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Damn him for a fool.

As his wife prepared for bed, Tor sat alone at the table they’d occupied together. She wished for privacy, he wished to see her naked. But they both wished to have this marriage annulled. And that, he tried to remember, was the purpose of this journey. Aside from finding his clanswoman alive, an annulment, and the desire to be even slightly as worthy as Adair to be second to his brother, was all he wanted. Or all he’d been attempting to convince himself he wanted.

But hearing his wife’s confession, knowing when their lips touched her first kiss would be worthy of such a title . . . Tor expelled a breath. A woman such as she, to have gone so thoroughly untouched was a crime. Someone should be punished for it. Her brother, perhaps? Tor would find a lesser excuse to beat the man bloody, but the king had complicated such violence between him and the damn Shaw laird. Besides, his sister would be less than pleased.

“Tor MacRob, why do ye look as if a Shaw just walked into the Hayle Inn?”

Coming toward him was a man Tor hadn’t seen in many years. “James Scott.” He stood. “Ye’re as ugly as ever, my friend.”

In fact, he was aught but. The rumors Ainsley had heard about Tor were very much true about this one.

James clapped him on the right shoulder as Tor did the same to his old friend’s left. Clan Scott were allied with the MacRobs and had fought with them against the Shaws many times, though he’d not seen James in more than three summers.

“I thought ye were in France,” Tor said. “Drink with me?”

“I’ve one already,” James said sitting. “But would no’ refuse ale from a MacRob.” He filled his mug as Tor sat back down.

“Tell me of yer journey,” Tor said, wondering if his wife was finished preparing for bed. It was a bad idea to kiss her, but a worse one to stay in this hall and not do so. One kiss did not a consummation make.

As James spoke, and the serving maid who’d returned to fill their pitcher nearly tripped on her own gown walking toward them—a common enough reaction to his friend’s visage—Tor attempted not to think of the shape of his wife’s lips. Or what they might taste like. Or how they would feel beneath his own.

In truth, he’d wanted to kiss her since he first spied her at Castle Shaw. Even more so when he’d caught her watching him. Ignoring the warning in his head, the one that wondered how he’d stop at one simple kiss, Tor turned his attention back to James, who had finished his story and asked again why Tor looked miserable.

“I dinnae spot a Shaw,” he said, “but married one.” The marriage might have been worth his friend’s expression. Tor explained, telling him of the king’s decree, his sister’s marriage and finally, of his own.

James whistled. “There is no’ enough ale at this table to account for such a mess.”

“I’ve a plan,” he admitted, “to have the marriage annulled. Though it is aught but certain.”

“Ach, then I understand why ye drown yer sorrows, my friend.”

Tor frowned. He should say naught more. But if anyone could understand his position, ’twas James Scott. “I worry less of what will happen in Berwick than I do of when I find my room this eve.”

“I do no’ understand.”

“If ye met my wife, ye would.”

James leaned back, an appreciation of his predicament dawning. “If yer sister can willingly marry a Shaw, could ye no’ too? Or remain married, to be more precise.”

“Nay,” he said, without hesitation. “I cannae.”

James nodded, seeming to understand. She was a Shaw, he thought. His sister and the laird, an accident. Of course he’d not willingly be with someone whose family had been responsible for more strife than any other Clan MacRob had endured these past years.

But that was not the only reason. He couldn’t explain to James, though, because Tor had difficulty sorting through it himself. He knew only that, after Adair’s death, naught had been the same for him. The MacRob second? He didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. And yet, when these marriage dealings were done, he would be forced to lead his clan in Royce’s absence. Expected to train men who, rightly, saw him as the man they’d be more likely to carouse with than send into battle.

A husband too? Nay, he could not bear the weight of such a title.

“Do ye truly believe ye’ll find yer clanswoman alive? And convince the king to reverse his course?”

Tor shoved away the heavy thoughts that burdened him and took a long swig of ale, as if to wash them away.

“We cannae be certain, but the healer’s description very much sounded like ’twas Marta. She and Ian went missing just before the woman tended to them. There are other signs as well.” He nodded, watching as Neil wove his way through the growing throng of patrons. “Aye,” he said. “I do believe it. And if they are in Berwick, we shall find them.”

“And then?”

“We will get permission from the bishop to annul this marriage and bring it to the king.”

James’s raised brows did not inspire confidence. “Alexander is no’ known to be a patient man, and yer feud has caused much tension these past years.”