"It's the only one I have." Ada took another step backward, her pulse still racing. The two men groaned on the ground between them, stirring. She had to leave. Immediately. Before they woke. Before her father's other searchers found this place, found her. Before this stranger could ask questions, she had no safe way to answer. Or worse, before he could become another cage.She'd just escaped one prison. She wouldn't walk willingly into another. "I'm sorry. Truly. But I have to go."
"Wait."
"Thank ye," Ada called over her shoulder, but she was already moving, already disappearing back into the crowd that parted slightly before her and closed like water behind her.
She pulled the threadbare hood lower over her face and forced herself to walk, not run, weaving between merchant stalls and clusters of festival-goers whose attention was turned to food and drink and music.
At the last moment before she dodged behind a stall, Ada couldn't resist glancing back.
The tall stranger remained standing over the fallen men, watching the space where she'd been, his expression unreadable. Then he lifted his eyes, and for one flitting moment, their eyes met and one hand lifted. Ada gasped, thinking he might follow, then it dropped back to his side. At that moment, someone moved between them, and he was lost from her line of sight. Ada pulled the hood lower over her head.
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the festival green, where the road curved toward the hills, more men wearing sprigs of purple heather began pushing through the crowd, searching, always searching.
CHAPTER TWO
Spring 1231, Isle of Barra
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 Inever broke, and pretend this is nae the king's way of keeping us under his boot."
