The Wicked Laird (Preview)
Chapter One
Spring 1230, Arisaig Bay
One year earlier…
“Trade cloaks with me.”
The woman at the wool stall stared, her weathered hands stilling over the rough fabric she’d been folding. Ada kept her hood drawn low, painfully aware of the two men pushing through the festival crowd somewhere behind her.
Smoke from roasting meat hung thick in the spring air, mixing with the salt wind that blew in from Arisaig Bay, and her empty stomach twisted with a hunger she couldn’t afford to acknowledge. She felt her strength leaving her.
Not now.
Not when freedom was measured in moments.
“I dinnae ken ye,” the woman said slowly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“Please.” Ada’s fingers found the clasp of her own cloak. Good wool, lined with silk, worth more than anything this woman likely owned in her entire life. “Mine fer yers. A fair trade.”
The woman’s gaze dropped to Ada’s cloak, lingering on the quality of the fabric, the fine stitching along the hem. Then her eyes lifted back to Ada’s face, half-hidden beneath the hood. Her expression shifted, something like recognition flickering there.
“Have ye been here before, lass?”
“Nay.” The word came too quickly. Ada forced herself to breathe slowly, to keep her voice steady. “Never.”
But the woman was already looking past her shoulder, toward the wooden post at the edge of the green where festival notices hung. Ada didn’t need to turn around. She’d seen the sketch nailed there when she’d first entered the village—inked lines forming her own face, crude but unmistakable, and beneath it a price that made her worth more captured than free.
Her father’s doing. His gold. His hunters.
Her stomach dropped like a stone into dark water.
“I must go,” Ada said quickly. “Goodnight and thank ye fer yer time.”
She moved too fast, too sharply, and nearly collided with a man carrying wooden barrels stacked high in his arms. He stumbled, cursed under his breath, something foul in Gaelic that made nearby listeners glance over.
The noise drew attention. Heads turned. Eyes found her hooded figure.
From the edge of her vision, she caught movement. The two men were closer now than before. One wore a sprig of purple heather pinned to his shoulder. Her father’s marker. His men always wore it, a symbol of Clan MacTavish that turned her blood cold.
Ada slipped between tents, weaving past a pen of bleating goats and a table cluttered with clay trinkets and wooden carvings. The crowd was pressed too close to allow her to run—merchants hawking their wares, children darting underfoot, musicians playing badly-tuned fiddles near the ale stall.
Panic clawed at her throat, but she forced her mind to work through it. The shore lay open and exposed, no cover there. She needed something else. Someone else. A shield.
Her eyes caught sight of a woman passing by. Blonde hair similar to Ada’s own, though more faded with age, and wearing a threadbare cloak so patched and worn it looked ready to fall apart in a strong wind. Perfect.
“Please,” Ada said, catching the woman’s arm. “Yer cloak fer mine.”
The woman jerked back, startled. “What? Why would I dae that?”
“Take mine.” Ada’s fingers worked frantically at her own clasp, unfastening it with shaking hands. “Look at it. Feel the quality. It’s worth ten times yers, maybe twenty. Just, quickly, please.”
The woman’s eyes widened as Ada pressed the fine cloak into her hands. She ran her fingers over the silk lining, testing the weight of the wool.
Good sense warred with greed on her weathered face. Greed won.
“Aye, all right then,” she said, already shrugging out of her own tattered garment.
Ada pulled it on before the woman could change her mind. The rough wool scratched against her neck, smelled of smoke and old sweat and something vaguely like fish, but Ada didn’t care. It would serve its purpose.
She drew the hood up, tucking her blond hair completely out of sight.
“Blessings to ye,” the woman said, clutching Ada’s fine cloak like a treasure.
Ada didn’t answer. She was already turning away, already scanning the crowd for another escape route.
At the far edge of the green, near where the festival grounds gave way to the rocky shore, a tall man stood apart from the noise.
Broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied back from a face that might have been carved from stone by an artist who believed beauty and severity were the same thing.
His eyes were the color of steel in winter. Cold and sharply assessing everything around him. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow, pale against tanned skin. It was the kind of face that belonged on a warrior or a king. He watched the crowd with unreadable calm, and the villagers gave him wide berth as they passed, not from fear exactly, but from instinctive recognition of authority. Of power held in check.
As if sensing her gaze, his eyes found hers across the crowded green.
Ada’s breath caught. For one suspended moment, the festival noise seemed to fade—the fiddles, the shouting merchants, the bleating goats—all of it muffled beneath the sudden, startling weight of his attention. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just watched her with that same unreadable calm, as though he could see straight through her threadbare disguise to the terrified woman beneath.
Her pulse hammered harder.
Ada’s pulse hammered in her ears. Behind her, closer now, she heard one of the men call out. “There! Her cloak!”
“Ye, lass with the cloak. Stop there.”
Footsteps pounded. The woman in Ada’s cloak let out a startled yelp.
Ada didn’t think. Her body moved before her courage caught up. She crossed the distance to the tall stranger in quick strides, her breath coming fast, her mind screaming at her that it was madness, that she was about to throw herself at the mercy of a man who might be worse than her father’s hunters.
But she was out of options. And wasn’t this what survival demanded? Using whoever was within reach? The thought should have shamed her. Instead, it felt like the only power she had left.
She stopped before him, close enough to catch the scent of salt and leather and something woodsy beneath. Up close, he was even more imposing—taller than she’d realized, broader, with hands that looked capable of snapping bone.
“Ye look like a man who kens how to handle trouble,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
His gaze swept over her—the ragged cloak, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest heaved with barely contained panic. “Depends on the trouble.”
“The kind that follows a lass who daesnae want tae be found.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not softening, exactly, but… awareness. His eyes flicked past her shoulder to where the guards were pushing through the crowd, then back to her face.
“And what would ye have me dae about it?”
“Are ye a gentleman?”
“Nay.”
“Good.” Ada’s heart slammed against her ribs. The guards were closer now—she could hear their voices, sharp with frustration. She had seconds. Maybe less. “Are ye married?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. His brow furrowed slightly and he waited a beat before he answered. “Nay.”
Ada grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled herself up on her toes, pressing her lips to his.
He went completely still for half a heartbeat. She felt the shock run through him, felt his muscles tense beneath her hands. For one terrifying moment she thought he’d shove her away, expose her, hand her over to her father’s men. Then—
Then his arm came around her waist, sure and solid as iron, and he turned his body to shield her from view. He bent his head lower, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He was much taller than her, broader and the height difference made it awkward, but he angled himself to cover her completely. His free hand came up to cradle the back of her head as though this were real, as though they’d done this a thousand times before.
His palm was warm against her spine. His jaw rough with stubble where it pressed against her temple. He smelled of woodsmoke and sea air, and despite the terror, the desperation, and the guards bearing down on them, Ada felt an unexpected flutter in her chest. Something that had nothing to do with fear.
She crushed it down immediately. This was survival, not attraction. She couldn’t afford to confuse the two.
The two men appeared at the edge of Ada’s vision, breathing hard. They stopped short when they saw her locked in the stranger’s embrace.
“Pardon, friend,” one of them said, voice tight with frustration and something like wariness. “But we need tae see yer wife.”
The stranger’s arm tightened fractionally around Ada’s waist. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost pleasant. “Nay.”
“It’s important.”
“I said nay.” Still pleasant. Still calm. But something in the tone made both men shift uncomfortably on their feet.
“Look,” the second man tried, taking a step forward, “we’re on business fer our laird Just let us see her face, and if it’s nae who we’re looking fer, we’ll be on our way.”
“The lass is with me and she has been fer a long time now.” The stranger straightened slightly, though he kept Ada tucked against his chest. “And I dinnae care whose business ye claim tae be on. Leave.”
“We cannae dae that.”
The stranger moved.
Ada barely tracked it. One moment he held her gently, the next he’d released her and closed the distance between himself and the two men in three long strides.
The first went down with a sharp blow to the jaw, clean, efficient, the kind of strike that came from years of practice. The second man swung wildly, his fist cutting through empty air as the stranger ducked beneath it. An elbow to the temple dropped him beside his companion, both of them crumpling to the ground like cut strings.
Silence spread outward from where they lay unconscious in the dirt. The festival noise seemed to pause, musicians trailing off mid-song, conversations dying. Everyone within sight was staring now.
God, help me!
The stranger stood over the fallen men, breathing easy, not even winded. His expression hadn’t changed, still calm, still controlled, as though knocking two men unconscious were no more taxing than brushing dust from his sleeve. Then he turned back to Ada.
She stared up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. He was a stranger who owed her nothing, yet he’d fought for her with the kind of controlled violence that should have terrified her. It did terrify her. But not in the way her father’s cruelty did. This man’s danger felt… different. Deliberate. Restrained.
“Who are ye?” His voice remained level, but his gaze pinned her in place like a specimen under glass. “And why did I just knock two men unconscious tae save ye?”
Ada’s throat felt dry as sand. The festival noise resumed around them gradually, cautiously, but it seemed distant now, muted. She took a step back, putting space between them.
“It’s better if ye dinnae ken. But thank ye.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s nae an answer.”
“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 I never broke, and pretend this is nae the king’s way of keeping us under his boot.”
“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 fevered dream 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.
“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.
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