The Laird’s Masked Claim (The Lairds’ Sinful Masquerade #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“And I willnae have ye question me again,” Laird Malcolm MacDonald squeezed through clenched teeth.

Isobel MacDonald inclined her head very slightly, not in agreement but in acknowledgment, for she had long understood the futility of pressing her father when he had resolved upon silence.

The carriage rolled on without pause, its wheels grinding against the rough road with a monotonous insistence that seemed to echo through the narrow space and settle uneasily in her chest. Within, the air was close and faintly oppressive, warmed too long by confinement and filled with the mingled scents of leather, wool, and the sharper note of his cologne, which she had always associated with formality rather than comfort.

She sat opposite him with the careful stillness of one accustomed to restraint.

Her posture was straight despite the constant sway of the carriage, and her gloved hands were clasped together in her lap with more force than she intended.

The leather pressed into her palms, but she did not loosen her hold.

It was a small discipline, yet it steadied her.

Her father, for his part, seemed entirely occupied with the arrangement of his cuffs, or the precise fall of his coat, or anything, indeed, that did not require him to meet her gaze for longer than the briefest glance.

After some minutes, during which the silence grew not peaceful but strained, she spoke again. “Are ye going tae tell me where we are going, Faither?”

He did not answer immediately, and when he did, it was with the same measured calm that had marked his earlier rebuke. “Ye will understand soon enough.”

“That is nae an answer,” she returned, unable to keep a trace of sharpness from her voice.

“It is the only one ye require,” he said, and then, as if to close the matter entirely, he added. “Ye must remember tae conduct yerself properly. Dinnae forget yer place.”

The words were neither new nor unexpected, yet they fell with a weight that made her draw a slow breath and turn her gaze toward the small window at her side.

Beyond it, the Highlands stretched into the dimming light, with their broad, shadowed slopes fading beneath a sky that had already begun to lose its color.

There was a certain austere beauty in the scene, but it did little to ease the growing unease within her.

She had been summoned without notice, given no explanation for the journey, and expected, as always, to comply without question. That she had done so was less a mark of obedience than of habit, for she had never been permitted an alternative.

At that exact moment, the carriage began to slow, with the steady rhythm of its movement giving way to a more deliberate pace as the wheels passed from stone to gravel.

Voices reached her then, faint and indistinct through the carriage walls, yet notably lacking in any tone of merriment.

There was no music, no laughter, nothing to suggest the kind of gathering she had been led, however indirectly, to expect.

When the carriage came at last to a halt, the silence that followed struck her as peculiar. It was not the lively anticipation of arrival, but something more restrained, as though whatever waited beyond the door had been carefully arranged and did not permit disorder.

The door was opened, and a rush of cool evening air entered at once, clearing the oppressive warmth of the carriage and carrying with it the scent of damp stone and earth.

Her father descended without so much as a glance in her direction, offering neither hand nor assistance.

Isobel followed of her own accord, gathering her skirts and stepping down with as much composure as the uneven ground allowed.

Upon straightening, she lifted her gaze and found herself at once unsettled by what she saw.

There were men assembled before the entrance of Inveraray Castle, standing in quiet formation beneath the steady light of torches fixed along the stone walls.

Their presence, in itself, was not remarkable, yet the absence of anything to soften it was.

There were no women among them, no attendants or companions, no hint of the bustle or brightness that might attend a social gathering.

The men stood apart from one another with a certain orderliness that bordered on severity, and more than a few bore arms in a manner that suggested readiness rather than ceremony.

“This… is a gathering?” she asked, turning slightly toward her father. “But… where are the ladies?”

He did not reply. Instead, he reached into his coat and withdrew an object which, upon being brought closer, she recognized with some surprise as a mask.

Before she could speak again, he placed it against her face and secured it with firm, practiced movements.

The fabric was smooth and cool, and the ties drawn tighter than she found comfortable, so that she became at once acutely aware of her own breathing beneath it.

The world beyond seemed subtly altered, her vision narrowed and her senses sharpened rather than eased.

“Why dae I require this,” she asked, unable now to disguise her unease, “if this is only some gathering?”

“Walk,” he ordered, and offered nothing further.

There was something so final and so entirely dismissive in his tone that made further protest seem not only useless but also dangerous. A chill, sharper than the evening air, passed through her, yet she moved forward as he had commanded, keeping pace without allowing herself to hurry.

As they entered the building, the impression of wrongness did not lessen.

The interior was well lit, and the torches were arranged with careful symmetry along the walls.

Despite that, the light did not warm the space as it ought to have.

The air carried the scent of wax and stone, with a faint metallic note beneath it that she could not at once place.

There was no music here either, and no murmur of polite conversation usually present during merry social gatherings.

They were stopped almost immediately by a man whose manner was neither welcoming nor deferential. He regarded Isobel with a frankness that bordered on intrusion, and his gaze was moving over her in a way that made her shoulders stiffen beneath it.

“Her age?” the man asked, without so much as a glance in Isobel’s direction.

“Four and twenty,” her father replied.

“And her name?”

“Lady Isobel MacDonald, of Dunnyveg.”

The man’s pen moved swiftly across the page. “Lineage?”

“Daughter of Laird Malcolm MacDonald and Lady Morag MacDonald.”

A pause, brief but deliberate. “Any kent infirmities?”

“None.”

“Disposition?”

Her father hesitated only a fraction. “Manageable.”

Isobel’s fingers tightened in her gloves.

The man inclined his head slightly, as though the answer satisfied him, and continued without looking at her. “Education?”

“Sufficient.”

“Health?”

“Sound.”

Then came the question that made her breath catch entirely.

“Is she untouched?”

The heat that rose to her face was immediate and fierce. “How dare?—?”

“Aye,” her father replied, without the slightest pause.

The word seemed to strip the moment of any remaining dignity. Isobel felt the force of it like a blow, not for its content alone but for the ease with which it was given. The man who had asked merely nodded and made a mark upon his parchment, as though nothing of consequence had been said.

Another stepped closer and lifted his hand toward her in an effort to touch a lock of her hair. The presumption of it and the sheer audacity, broke through the last of her restraint. She caught his wrist before he could touch her, in a grip that was swift and unyielding.

“Dinnae ye dare touch me,” she snarled.

He looked at her with surprise, then amusement. “A spirited one,” he remarked.

She tightened her hold, prepared to make her displeasure felt more clearly.

“Enough.” Her father’s voice cut through the moment with sudden authority.

“Release him, Isobel,” he gave another order. “Ye will dae yer duty.”

The word struck her with a force that went beyond the immediate insult.

Duty.

It had been invoked so often, in so many forms, that it had come to stand for obedience without question, and sacrifice without acknowledgment.

For an instant, she held the man’s wrist still, feeling her anger warring with the knowledge of what defiance would cost her.

Then, with visible reluctance, she let go.

The man withdrew with a darkening expression on his face, while another stepped forward to pin a small piece of cloth to the front of her gown.

Isobel glanced down, and her breath stilled.

A number.

The significance of it did not at once present itself, yet something in her recoiled instinctively.

“Nay,” she said under her breath, though she could not yet have explained precisely why.

Her father did not look at her. He gave only a brief, subtle signal. Two guards moved toward her at once. Their hands closed around her arms, firm and unyielding, and the shock of it broke through her composure entirely. She pulled back, instinctively resisting.

“Unhand me.”

They did not comply.

She twisted against them, her heart beginning to pound in earnest. “Faither?—”

He turned then, and for the first time since their arrival, met her gaze fully. There was no hesitation in his expression.

“Ye willnae shame me,” he spoke, as if speaking to a wild animal that could or could not understand him fully.

And with that, he left her. He did not linger, did not offer explanation or reassurance. He simply turned and walked away, his figure receding into the ordered stillness as though she were already no longer his concern.

The sense of betrayal struck her with a force that momentarily eclipsed even her anger. That he had brought her here under false pretenses was one thing, but that he would abandon her to whatever purpose this place served was quite another.

The guards tightened their hold.

“Move,” one of them barked.

She resisted still, though the effort availed her nothing.

Each step forward was taken against her will, while her questions remained unanswered and her protests ignored.

The corridor ahead seemed to stretch longer than it ought.

Everything about it felt wrong: the light was too bright, the air too close.

At last, they came to a set of doors, which were opened without ceremony. Light spilled through, stronger than before, illuminating a space beyond that seemed, at first glance, orderly to the point of severity.

They brought her across the threshold, and there she saw it.

A line of women stood before her, each masked as she was, each marked in the same manner, and each held in a stillness that spoke not of composure but of constraint.

They were arranged with a care that suggested display rather than welcome, while their presence was acknowledged only by the men who stood apart from them, observing the sight in silence.

Understanding came not gradually, but all at once, like a tidal wave. Isobel ceased struggling, not from surrender but from clarity. The pieces fell into place with terrible precision: the questions, the number, the absence of women unmarked, the presence of men who did not mingle but watched.

This was no gathering. This was no masquerade. It was something far more deliberate, and far crueler.

An auction.

And she, unmistakably, was among those to be claimed.