Chapter 3
Ciaran entered the auction hall and already regretted that he had allowed this to happen in the first place.
The whole thing struck him as practically absurd.
Marriage was a private duty, or ought to have been, settled with clear terms and with as little noise as possible.
Instead, the very act of choosing a wife had been turned into some kind of ceremony.
He knew Isobel had something to do with the auction.
The plan had her name written all over it.
But he knew better than to discourage her.
She would probably come up with something much more absurd if he had.
The room was full of watchful faces and quiet hunger he recognized all too well. Fathers who had rejected his requests now wanting advantage, and women arranged under careful light as if they were pieces of fabric he had been asked to choose from at the dressmaker’s.
He wanted it done, and he wanted it done as quickly as possible.
Nothing in him had come there to be softened. He did not want charm. He did not want sweetness. He did not want the sort of warm, hopeful gaze that asked him for more than he was ready to provide.
This would be nothing but a marriage of convenience. He needed a wife who could fulfill her duties, bear what needed bearing, and leave the rest untouched.
That was all marriage was for anyway.
The crowd shifted as he moved further inside.
He could feel the attention gather and travel with him, no matter how hard people tried to pretend otherwise.
The servants kept to the walls, and the clan representatives stood with their hands folded and their eyes too sharp to be merely just for politeness' sake.
The women themselves were gathered in an orderly line that did little to disguise the fact that they were being measured.
He disliked the spectacle, but not enough to leave without choosing. He had delayed the matter long enough. He would end it today and be free of it.
Then his gaze caught, briefly and against his will, on a flushing lass standing at the very corner of the hall.
She stood among the others, but his eyes found her first in a way that annoyed him at once.
He did not care for the fact that he noticed the red hue in her cheeks, or the tension in the set of her mouth, or the way she held herself as though the floor beneath her might yet betray her.
There were prettier women in the hall, perhaps. Better schooled ones, too. Yet something in her seemed to almost resist him for some reason.
That alone irritated him even further.
“Finally, Brother,” Isobel said, coming to greet him with enough brightness for both of them. “It has been a long time. Let us have some fun.”
He gave her a look that should have been answer enough.
Her smile wavered only a little. “Or at least let us conclude matters before ye sour the whole room.”
“I wasnae aware it had grown cheerful enough for me to spoil,” he muttered, his voice low but firm. It couldn’t go higher than that, and thankfully, it never had to. He had cultivated his reputation in a way that made people listen to him, no matter how strained he sounded.
Isobel huffed softly and stepped aside, though he caught her studying him as if she meant to judge his temper before the women did.
He had no interest in being managed. Least of all by his sister on a day already made vulgar by public scrutiny.
He turned his attention to the line.
One woman dropped her gaze the instant he moved closer and seemed so light in the knees he thought she might topple where she stood. He moved on to the next.
Another, introduced as Elsie, met his eyes with visible effort, brave enough perhaps, but the courage sat on top of near tears.
Too young. Too easily crushed.
He felt bad for her and even angry at her fool of a father or mother who had dressed her for this in the first place.
Further along, another woman smiled with a softness that made his mind close against her at once.
Another lifted her chin in a way that was meant to look bold and only managed to look too eager instead.
One more batted her lashes as though she mistook him for a man who could be coaxed into indulgence.
He found fault after fault, and the faults were not always faults in themselves. They were things that couldn’t be helped.
Youth.
Fear.
Transparent ambition.
A softness too plain to miss.
A wish to be admired.
A hope for tenderness.
Each one made each woman less suited for the sort of marriage he intended. They all wanted to marry him, but he wanted a wife. It was completely different.
He was also not trying to choose the prettiest one in the room.
Prettiness would fade into inconvenience soon enough.
He was choosing someone who could manage distance.
A woman who would endure life in the castle without him.
A woman who wouldn’t bother him or ask him for more than he was ready to give.
This would not be a love match. It would never be. Which was why the more openly the women sought to please him, the less he wanted them.
Then he came to her.
Ava.
He knew the name before anyone said it. His sister had spoken it too often over the last fortnight for it not to mean anything, though he had taken care not to ask questions.
He knew she was Laird MacKenna’s daughter.
He also knew she was clever, if Isobel was to be believed. She was also warm and well-liked.
None of that interested him half so much as what he saw now.
She flushed when he looked at her. That was plain enough.
But her hands were clenched tight at her sides, knuckles nearly white against the folds of her gown.
She looked away, then forced herself still.
She didn’t melt or smile. She didn’t shrink either.
She looked like a woman enduring an ordeal she had no wish to enjoy.
A smirk curved his lips.
Aye.
Her beauty struck him first, yes. He would have had to be blind not to see it. But beauty was not what drove his choice. It was resistance. The absence of softness turned toward him. The clear lack of eager invitation.
She was affected, which meant she understood the gravity of the occasion. Yet she was unwilling in a way that looked like she couldn’t bear staying in here for long.
Like she could manage distance.
And distance was safe.
Distance was exactly what he wanted.
He stepped to her without further hesitation.
Her breath seemed to catch. Up close, her eyes were finer than he had expected. Clear and startled and far too easy to read in that moment. He lifted her chin with two fingers so he could look at her properly, felt the brief heat of her skin.
“This one will do.”
The room shifted around the words as though settling into place. He released her and began to turn, expecting the natural flow of acceptance to follow.
Two hands caught him.
“Please daenae do this, me Laird.”
The whisper was low and urgent, but there was no mistaking it. It struck him as amusement at first, for the sheer impropriety, then as irritation, then as something far sharper.
He turned back.
Ava was clutching him with both hands. Her face had gone pale, and the look in her eyes was the farthest thing from composure. She wasn’t just reluctant. She was alarmed.
“Are ye questioning me decision, me Lady?” he asked.
To his surprise, she nodded at once.
A faint stir rippled through the hall.
“Ye should choose another,” she added in a rush. “Any of them would make a better wife for ye.”
A wave of shocked murmurs swept through the crowd.
It was clear the other women were shocked that a woman like her had the gall to challenge the Laird’s choice. It was also clear they were all waiting to see how he would punish her.
He held her gaze a moment longer, and then, at the periphery of his vision, he saw Isobel duck her head with a guilty look.
Uh-oh.
He knew immediately that something was gravely wrong.
“Come with me,” he suddenly said, tugging at Ava’s hands.
“What?” she sputtered, resisting.
“I said, come with me.”
Ava couldn’t respond before he led her out of the hall. When they stepped into the passageway, he put one hand on her elbow and gently nudged her forward in the way he always commanded men and women.
“This way.”
He watched the indecision in her eyes before she chose to obey. It was clear she didn’t want to cause a scene. He could, however, feel her reticence, especially in the way she walked and moved her arms.
Behind them, the hall remained full of half-buried attention. No one called after them. No one was foolish enough to interfere.
Good.
A public disruption could still be contained, and that was what he intended to do with this lass.
He led her into a small study off the main hall, shut the door, and let the silence close around them.
It was a plain enough room, useful rather than grand. There was nothing in it but a narrow desk, a chair, and a chest by the wall. The noise outside faded at once to a distant murmur, as if the whole absurd event had been pushed behind thick cloth.
Ava stood at the door, breathing too quickly, her hands curling and uncurling in the folds of her gown.
Ciaran turned to face her.
For a moment, he simply stared at her.
She was obviously distressed, but there was more to it than just alarm. There was a hint of intelligence and hurt pride as well. It was like she was already planning an escape.
He had seen frightened women before. This was not the same creature as the near-fainting lass in the hall.
Ava Fraser was not collapsing. She was scrambling for a way out.
That was different.
“All right. Do ye mind telling me what in God’s name just happened out there?” he asked, straining his voice just a little. Something he’d never had to do in years.
The word landed between them like a dropped stone.
She gulped. “I shouldnae have been chosen.”
He said nothing.