Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
David MacDonald had not intended to enter the manor.
He'd gone to Berwick to meet with a minor border lord about grain shipments—dull business that Tristan could have handled alone, but David had welcomed the excuse to be anywhere but Keppoch. Anywhere the king's summons couldn't find him quite so quickly.
Except it had found him anyway. Three days ago, a royal messenger had arrived with a letter bearing the king's seal. The words had been polite, the command beneath them anything but.
His Grace, the Duke of Albany, Regent of Scotland, requests the honor of yer presence at Alnwick Castle. A matter of alliance between Scotland and England requires yer attention.
It is time ye took an English bride tae strengthen ties between our kingdoms.
A bride. Commanded to marry. As though David were a prize stallion being matched to improve the bloodline.
He'd crumpled the parchment, then smoothed it out again. Thrown it in the fire, then fished it out before the flames took hold. Finally, he'd shoved it in his saddlebag and told Tristan to ready the horses.
"We're going to Alnwick?" Tristan had asked.
"Eventually." David had swung into his saddle, his jaw tight. "But, we're takin' the long way."
Which was how he'd ended up there, at that godforsaken manor, watching a lady's lip split open while two fools fought over her like she was a bone and they were starving dogs.
He should have walked away. Should have let the English handle their own brutality. Instead, he'd opened his mouth, and now he was following them all inside, Tristan at his shoulder radiating disapproval.
"What are ye daeing?" Tristan hissed as they crossed the threshold.
"Walkin’ through a door."
"Ye ken what I mean." Tristan caught his arm, pulling him to a stop in the entrance hall. Around them, English lords in fine wool milled about, a handful of Scots in plaids and leather, all drinking fine English wine and speaking in low voices. "This is an auction, David. It’s repellin’.
Who sells a human fer coin? Ye should be on yer way tae fulfilling the command of the Duke of Albany tae take an English bride. "
"Aye. I'm aware."
"So why are we here?"
David glanced toward the main hall, where the lady with the split lip had disappeared with her father. Her eyes had been the color of new leaves, pale green and wary. She'd met his gaze without flinching, even with blood on her chin and her father's fingers digging into her arm.
She'd looked at him like she was drowning and he was the only solid thing in reach.
"I dinnae ken," he said quietly. "But I'm nae walkin’ away."
Tristan studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Ye've gone mad."
"Perhaps."
"The Regent will have yer head if ye defy him."
"The Regent can join the queue." David started toward the hall. "I've been followin' orders me whole life, Tristan. The Covenant. The clan. And now a bloody regent wants tae pick me wife fer me like I'm a bairn who cannae choose fer meself. Well, perhaps it's time I stopped daeing what I'm told."
"Ye are stubborn, David. I willnae have ye put yerself in trouble because of some sudden epiphany!"
"I never told ye I was going tae dae anythin’, did I?" David's smile was sharp. "Now come on."
Without waiting, David entered the hall, sensing Tristan was behind him, just as a man in expensive robes stepped onto a raised platform at the far end. He clapped his hands twice, the sound sharp as a whip crack.
"Lairds and Gentlemen! If you would take your places."
Chairs scraped against stone. Conversations died to murmurs, then silence. Men arranged themselves in loose rows facing the platform. Some stood at the back, others settled into seats with the ease of men who'd done this before.
David found a spot near the rear wall, close enough to see the platform but shadowed enough to avoid notice. Tristan positioned himself beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"This willnae end well," Tristan muttered.
"Probably nae."
"And yet here we are."
"Aye. Here we are."
The auctioneer spread his arms wide, his robes catching the candlelight. "Welcome, gentlemen, to an evening of opportunity. What we conduct here tonight is intended to become as noble as our traditions of forging of alliances, the joining of bloodlines, the securing of futures."
Pretty words, David thought. Silk wrapped around rot.
"Discretion, as always, is paramount. What happens within these walls remains within these walls. You have my word as a gentleman, and I expect the same discretion from each of you."
Around the room, men nodded. Some raised their glasses in approval. As though the man were speaking wisdom rather than dressing up human trafficking in velvet.
"And now." The auctioneer gestured toward a door at the side of the platform. "Our first prospect of the evening."
The door opened. A lass emerged—and lass was the only word for her. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, slight and dark-haired, with eyes too large for her sheet-white face. She walked to the center of the platform with small, careful steps, as though the floor might give way beneath her.
She didn't look at the crowd. Kept her gaze fixed on some point on the floor, her hands clasped in front of her so tightly David could see her knuckles bleaching white from across the room.
"Miss Arabella Fenwick," the auctioneer announced, circling her slowly. "Daughter of Lord Harold Fenwick of Northumberland. Seventeen years of age."
Seventeen. David's stomach turned.
"A gentle disposition." The auctioneer ticked off qualities on his fingers as he walked. "Accomplished in needlework, household management, and the feminine arts. Healthy constitution. Her father has graciously agreed to include a modest dowry with the winning bid."
He stopped beside her, close enough that the girl flinched.
"We'll begin at thirty pounds. Do I hear thirty?"
A hand went up near the front. An English lord, heavy-jowled and florid. "Thirty."
"Thirty pounds from Lord Ashworth. Do I hear thirty-five?"
Another hand. A man David didn't recognize. "Thirty-five."
"Forty," Ashworth countered immediately.
"Forty-five."
"Fifty."
The girl's breath had gone shallow. David could see her chest rising and falling too quickly, could see the way her fingers twisted together, white-knuckled, the only outward sign of the terror she was trying to contain.
"Fifty-five," someone called out.
"Sixty."
"Sixty-five."
A laugh from somewhere in the middle rows. "Ashworth's determined tonight!"
More laughter. The girl's eyes squeezed shut for just a moment. When they opened, they were wet.
"Sixty-five going once," the auctioneer called. "Going twice..."
"Seventy." Ashworth's voice was final, a warning to the other bidders. She's mine. Back away.
Silence.
"Seventy pounds to Lord Ashworth!" The auctioneer beamed. "An excellent choice, my lord. Miss Fenwick, if you'll step down."
The girl walked off the platform like she was walking to the gallows.
Ashworth was already rising from his seat, moving toward the side room where the transactions would be completed.
Where he would pay his seventy pounds and take possession of a seventeen-year-old girl like she was cattle he'd just purchased from the market.
David's jaw ached. He'd been clenching it without realizing.
"We should leave," Tristan said quietly.
"Soon."
"David—"
"I said soon."
Two more women followed. The bidding grew animated as wine loosened tongues and competition heated blood. Men shouted numbers like they were at a fair, laughing when they were outbid, cursing when prices climbed beyond what they were willing to pay.
David stood motionless through all of it, watching, his hands fisted at his sides.
He couldn't save them. Couldn't stop this. He was one man in a room full of wolves, and if he tried to intervene, he'd accomplish nothing except getting himself killed or arrested.
But he couldn't make himself leave either. Couldn't shake the image of pale green eyes and blood on a split lip.
Where is she?
The auctioneer clapped his hands again, calling for attention. "And now, gentlemen, a prize worthy of your finest offers."
David went still.
"Lady Elinor Royse, daughter of Lord Thomas Royse."
The crowd stirred with interest. David's attention sharpened.
He told himself this wasn't his concern. These weren't his people.
But those eyes. Large and shadowed by pain and almost pleading for him to rescue her.
He couldn't save them all. Couldn't stop this.
But maybe he could stop one.
She walked onto the platform with her head high, her spine straight as steel.
The split on her lip had stopped bleeding, but he could still see the damage, a dark line against her pale skin.
Her gown was fine, deep blue that brought out the color of her eyes, but there was a rigidity to her posture that spoke of barely contained fury rather than fear.
She did not look at the crowd. Did not acknowledge the men already leaning forward, assessing her like she was a mare they were considering for purchase. Instead, she fixed her gaze on some point beyond them all, her expression carved from ice.
David's chest tightened.
"Here we go," Tristan muttered.
The auctioneer began his speech. "Well-bred. Educated. Accomplished in all the feminine arts. Father willing to negotiate terms."
The crowd murmured, and David knew she had stirred the interest of more than one gentleman.
"We'll start the bidding at fifty pounds," the auctioneer announced.
A hand went up immediately. David recognized the crimson cloak. Langley.
"Sixty pounds," Langley said, his voice carrying across the hall.
Another man countered. "Seventy."
"Eighty." Langley again, his tone sharp with possession.
The lady, Elinor, went very still. Her eyes found Langley in the crowd, and even from this distance, David could see the fear flicker across her face before she buried it.
She was terrified of him.
"One-hundred pounds," someone else offered.