"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.
CHAPTER THREE
"This is nae negotiable, me laird."
Brian's voice cut through the wind, sharp enough to make the guards shift nervously. Ada stood frozen on the dock, her wet cloak clinging to her shoulders, staring at the man who'd just refused to marry her in front of a dozen witnesses.
Magnus Haraldson. The stranger from the festival. The man whose kiss she'd stolen a year ago.
