Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Kenina woke to the sway of movement and the sting of rope biting into her wrists.
Cold air slapped her face as the hood was yanked off.
Dawn had barely broken, but the world already felt grey and starved of warmth.
She was tied to a long, thick rope that connected her to a line of other captives—villagers, a few younger warriors, two boys scarcely older than twelve.
Their breaths steamed into the air like frightened ghosts.
A Graham rider on horseback barked, “On yer feet! Move!”
The prisoners stumbled forward. Kenina forced herself upright, legs shaking with the lingering shock of being dragged half-conscious through the forest. Her throat ached from screaming. Her wrists pulsed where the rough bindings scraped her skin.
Two Grahams pushed her forward.
She stumbled. “I can walk, ye bastards!”
A sharp fist slammed into her stomach. She doubled over, gasping.
“Try that tone again—see what happens,” the rider snarled, yanking her hair.
Kenina spat blood onto his boot.
He kicked her in the ribs.
A few villagers cried out for him to stop, but a sword pointed their way silenced them.
Kenina straightened slowly. Pain wriggled beneath her ribs like a hot coal, but she refused to bend again. The chain of prisoners trudged on.
The cold forest creaked around them. Frost coated the ground.
Crows circled overhead, their calls sharp and mocking.
Kenina's breath was shallow, each inhalation tasted of iron and damp earth.
They had walked for hours the day before and her mind kept flashing images of Fergus lying in the dirt like a broken doll. Were there even survivors?
She swallowed hard.
Time dissolved into the ache in her ankles and the rawness of her throat. The Grahams kept a relentless pace, whipping anyone who slowed.
By midday, the trees had thinned, revealing a squat stone fort pressed against a ridge. Smoke rose from its chimneys and wooden palisades ringed the walls, scarred by years of raids.
Two Graham sentries watched the prisoners approach with bored amusement. One of the leered at the prisoners. “More stock, aye? Good haul by the look o’ them.”
Kenina’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
Inside the gates, the prisoners were corralled into a muddy yard as men inspected them like livestock. Some collapsed immediately. Kenina stayed standing by sheer force of will. Some Grahams poked at injuries, lifted chins, pulled hair, appraised muscle.
One grabbed Kenina’s chin. “Pretty one. She’ll fetch high.”
“She’ll bite yer bloody fingers off,” she snapped, jerking her face away.
He raised a hand to strike her. But a voice cut through the yard like a blade:
“Enough.”
The murmuring died instantly.
The crowd parted as a man approached.
Tall, well-kept, with a wolf-pelt cloak bearing his colors draped over his broad shoulders, he walked with an air of ownership. His cold eyes swept across the prisoners.
Kenina had heard plenty about him. Keir Graham, the border laird who raided not for vengeance, but for profit. A man who smiled at cruelty because he found something pleasing in it.
Then he saw her.
The corners of his mouth curled slowly, as though savoring the sight. “Well now,” he said softly, “look at ye.”
Her stomach dipped. She tried to keep her expression blank. She would die before giving him fear.
Graham took his time walking around her, steps measured, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze moved over her as if taking inventory. She felt stripped without a finger laid on her.
“I ken ye,” he murmured. “From Buchanan lands.”
Kenina swallowed. “I dinnae ken ye.”
“Oh, but ye dae,” he said softly. “Yer faither showed ye off once, years ago, when I visited tae settle a border dispute. Ye were what—sixteen? Already a beauty. Already proud.”
He leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. “I didnae expect one of yer quality tae fall intae me lap.” His smile widened, sick with pleasure. “Coin like this only comes once.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m nae coin.”
He tapped her cheek once lightly. “Aye, lass,” he whispered. “Ye are exactly that.”
His fingers brushed her hair.
She recoiled as if burned. “Touch me again, and I’ll tear your hand off.”
He laughed low and delighted.
“Spirited. I remember thinkin’ it then. And now look at ye…” His gaze sharpened into hunger. “A rare prize indeed. I thought I’d never catch such a gem fer me auctions. The nobles in the east will fight over ye.”
The Graham warriors laughed at their laird’s words.
Kenina’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
Auction?
He turned away, already speaking to the guards.
“Get her washed. Fed. Nae too much—dinnae soften her. She goes tae auction tomorrow.”
The hood scratched against Peadar’s jaw as he moved through the shadows of the ruined stables, the scent of old leather and damp hay thick in the cold night air. His breath ghosted before him, visible in the lamplight spilling from the half-open barn doors ahead.
The stench of tallow smoke clung to Peadar’s clothes as he slipped into the back of the Graham byre. Lamps flickered low, shadows moving across the walls like restless spirits. Men crowded the room, muttering, jostling, boots grinding straw into the dirt.
He kept his hood low. Tristan walked at his shoulder, stiff as a pike.
“Saints,” Tristan muttered. “If filth had a home—”
“Keep yer tongue quiet,” Peadar said under his breath. “Grahams have ears like rats.”
His own pulse thrummed with a familiar coldness — the same cold that carried him through battles, ambushes, funerals.
Taenight, we get what we came fer. Drummond falls.
“Ye remember the plan,” Tristan murmured without looking at him.
“Aye,” Peadar said. “Get in. Listen. Buy naething. Draw nay notice.”
Tristan’s mouth pulled tight. “Then let’s pray tae God ye follow yer own instructions.”
Peadar didn’t dignify that with an answer.
He scanned the byre, taking notes of crates, of several slaves, stolen goods and livestock penned for sale.
The air was warmer, but only because of bodies — men pressed shoulder to shoulder, breath sour with ale and anticipation.
Lanterns hung on hooks between wooden beams, throwing slick amber light across a makeshift platform at the far end.
A long table stood near it, cluttered with ledgers, quills, and coin purses.
Torcull Drummond stood at the front, smug as a crowned pig — fox-fur cloak, jeweled brooch, drink in hand, his belly straining against his belt.
Peadar’s jaw tightened. Drummond. The man who had set the war in motion, the man who had burned Glen Torrin, the man who had stood watching while Peadar’s mother had screamed.
His hand twitched toward the dagger hidden under his cloak.
“Easy,” Tristan warned.
“I’m calm,” Peadar murmured.
He wasn’t.
Tristan shot him a warning glance. “We dinnae intervene,” he whispered. “Nae unless ‘tis proof or Torcull himself.”
Peadar didn’t respond. He focused on his breathing instead. Rage had no place there. Rage made men stupid, and stupid men got caught.
They found a narrow place near the back wall, half-hidden behind stacked sacks of grain. A perfect vantage point. Perfect distance. The place where a man could watch everything without being watched himself.
Peadar leaned against the wall, arms folded, feigning the indifference of a man who’d come for bargains. Then the auction started.
Keir Graham, the Graham laird stomped onto the platform. “Taenight,” he called, “we’ve goods rare and fine. Weapons. Livestock. Servants.” He grinned, revealing a row of yellow teeth. “And a treasure or two.”
Disgust crawled up Peadar’s throat, but he didn’t move.
The auction began and the men present started making their bids. After about half an hour Keir Graham stepped back out.
“Next lot!” he announced with a sly smile. “Clan Buchanan’s prized heir.”
A Graham guard dragged Kenina forward by the arm. She stumbled, caught herself, then straightened her spine.
A murmur went through the crowd. Peadar felt it like a shift in air pressure. Clan Buchanan? He narrowed his eyes, confused. Buchanan heirs did not end up on auction blocks by accident. Why would a Buchanan heir be—
The girl was pushed into the lamplight, and Peadar forgot to breathe.
Her wrists were bound loosely, rope more for display than restraint, but it drew the eye to the narrowness of her waist, the clean lines of her arms. Her dress hung torn and dirty at the hem, clinging in places where it had no right to cling.
The bodice was creased and pulled, the fabric stretched over a figure that was unmistakably female — slim but full where it mattered, hips soft beneath the rough wool, shoulders straight with a strength that had nothing to do with delicacy.
Her chestnut hair fell in thick dark braids, loosened from struggle, glossy even in the poor light.
A few strands had escaped, brushing her cheek, catching at her mouth.
Her lips were parted just slightly, breath controlled but fast, as if she were forcing herself not to show how hard that cost her.
She lifted her chin.
The lamplight caught her face fully then, and Peadar felt the hit of it low and hard in his gut.
She was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that drew attention whether she wanted it or not.
High cheekbones dusted with freckles and grime, a mouth made for smiles rather than frowns, her hazel eyes dark and sharp beneath strong brows — eyes that did not plead, even then.
There was fear there, aye, but it was reined in, held tight behind iron control.
Something cold plunged through Peadar’s gut, so sharp it stole his breath.
She was too much woman for this place.
She did not look like a girl who broke easily.
Tristan leaned close. “Is that—?”
“Aye,” Peadar muttered. “Buchanan blood.”
He told himself to look away. He couldn’t.
Because every man in the room was looking at her, with hunger, ownership, calculation. Their eyes dragged over her openly— the line of her throat, the curve of her waist, the way her breasts rose beneath the torn bodice when she drew breath.
His jaw tightened.
Torcull Drummond stepped out of the crowd, his grin widening. “At last,” he drawled loudly. “A lass worth me coin.”
Several men laughed.
The girl flinched. Not outwardly but Peadar saw the quick pulse at her throat, the way her fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the rope.
Keir Graham leered. “Here she is, lairds—Kenina Buchanan, blood heir tae everyone’s favorite enemies. Look at her. Fine bones. Fine breeding. Fine future fer any man who can keep her… compliant.”
A ripple of lewd laughter passed through the hall.
He saw her jaw tighten.
He looked Kenina over slowly, deliberately.
“Turn her,” he ordered the guard.
The guard shoved her by the shoulder. She jerked away but didn’t have the strength to stop him. Her braid swung loose, dark against her pale skin.
Then Torcull clicked his tongue. “Bonnie, in a fragile sort of way. Pity about her clan. They’ve always been stubborn bastards.”
Graham clapped. “We’ll start the bidding at forty sovereigns.”
“Forty?” someone barked. “Fer a lass?”
“She’s an heiress,” another argued. “Worth ten times that.”
“Aye, if ye want trouble with the Buchanans,” someone else scoffed.
Drummond wagged his finger. “I’ll start the bid. Forty sovereigns.”
Gasps rippled. That was enough to buy cattle herds.
Graham nearly choked on his spit. “Ah—aye, Laird Drummond begins with forty!”
A man to Peadar’s right snickered. “He wants her fer more than politics, eh?”
“Likely as nae,” another said, “he’ll breed her quiet.”
“Aye,” came the reply. “And what Torcull wants, Torcull takes.”
Peader frowned, his mind turning in circles. He told himself she was not his concern. He didn’t even like the Buchanans, but this? This was filth. The same filth that had filled the war. Men who believed no one could stop them. His eyes stayed on her.
Peader watched as she swallowed hard, her eyes flicking across the room.
Drummond lifted his chin. “Fifty.”
The byre buzzed again.
Peadar forced himself to breathe.
Stay focused. Get the evidence. Leave.
“Fifty,” Drummond said, savoring it.
The girl’s face drained of color.
Peadar didn’t realize he’d straightened away from the wall until Tristan’s fingers dug into his sleeve.
Peadar’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Tristan elbowed him. “Dinnae even think—”
“Fifty-one.” The word left Peadar’s mouth before Tristan finished his sentence.
The room snapped toward him. Silence fell, heavy and dangerous.
Drummond’s head jerked around. “Who said that?”
Peadar stepped forward, pulling back his hood. The murmurs swelled — some startled, some amused, some afraid.
Tristan hissed through his teeth, “Ye bloody lunatic. Ye gone and done it.”
Graham blinked at Peadar. “S–sir, that’s—”
Torcull cut in, voice like steel dragged over stone. “Name yerself, stranger.”
Peadar lifted his chin just enough to show the line of his jaw beneath the hood.
“Only a man making a purchase.”
Torcull’s eyes narrowed. “Ye mock me.”
“Nay,” Peadar said calmly. “But if ye think I fear ye… aye, that’s the mockery.”
A few men gasped. Someone whispered, “Christ preserve him.”
A man stepped up to Drummond and whispered into his ear and Drummond turned to stare at Peadar, incredulous. “Ye? The MacGregor mongrel? Ye think tae bid against me?”
Peadar lifted his chin. “I just did.”
Torcull stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “Dae ye ken who I am?”
Peadar met his stare, cold as winter.
“Oh aye. And I hope ye ken I dinnae back down.”
“Fifty-five,” Drummond snarled, eyes glittering.
Peadar didn’t blink. “Sixty.”
A roar went through the crowd, half shock, half delight at the brewing fight. A man near him coughed ale up his nose.
Drummond’s cheeks reddened with rage. “Ye dare—”
“She looks cold,” Peadar said evenly, cutting him off. “I’d prefer she nae rot afore she’s worth the coin.”
A few men laughed nervously. Drummond’s hand twitched like he wanted his sword, but the Grahams blocked him — no bloodshed till after the auction.
Graham cleared his throat. “Sixty fer the lass—”
“Sixty-one—” Drummond barked.
“Sixty-five,” Peadar said, louder.
His voice vibrated through the rafters.
Kenina’s gaze snapped to him — startled, wary, confused. She looked at him like he was another threat, another enemy.
He ignored the look.
Graham swallowed. “Sixty-five—goin’ once—goin’ twice—”
Drummond took one step toward Peadar.
“Ye are a dead man.”
Peadar didn’t break eye contact. “Get in line.”
“Sold!” Graham shouted, slamming his staff.
The byre erupted in cheers, jeers, curses. Drummond looked murderous.
Peadar’s stomach twisted — not with regret, but with certainty.
He had just made Torcull Drummond his personal enemy.
Good.
He wanted the bastard watching when he destroyed him.