CHAPTER ONE
Banqueting Room, Campbell Castle, January, 1689
"Stand straight, shoulders back. Ye arenae cattle, ye're prizes," the lady barked from behind the line, her voice sharp as winter frost. "And when ye enter, ye'll sit still until yer name is called. Ye all ken what will happen tonight. So dae as ye've been told and keep yer mouth shut."
Her rough voice cut through the nervous whispers as guards herded Liliane Munro and the other young women through the stone corridors of the castle. Her stomach twisted with each echoing footstep, and the clank of armor from the dozen guards flanking their procession.
"Remember," hissed the lady in her unnaturally high-pitched tone, her sharp features pinched with authority as she swept alongside them in midnight blue silk, her face concealed behind an ornate feathered mask. "Shoulders back."
Liliane's fingers trembled as she smoothed the emerald velvet of her gown. The fabric was finer than anything she had ever worn, ordered especially by her father for tonight's occasion. The bodice was cut to display her figure to best advantage, and the skirts were heavy with gold thread that caught the torchlight.
"Ye will enter with grace. Ye will sit with dignity. And ye will smile." Her cold gaze raked over each girl. "Any display of hysteria will be met with consequences. Ye are all expected tae bring in very high bids taenight."
Around her, the other ladies looked equally magnificent. Auburn curls crowned with pearls, raven hair adorned with silver combs, silk in every jeweled tone that made each girl appear as a living gemstone.
Yet, even as their masks lent them an air of mysterious allure, Liliane could see terror shadowing every perfectly coifed lady.
"Mother Mary, preserve us," whispered the girl beside her, her voice shaking so hard Lilianne wondered if she would make it through the evening.
"Silence!" barked another guard.
He pushed the massive oak doors of the banqueting hall, causing it to grudgingly groan before opening, releasing a wave of heat, pipe smoke, and masculine voices that rumbled like distant thunder. Liliane's breath caught as she took in the spectacle beyond the threshold.
The great hall had been transformed into an arena of wealth and power. Torches blazed in iron sconces along the stone walls, casting dancing shadows over masked figures who filled rows of wooden chairs arranged in a horseshoe pattern around a raised platform.
Nobles and lairds, their faces hidden behind masks, some simple black silk, others elaborate creations of feathers and gold leaf with clan colors conspicuously absent. The anonymity made the air thick with tension, each man a mystery, their intentions veiled behind false faces.
The air thrummed with their deep voices, discussing politics and alliances over goblets of wine while servants in plain dark clothing moved between them like shadows.
"Look at how well-endowed that lass in blue is," rumbled a voice from the crowd as all eyes turned on the girls.
"Aye," came the response. "But be reminded we are here for alliances, not for bonnie lasses."
"The redhead over there has large bones. She will breed strong bairns. If her clan is prosperous, taenight ends in a good deal fer me," came another assessment, as clinical as evaluating horseflesh.
"Form a line," hissed the lady, her voice sharp as a blade, yet low enough for the lairds not to pick it up. "Move."
Lilianne took her position at the room's center with the other ‘prize’ ladies. Their faces bore the same expression of barely contained terror she felt clawing at her own composure.
The room buzzed with low conversation, the sound rolling like distant thunder. Those men, lairds all by the richness of their dress, had gone there with coin in their purses and ambition in their hearts.
Lilianne knew invitations to this auction had been sent only to those clans her father and Angus Campbell deemed useful for their greater cause. Every match made tonight would strengthen the web of alliances within the Pact of Argyll.
Her gaze swept across the assembled crowd, searching for any familiar figure, any hint of how the night might unfold. Her father was easily recognizable. Even with a plain leather mask, Roderick Munro dominated the center seat, with his barrel chest straining against his finest doublet, and stretching over his broad shoulders.
His graying beard was freshly trimmed, his eyes gleaming beneath the mask with the satisfaction of a man whose plans were unfolding exactly as intended.
Beside him lounged a heavy-set man, who she knew to be Balgair Ross, whose thick fingers drummed against his thigh with barely contained anticipation.
"She'll dae nicely," the man murmured to his masked companion.
"Aye," came the muffled reply. "Worth every mark."
The predatory assessment made her skin crawl, but she had no idea which of those anonymous figures would be bidding for her.
To her father’s other side sat another masked laird, his bearing radiating the same quiet authority as the man at the center of that vile gathering.
Liliane could not tell who he was; the mask concealed everything, even the smallest hint of familiarity. The anonymity of it all made the air heavier, colder. She hated it, being unable to see the faces of the men who would decide the rest of her life.
