Chapter 3 #2
"One-hundred twenty." Langley's voice was colder now, a warning to the other bidders.
"One-hundred twenty-five," some lord called out, but he didn’t sound determined to outbid anyone.
"One-hundred fifty," Langley barked out, his gaze fixed on the platform. On her.
Elinor's hands trembled. Just once, barely visible, before she clasped them together and went still again.
"One-hundred fifty pounds to Sir Edmund Langley," the auctioneer called out. "A generous sum! Do I hear one-hundred sixty?"
Silence. The other bidders were backing down, unwilling to compete with Langley's aggressive bidding.
"One-hundred fifty going once..." The auctioneer paused, scanning the room. "Going twice..." Langley's posture relaxed slightly, His eyes gleaming as he stared at Elinor on the platform like she was a trophy he was about to claim.
Elinor saw it. David watched her hands begin to tremble. Watched her throat work as she swallowed hard. She was fighting to keep her composure, but it was cracking at the edges.
Something about the entire affair vexed David.
His hand moved to his coin purse.
Tristan caught his wrist. "Dinnae. Have ye lost yer mind?"
David looked at him—at his oldest friend, his most trusted man, the one who'd pulled him from more trouble than he could count.
"Perhaps," he said quietly. "Or perhaps I'm seein' clearly fer once."
He pulled free and stepped forward.
"One-hundred sixty."
The room stirred. Heads turned. Langley's smile vanished.
"We've got one-hundred and sixty," the auctioneer called, surprise lifting his voice. "Do I hear two hundred?"
"Two hundred!" Langley spun toward the back of the room, his eyes finding David. His face flushed red, then darker. "Two-hundred pounds!"
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Men leaned forward in their seats, drinks forgotten.
Tristan grabbed David's arm. "What are ye daein' man?"
"What daes it look like?"
"It looks like ye've gone mad."
"Two-hundred pounds from Sir Edmund Langley!" The auctioneer was nearly bouncing now. "Do I hear two-hundred ten?"
The hall went quiet. Two-hundred pounds was a fortune. More than most men here could afford, or would be willing to spend.
The auctioneer looked around the room. "Two-hundred pounds from Sir Edmund Langley. A fine bid for a fine lady. Closing at two hundred pounds going once, going "
"Dinnae," Tristan said quietly. "Ye'll start a war."
"There's already a war." David pulled free. "I'm just choosin' me side." David stepped forward, his voice carrying clear across the suddenly quiet hall.
"Two-hundred fifty."
David's voice carried clear across the suddenly silent hall. Every head turned. Langley's face went white, then red.
"Have ye gone mad?" Tristan hissed. David kept his eyes on the platform. On Elinor, whose gaze had finally broken from that distant point to find him in the crowd. Her eyes were wide, questioning, desperate.
"Two-hundred fifty pounds," the auctioneer repeated, recovering his composure. "Dae I hear two hundred sixty?"
"Three hundred!" Langley's voice shook with rage. "Three-hundred pounds!"
"The Duke of Albany said he wants an English bride." David pulled free, preparing to bid again. "He didnae specify which one."
David felt Tristan's hand on his arm. "David, ye cannae—"
"Three-hundred fifty."
"Have ye lost yer bloody mind?" Tristan grabbed his shoulder. "That's more than—"
"Four hundred!" Langley was shouting now, his face purple. "Four-hundred pounds, and damn you Highland savage if you try to—"
"Five hundred."
The words fell into the hall like stones into still water. The ripples of shock spread outward. Men gasped. Someone laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Langley stood frozen, his mouth open, his face a mask of fury and disbelief.
Five hundred pounds. More than most estates brought in in a year. More than any sane man would pay for a bride, purchased or otherwise.
The auctioneer cleared his throat. "Five-hundred pounds from..." He hesitated, realizing he didn't know David's name.
"David MacDonald. Laird of Keppoch."
The addition of his title sent another wave of murmurs through the crowd. A Highland laird, here, outbidding English nobility for one of their own.
"Five hundred pounds from Laird MacDonald," the auctioneer said, his voice climbing with barely suppressed excitement. This would be a story told for years. "Do I hear five hundred ten?"
Silence.
Every eye turned to Langley. The knight's hands were fists at his sides, his jaw working as though chewing through his own rage. He looked at Elinor. At David. At the sum that had just been named.
Finally, through gritted teeth: "You cannot be serious."
"I'm entirely serious." David met his gaze steadily. "Dae ye wish tae bid higher?"
Langley's face twisted. For a moment, David thought the man might actually draw his sword. Then, slowly, Langley shook his head. Not in answer, but in disgust.
"Five-hundred pounds," the auctioneer called, lifting his hand. "Going once..."
"David," Tristan gasped desperately. "What are ye daeing? Dae ye realize how much coin ye just spent on an English lass ye dinnae even ken?"
David finally turned to look at his friend. Concern and confusion marked Tristan's otherwise handsome features.
"It seems, old friend. I’ve solved the regent’s problem and mine in one simple transaction," David muttered quietly.
"Ye've gone mad."
"Going twice..."
"On the contrary." David's voice was calm, certain in a way he hadn't felt in years.
"I'm very sane. And I'm very sure that I willnae allow the Duke tae control me anymore.
Enough of me life has been controlled by the Covenant.
By duty tae me clan. By promises I made when I was too young tae ken what they'd cost." He looked back at the platform, at Elinor standing there like a queen awaiting execution. "This choice is mine."
"Sold!" The auctioneer's voice rang out. "To Laird David MacDonald of Keppoch, for five-hundred pounds!"
The hall erupted in noise. Men talked over each other, some in admiration, others in outrage. David ignored them all, moving through the crowd toward a door at the side of the platform where Lord Royse had appeared, rubbing his hands together with undisguised glee.
The backroom was small, dimly lit by a single window. Lord Royse stood near a table, his eyes gleaming with avarice.
"Laird MacDonald!" He turned, extending a hand David had no intention of shaking. "A fine choice, a fine choice indeed. My daughter will serve you well, I'm certain of it."
"Where is she?"
"Being prepared. The transaction must be completed first, you understand." Royse gestured to a strongbox on the table. "Five hundred pounds, I believe we agreed?"
David began counting out the coin, his movements methodical. The sum represented a significant portion of his clan's reserves, coin that should have gone to winter stores or repairs to the castle. His steward would have questions. His mother would have opinions.
He didn't care.
The door burst open. Langley stormed in, two men at his back.
"This is a fraud!" The man pointed an accusing finger at David. "That bid was made in bad faith. The lady was promised to me!"
"The lady," David said without looking up from his counting, "was promised tae whoever paid the most. I paid the most."
"You're a Highland savage who has no business—"
"Careful." David's voice went very quiet. He set down the coins he'd been counting and turned to face Langley fully. "Ye'll want tae think on yer next words."
"Gentlemen, please!" Royse stepped between them, his hands raised. "The transaction is complete. Legal and binding. Sir Edmund, you had every opportunity to bid higher."
"Five-hundred pounds is an obscene sum!"
"And yet it was paid." Royse gestured to the coins on the table. "The matter is settled."
"It is not settled!" Langley's hand moved to his sword. "I will not allow—"
David's hand was faster. His blade was half-drawn before Langley's fingers had closed around his hilt.
"Ye'll nae allow?" David's smile was cold. "Ye've nay say in the matter, Langley. The lass has been sold, the coin has been paid, and ye've nay claim tae either."
"She should be mine!"
"Yet fate decided otherwise." David finished drawing his sword, the steel singing in the close space. "She's mine. And if ye've a problem with that, we can settle it outside. But I'll warn ye now—I dinnae lose."
Tristan appeared in the doorway, his own hand on his weapon. "Is there a problem?"
"Nay problem, Tristan." David remarked dryly, his eyes never leaving Langley's. "Sir Edmund was just leaving."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Langley spat on the floor and turned on his heel, shoving past Tristan and disappearing into the hall.
David sheathed his blade and turned back to the table. "The rest of yer coin, Lord Royse."
He finished counting out the sum, every pound and shilling, while Royse watched with barely concealed delight. Five-hundred pounds. Enough to save his estate. Enough to keep him in wine and comfort for years.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Laird MacDonald." Royse swept the coins into the strongbox. "I'll have me daughter brought in."
"See that ye dae."
Royse left through a side door. David stood in the suddenly quiet room, Tristan at his shoulder, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
"Five hundred pounds," Tristan said finally.
"Aye."
"Fer a woman ye saw once fer two minutes, less than an hour ago."
"Aye."
"Whose name ye barely ken."
"I ken her name." David's jaw tightened. "Elinor."
The door opened again. She stood in the threshold, her father's hand on her elbow, her face pale but composed. Her eyes found David's, and he saw the question there. The fear. The desperate need to understand what she'd just been traded into.
"Lady Elinor." David kept his voice steady, formal. "I'm David MacDonald, Laird of Keppoch." He let that sink in—a name, a title, proof he wasn't just some stranger who'd bought her on a whim.
David's gaze shifted to her father, cold and flat. "Lord Royse. Our business is concluded. Ye have yer coin. I have what I paid fer. We're done here."
Royse's expression flickered, something like relief mixed with dismissal. "Of course. Elinor, you will do your duty to—"
"She'll do nothin' for ye ever again," David interrupted.
He moved toward the door, toward Elinor, keeping his movements deliberate and non-threatening. "Come, lass. We're leavin'."
Elinor glanced once at her father. David saw something pass between them, years of pain and control and fear, all condensed into a single look.