Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
"Two hundred pounds?" Her father's masked figure sounded surprised, but it was mixed with cold calculation.
"The man bids like he's got deeper motives than clan alliance.
This changes the game fer us, Campbell. He might prove tae be exactly the ally we can use.
" His hands rose to the elaborate mask that had concealed his identity throughout the evening.
As the silk and leather fell away, Roderick Munro's weathered features were revealed, his face flushed with barely controlled rage.
Beside him, the man he had called Campbell also began the ritual removal. Silver-streaked hair caught the torchlight as his mask dropped to the floor and now his pale eyes burned with fury.
"Two hundred pounds," her father said.
Liliane's hands shook as she smoothed her emerald skirts, the mask still concealing her face. This was the moment of revelation, when buyer and purchased would see each other clearly for the first time.
"A dangerous fool," Campbell replied, his weathered features tight with caution. "Or one with deeper pockets and darker motives than we anticipated."
Liliane's stomach twisted as she took her place beside them, her mind racing with the implications.
"I hope this dangerous fool is at the least worthy of the alliance pact. He wouldnae throw such silver around fer naethin'."
The great doors at the hall's entrance groaned open, and boots rang against stone as two figures entered. One was tall and lean, with sandy hair and an easy stride that spoke of confidence. But it was the man beside him who commanded the room's attention.
He was larger than Liliane had realized from her position on the platform, broad-shouldered and moving with the fluid grace of a predator. Dark hair fell across his brow, and when he raised his head, those piercing green eyes found hers immediately.
How could a man of such obvious breeding and presence reduce himself tae purchasin’ women like livestock? How could someone who looked as though he could command the loyalty of armies need tae buy what others earn through courtship?
"Tòrr MacDonald," her father spat, as if the name itself were poison. "I should have kent. Only a MacDonald would stoop tae such trickery."
MacDonald.
Liliane had heard that name whispered in her father's solar, always with venom, always with references to stubborn pride and dangerous loyalties. The MacDonalds who refused to bend the knee, who held to the old ways and the old king.
Her father stepped forward. When he spoke again, his voice was tight with suppressed fury. "Ye were never invited. This gatherin’ was meant fer allies of the Pact."
"I recall the auction being open to any who could meet the price." The man's voice cut across the hall like tempered steel, deep and resonant with the accent of the western Highlands.
Tòrr MacDonald reached into his cloak with deliberate calm and produced a folded parchment. He thrust it against her father's chest with enough force to make the smaller man stumble backward.
"This invitation," he said, his voice carrying a mocking amusement, " was addressed tae Clan MacDonald. As laird of that clan, I attended yer gatherin’, bid fairly within yer rules, and met yer price. Unless ye mean tae call yer own auction invalid?"
Her father's hands trembled as he unfolded the parchment, his face growing paler with each word he read. Beside him, Campbell's expression had gone thunderous.
"That invitation was nae meant fer ye," Campbell hissed.
"And yet it bears me clan's name," Tòrr replied with infuriating calm. "I followed every protocol. Remained masked durin’ the biddin’. Revealed meself only here, as is proper. Therefore the lass is mine by right of purchase."
Liliane found her voice at last, though she wished she sounded more confident. "Why?"
Tòrr's attention shifted to her, and those eyes seemed to pierce straight through her mask to the woman beneath. "That daesnae matter. What matters is that ye, lass, are now under me protection."
Protection.
The word should have comforted her, but something in his tone made her skin prickle with unease. This was not the promise of a gentle guardian but the claim of a man accustomed to owning what he protected.
"Protection?" She lifted her chin, drawing on every scrap of courage she possessed. "Is that what ye call purchasin’ a woman like a prize mare?"
His companion grinned openly at her sharp tone. "She's got fire, this one. I like her already."
Tòrr's expression didn't change. "Fire can warm a hearth, Cameron. Or it can burn down the house. We'll see which this lass proves tae be."
The casual dismissal in his tone made her blood sing with fury, but before she could respond, her father surged forward.
"Ye'll never take her," he snarled. "I'll nae have me daughter wed tae a Jacobite traitor."
The sound of steel leaving its sheath rang through the hall as Tòrr's sword appeared in his hand with fluid grace. He didn't point it at her father, didn't even raise it threateningly. He simply held it, and the message was clear.
He stretched his hand to the man he had called Cameron, handed him a leather sporran, which he tossed at her father's feet with casual disdain. It landed with a metallic clink that echoed through the tense silence.
"There's yer silver," he said, his voice sharp with contempt. "Count it if ye must, but dae it quickly. We're leavin’."
"Now wait just a minute." her father began, but Tòrr was already moving.
"The transaction is complete, Munro. The coin has been offered and accepted. The lass comes with me."
He sheathed his sword and strode toward Liliane with purposeful steps. When he reached for her arm, she jerked back instinctively.
"Dinnae touch me."
He paused, one dark brow rising. "Ye're me wife now, lass. Or soon will be. Ye'd best grow accustomed tae me touch."
"I am nae yer wife," she snapped, backing away from him. "I dinnae ken what game ye're playin’, MacDonald, but I'll nae be part of it."
"It's nae game." His voice had gone deadly quiet. "And ye'll come with me willingly, or I'll carry ye. The choice is yers."
She glanced desperately at her father, seeking some intervention, some protection, but his face had closed off entirely. She could see the calculation in his eyes, the way he was weighing his options and more likely than not, found them all lacking.
"Faither?! I willnae go." Her voice cracked with the words.
What will happen tae Nessa?
Her father's gaze flicked to Campbell, who gave the smallest shake of his head. The message was clear, they had been outmaneuvered, and resistance now would only make things worse.
Tòrr MacDonald watched this silent exchange with sharp eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice held a note of something that might have been understanding.
"The lass will come tae nay harm under me care, Munro. Ye have me word on that."
"Yer word," her father spat, "has nay importance tae me. I willnae let this proceed."
Tòrr's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he looked at Liliane with those penetrating green eyes.
"Last chance, lass. Walk with me, or be carried. But either way, ye're leavin’ this hall."
Liliane closed her eyes. "I'll nae make this easy fer ye," she said quietly.
Tòrr's mouth curved in what might have been approval. "I'd expect naethin’ less."
Before she could react, he stepped forward and swept her up, tossing her over his broad shoulder like a sack of grain. The indignity of it sent fire racing through her veins.
"Put me down!" She hammered her fists against his back, kicking her legs and twisting in his grip. "Put me down this instant, ye great brute!"
"Stop squirmin’, or ye'll hurt yerself," he said calmly, as if carrying struggling women was something he did daily.
She grabbed a handful of his dark hair and pulled hard enough to make him grunt. "I said put me down!"
"And I said stop squirmin’." His arm tightened around her legs, holding her more securely. "We're nae on friendly ground here, lass. The sooner we're away, the safer we'll both be."
They crossed the hall in a procession of barely controlled chaos, Tòrr striding purposefully toward the doors, Liliane fighting him every step, Aidan Cameron providing unhelpful commentary, and her father and Campbell watching in impotent fury.
The cool night air hit her face as they emerged from the keep, and she could hear the stamp of horses and the jingle of harnesses somewhere ahead.
"Why didnae ye bring yer mount inside the stables like a civilized man?" she demanded, still struggling against his grip.
"Because I wasnae welcome unmasked, lass. "
The answer stopped her struggles for a moment. "Ye're that unwelcome here?"
"The MacDonalds and the clans involved in the Pact have nay love fer each other," he replied grimly. "Yer faither chose his side in this war, and I chose mine."
She absorbed that information, her mind racing. So it wasn’t about the other bidder at all. Tòrr’s goal hadn’t been to outbid a man, he’d been after something else entirely.
This was about her father, about politics and whatever feud existed between MacDonald and her family.
Tòrr finally set her down beside a massive black stallion as they reached the horses, though he kept one hand on her arm to prevent escape. In the moonlight, his face was all sharp angles and shadows.
She yanked against his grip, but it was like trying to move a mountain. If she could escape, perhaps she could still get to Nessa.
"I willnae go. Ye cannae make me."
"I can and I will." He lifted her onto his horse before swinging up behind her, his arms caging her against his chest. "But first, tell me, what were ye plannin’, stayin’ at the auction? What made it worth endurin’?"
The question caught her so off guard that she answered before thinking. "I wasnae stayin’ willingly. I was—" She caught herself just in time, biting down hard on her tongue.
"Ye were what?" His voice was quietly insistent.
She couldn't tell him about Nessa, couldn't reveal her sister's existence to this stranger who already held too much power over her fate.
"Naethin’," she muttered. "And what is yer problem?"
"Me problem?" His breath stirred the hair at her temple.
She twisted in his arms, trying to face him, trying to read his expression in the moonlight. “Ye've ruined everythin’ now. Ye didnae even let me get me things."
He studied her face with those unsettling green eyes. "Anythin’ ye need will be provided in me keep lass, nay need tae worry about that.”
Before she could answer, Cameron mounted his own horse and moved alongside them. "We should go, Tòrr. Dawn isnae far off, and I'd rather nae explain our presence here tae any patrols."
Tòrr nodded and spurred his horse forward into the darkness. Behind them, the castle grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared entirely, taking with it her last hope of protecting the only person in the world she truly loved.
"Where are ye takin’ me?" she asked quietly.
"Home," Tòrr replied, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "Tae Keppoch Castle."
"And then?"
His arms tightened around her slightly. "Then we'll see what manner of woman I've bought meself."
The words should have frightened her. Instead, they kindled a small flame of defiance in her chest. Tòrr MacDonald might have purchased her body, but her spirit remained her own.
And she would make sure he remembered that, until she could manage to escape.