Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
"Hold still, ye daft lass, or ye'll trip over yer own feet."
The voice was rough, impatient. Mhairi tried to pull away from the hands gripping her arms, but the blindfold made everything worse—every sound too loud, every touch a threat she couldn’t see coming.
"Where are ye takin' me?" Her voice came out stronger than she felt. "I demand tae ken."
"Demand all ye like," another voice cut in, this one closer to her ear. "Willnae change where ye're goin'."
Laughter. Multiple voices, all around her.
The floor beneath her feet changed from dirt to wood, and suddenly the chaos she'd been hearin' grew deafening. Shoutin'. The scrape of chairs. The thick smell of whisky and unwashed bodies.
"Get her up there," someone barked. "Graham's waitin'."
Mhairi's heart hammered against her ribs. "Up where? What is this place?"
No answer. Just hands pushin' her forward, guidin' her up what felt like steps. Three of them. Four. When they stopped, rough fingers worked at the knot behind her head.
"Remember," the voice at her ear said, "ye run, we drag ye back. Make it easy on yerself."
The blindfold fell away.
Mhairi blinked against the sudden torchlight, and her stomach dropped straight through the floor.
She was standin' on a raised platform in the center of a vast underground chamber. Stone walls, low ceilings, packed with men. Dozens of them, maybe more, all turned toward her with expressions that made her skin crawl.
Some were Highland born, judgin' by their dress. Others wore Lowland fashion. And still others, English, by the look of their fine coats and polished boots.
Words died in her throat as understanding crashed over her like a wave of ice water.
An auction house.
They'd brought her to an auction house.
She stumbled backward, and hands clamped down on her arms before she could run.
"Gentlemen!" A voice boomed from somewhere to her left. A man stepped into view—stocky, scarred, with the build of someone who'd spent his life fightin'. "Our next offerin' is a rare prize indeed. Young, healthy, and—"
"Let me go!" Mhairi lunged for the edge of the platform.
She didn’t make it three steps before the guards hauled her back to the center like she weighed nothin'.
She twisted, kicked, fought with every ounce of strength she had. "Ye cannae dae this! I'm a Munro! Me clan will—"
"Fifty scots," someone shouted from the crowd.
Mhairi's blood turned to ice.
"Fifty-two scots!"
"Fifty-eight scots!"
“Sixty-five scots!"
The scarred man, Laird Aodh Graham, grinned like a wolf. "Come now, gentlemen. Surely ye can dae better than that. Look at her, strong, spirited. She'll give ye fine sons."
Bile rose in Mhairi's throat. "I'm nae fer sale, ye bastard!"
"Seventy scots!"
The shouts came faster now, numbers climbing higher. Mhairi's vision swam. She scanned the crowd desperately, searching for—what?
Someone to help her?
Her gaze snagged on a man near the back. Tall, broad-shouldered, fair hair mostly hidden beneath a hood. He wasn't shouting like the others. Just... watching. Their eyes met for half a heartbeat, and something flickered in his expression. Then someone shoved past him, blocking her view.
"Eighty-one scots!"
"Stop!" The word tore from her throat. "Me faither will pay fer me return! Whatever ye're askin', he'll pay."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Cold. Cruel.
Graham leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. "Oh, lass. Ye really dinnae ken, dae ye?"
"Ken what?"
"Who dae ye think brought ye here?"
The world tilted.
"Ninety scots!" A new voice. English accent. Cultured. Old.
Mhairi's gaze snapped toward the sound. There—in the third row—a man perhaps fifty years of age, dressed in fine English fashion. His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to scrub her skin raw.
Her father. Her own father.
"Yer faither sold ye tae me a fortnight ago," Graham said, almost conversationally. "Needed coin fer his debts. Yer sister too, though she's a wee bit young yet. Give her another year or two." He gestured to the crowd. "Now I'm makin' me profit."
The pieces were falling into place. Her father's tension those past months. The closed-door meetings. The way he'd looked at her at breakfast two weeks before.
The room went quiet.
Graham's smile could've cut glass. "Ninety scots. Any advance on ninety scots?"
Silence.
Mhairi's legs threatened to give out. The guards holding her were the only reason she was still standing.
"Ninety once!" Graham raised his hand. "Ninety twice!"
"Sold!" Graham's hand came down like a gavel. "To His Grace, the Duke of Ravenscar!"
The English lord stood, and Mhairi's stomach turned over.
"Get her backstage," Graham ordered. "His Grace will want tae finalize the transaction."
The guards dragged her off the platform. She fought—God, did she fight—but there were too many of them. They hauled her through a narrow doorway into a dimly lit corridor, then into a small room with a desk and two chairs.
Graham followed, closing the door behind him. He moved to the desk, pouring himself whisky. "Ye're worth Ninety scots tae me now, lass. So, I suggest ye stop fightin’ and accept yer fate."
"I dinnae belong tae anyone!" The words came out fierce, but tears were burnin' behind her eyes. "I'm nae property tae be sold!"
"Ye are what I say ye are." Graham set down his glass.
The door opened. Mhairi spun toward it, and her heart stopped.
The English lord stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. Up close, he was even worse. Tall enough to loom over her. Eyes cold and calculating. And when he smiled, it didnae reach anywhere near those eyes.
"My dear," he said, his accent crisp and refined. "How lovely to finally meet you properly."
Mhairi backed away until her spine hit the wall. "Stay away from me."
"Now, now." He moved closer, each step deliberate. "Is that any way to greet your new husband?"
"Husband?" The word came out strangled. "I'm nae marryin' ye! I'll die first."
His smile widened. "I do hope not. Where would the fun in that be?" He was right in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive, cloying. "We have a long journey ahead of us, my dear. Plenty of time to begin your education."
Mhairi tried to dart past him. He caught her wrist before she made it two steps, yanking her back against his chest. She screamed, thrashed, clawed at his arm.
Two more men burst through the door. Ashcombe's guards. They grabbed her flailing arms, wrestling her still.
"Let her go," Graham said from the desk. "Ye've nae paid yet."
"Of course." Ashcombe gestured, and one guard kept Mhairi pinned while he reached into his coat. He produced a leather purse, tossing it onto the desk. "Ninety, as agreed. Count it if you wish."
Graham picked up the purse, weighing it in his hand. "Always dae." He opened it, began counting coins onto the desk.
"I will be trouble," Mhairi snarled, still fightin' against the guards' grip. "I'll be naethin' but trouble, I swear it."
Ashcombe's breath was hot against her ear. "Good. I prefer my wives with spirit. Makes the breaking so much more... satisfying."
Mhairi's vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. "Ye'll never break me."
"We'll see."
"The count is correct," Graham announced. "She's yers, Yer Grace."
"Excellent." Ashcombe nodded to his men. They began dragging Mhairi toward the door. She kicked, screamed, bit one guard's hand hard enough to draw blood—
He backhanded her across the face. Stars exploded in her vision.
"Carefully," Ashcombe said mildly. "I don't want her damaged."
They hauled her out into the corridor, then toward another door that led outside. To the stables.
No one came near. No one even tried.
This was her life now, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to stop it.
"Get her on the horse."
Ashcombe's voice cut through the night air like a blade. Mhairi's hands were bound in front of her, rough rope biting into her wrists, but she wasnae about to make this easy for them.
"I can walk," she spat.
"You'll ride." Ashcombe nodded to one of his men. "And you'll do so quietly, or I'll gag you as well."
The stable yard was dark save for a few scattered torches. Two men flanked Ashcombe, hired swords by the look of them, both wearing leather armor and carrying blades that had seen plenty of use. Beyond them, the forest loomed like a wall of shadows.
If she was going to run, it had to be now.
"Come along, darling." Ashcombe reached for her arm.
Mhairi bolted.
She made it perhaps ten steps before hands caught her from behind, spinning her around. She kicked out hard, connecting with someone's shin. A curse. Then she was running again, rope-bound hands and all, headed straight for the tree line—
One of the guards tackled her from the side.
"Nay!" Mhairi hit the ground hard, all the air rushin' from her lungs. "Let me..."
"Enough of this." Ashcombe's voice was cold now. All pretense of civility gone. "Bind her ankles as well."
"Nay!" Mhairi thrashed as rough hands grabbed her legs. "Ye cannae dae this. I'm nae going with ye."
More rope. Tight around her ankles. She was lifted bodily, thrown over someone's shoulder like a sack of grain, and then deposited sideways across a horse's saddle.
"Please." Her voice broke despite her best efforts. "Please, just let me go. I swear I'll—"
"You'll what?" Ashcombe mounted his own horse, reins in hand. "Run back to the father who sold you? I think not." He nodded to his men. "We ride south. No stops until dawn."
"Wait, nay, please just listen tae me."
But the horses were already movin', and Mhairi's pleas disappeared into the darkness behind them.