And apparently her future husband—though he clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
She shouldn't have been surprised. A year ago, she'd used him as a shield, kissed him without permission, and vanished before he could demand answers. She'd thought she'd escaped.
She'd been wrong.
Her father's men had found her three days later, dragged her back to the MacTavish keep in chains. Conall hadn't even looked at her when she'd been thrown at his feet, bloodied and exhausted. He'd simply said, "Lock her in the tower until I decide what tae dae with her."
What he'd decided was this: offer her to the king's Pact. Volunteer his wayward daughter as a bride for one of the feared Norse jarls, despite the rumors, despite the danger. A chance to prove his loyalty to the Crown and rid himself of a troublesome child in one calculated move.
And now there she stood, facing the one man in all of Scotland who had every reason to hate her.
"Everything is negotiable," Magnus said, his tone flat as steel. "Especially when it involves me life."
"Nae this." Brian stepped forward, positioning himself between Magnus and Ada like a shield she neither wanted nor needed. "The king's decree is absolute. Ye ken this. Both sides have already agreed."
"I didnae agree tae anything."
"Yer presence here says otherwise." Brian's politician's smile had vanished completely, replaced by something harder. More dangerous. "Ye received the decree three weeks ago. Ye didnae refuse then. Ye didnae send word tae the king explainin' why this match wouldnae suit. Ye simply waited, and now the bride is here, and the agreement is made."
Magnus's jaw tightened visibly. "I'm refusin' now."
"On what grounds?" Brian demanded.
Magnus said nothing. His gaze flicked to Ada for just a moment, cold, assessing, then back to Brian.
"None that ye'll accept," he said finally. "So, then perhaps we should discuss this at the keep. Away from pryin' eyes."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Brian nodded once, sharp and reluctant. "Aye. That would be wise."
The walk to Dun Barra felt like a funeral march.
Ada kept her head down, her hood drawn up despite the fact that everyone had already seen her face. The path from the dock wound upward through rocky terrain, past scattered cottages where faces appeared at windows and quickly disappeared again.
Behind her, among the guards and servants, she caught sight of Donnan MacFerguson. Her father's man. Sandy-haired, broad-shouldered, with an easy smile that had always made her skin crawl. He was watching her, had been watching her throughout the entire voyage. His presence was a reminder that even there, on that foreign island, her father's reach extended like a shadow.
Whispers followed in their wake, she could feel them like cold fingers against her spine.
The Serpent's bride.
Poor lass.
She'd heard the rumors about Magnus Haraldson before her father had told her where she was going. Everyone in the Highlands had heard them.
The Laird of Barra, who'd murdered his pregnant wife in cold blood. The Norse savage who wore his violence like other men wore cloaks. One of the five Viking lairds bound by the king's Pact, forced to take Highland brides to secure peace between the Isles and the Crown.
Five Viking lairds. Five marriages. Five desperate attempts to stop the bloodshed that had plagued Scotland's western shores for generations.
Ada was the second bride. The first—Claricia Mackenzie—had married Erik Thorsen, the Wolf of Skye, six months before. Ada had heard that union had nearly collapsed before it began, that Claricia had been almost kidnapped, and Erik had killed a Highland laird to get her back.
But they'd survived it. The marriage had held.
Ada wasn't sure she'd be so fortunate.
Dun Barra rose before them like a stone giant, carved into the cliffs with walls that looked older than memory.
The keep was smaller than her father's estate but more imposing, built for defense rather than comfort, every angle designed to repel invaders. Sea wind howled through the narrow windows and salt spray left white stains on the dark stone.
