"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 fevereddream 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.
