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 ofrevelation, 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.
