Guards. Hunting her through a festival crowd. And now there she stood, offered up to him as a bride for the Pact.
And he understood.
She hadn't escaped after all. The guards had found her.
MacTavish guards!
The woman—Ada MacTavish, his mind supplied, because of course she was a MacTavish, her father was the laird who'd sent those guards after her—froze completely. Her face went white as salt.
"Lady Ada," Brian called, moving toward her with his hand extended. He must have mistaken her stillness for fear of the gangplank, or the height, or the water still churning below. "Let me help ye down. The crossing was rough, I ken, but ye're safe now."
She didn't move. Didn't take his hand. Her gaze remained locked on Magnus, and he saw the exact moment she recognized him. Saw the shock bloom across her features, followed immediately by something that looked uncomfortably like dread.
"Me lady?" Brian tried again, concern creeping into his voice.
Ada finally moved, taking Brian's offered hand and letting him guide her the last few steps onto the dock. But she didn't look away from Magnus. Not once.
"Laird Haraldson," Brian said, releasing Ada's hand and turning to Magnus with that politician's smile firmly in place. "May I present yer bride, Lady Ada MacTavish, daughter of Laird Conall MacTavish of…"
"Nay."
The word dropped into the space between them like a stone into still water.
Brian's smile faltered. "I beg yer pardon?"
Magnus took a deliberate step backward, putting more distance between himself and the woman who'd once used him as a shield before disappearing like smoke. The woman his king now expected him to marry. To bed. To bind himself to for the rest of his life.
"I willnae marry this woman," he said clearly. Every word measured. Final. "She should go back to wherever she came from."
Silence spread across the dock. The guards stopped moving. The servants froze with their burdens half-lifted. Even the wind seemed to pause, waiting.
Ada's face flushed. Whether from anger or humiliation, Magnus couldn't tell. But her chin lifted fractionally, pride stiffening her spine despite the way her hands trembled at her sides.
That pride, stubborn and unyielding even in the face of public rejection, stirred something uncomfortable in his chest. He crushed it down. Something that felt dangerously close to admiration. Or worse, sympathy.
He crushed it down savagely.
Trust was a currency he could no longer afford to spend freely.
Loyalty, the only measure of worth that mattered.
Freydis had taught him that lesson in blood and betrayal, and he'd carved it into himself like a scar that would never heal.
He'd given both trust and loyalty once, given them blindly, and been made a fool for it.
She'd used him once. He wouldn't let her, or anyone for that matter, do it again.
"Magnus." Torvald started, low and warning.
"Me laird," Brian cut in, his smile gone completely now. "Perhaps we should discuss this in private. The crossin’ was difficult, tempers are high, but the king's decree is made."
"I ken what the decree says." Magnus kept his gaze on Ada, watched her hazel-green eyes flash with something that might have been fury. Good. Let her be angry. Let her hate him. It would make this easier. "I ken it better than ye dae, I'd wager. And I'm tellin’ ye now, I willnae marry her."
"Laird Haraldson," Brian said, and all pretense of courtesy had vanished from his tone now. "Ye stand in violation of the king's direct command. Dae ye understand what that means? What it will cost ye?"
"Me lands." Magnus's voice remained level. "Me title. Perhaps me life, if Alexander's feelin’ particularly vindictive." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm nae a fool, Brian. I ken the price of refusal."
"And yet ye refuse anyway?"
He tried very hard not to think about how her lips had felt against his—surprisingly soft despite her desperation, tasting of honey mead and fear. Or the way her eyes had pleaded with him even as she'd refused to explain.
Or how she'd vanished into the crowd, leaving him standing over two unconscious men with nothing but questions and the ghost of her touch burning against his mouth.
He'd told himself he didn't give a damn. That she was just another Highland lass running from something. But here she stood, and the lie felt heavier than his armor.
Ada MacTavish.
His bride.
The woman he'd refused in front of the king's representative, his own men, and God knew how many witnesses—ensuring that whatever fragile peace the Pact was meant to create would now bear the weight of his rejection.
And now, apparently, she was being forced into his future—whether he wanted it or not.
Whether she wanted it or not.