"Get her up there," someone barked. "Graham's waitin'."
Mhairi's heart hammered against her ribs. "Up where? What is this place?"
No answer. Just hands pushin' her forward, guidin' her up what felt like steps. Three of them. Four. When they stopped, rough fingers worked at the knot behind her head.
"Remember," the voice at her ear said, "ye run, we drag ye back. Make it easy on yerself."
The blindfold fell away.
Mhairi blinked against the sudden torchlight, and her stomach dropped straight through the floor.
She was standin' on a raised platform in the center of a vast underground chamber. Stone walls, low ceilings, packed with men. Dozens of them, maybe more, all turned toward her with expressions that made her skin crawl.
Some were Highland born, judgin' by their dress. Others wore Lowland fashion. And still others, English, by the look of their fine coats and polished boots.
Words died in her throat as understanding crashed over her like a wave of ice water.
An auction house.
They'd brought her to an auction house.
She stumbled backward, and hands clamped down on her arms before she could run.
"Gentlemen!" A voice boomed from somewhere to her left. A man stepped into view—stocky, scarred, with the build of someone who'd spent his life fightin'. "Our next offerin' is a rare prize indeed. Young, healthy, and?—"
"Let me go!" Mhairi lunged for the edge of the platform.
She didn’t make it three steps before the guards hauled her back to the center like she weighed nothin'.
She twisted, kicked, fought with every ounce of strength she had. "Ye cannae dae this! I'm a Munro! Me clan will?—"
"Fifty scots," someone shouted from the crowd.
Mhairi's blood turned to ice.
"Fifty-two scots!"
"Fifty-eight scots!"
“Sixty-five scots!"
The scarred man, Laird Aodh Graham, grinned like a wolf. "Come now, gentlemen. Surely ye can dae better than that. Look at her, strong, spirited. She'll give ye fine sons."
Bile rose in Mhairi's throat. "I'm nae fer sale, ye bastard!"
"Seventy scots!"
The shouts came faster now, numbers climbing higher. Mhairi's vision swam. She scanned the crowd desperately, searching for—what?
Someone to help her?
Her gaze snagged on a man near the back. Tall, broad-shouldered, fair hair mostly hidden beneath a hood. He wasn't shouting like the others. Just... watching. Their eyes met for half a heartbeat, and something flickered in his expression. Then someone shoved past him, blocking her view.
"Eighty-one scots!"
"Stop!" The word tore from her throat. "Me faither will pay fer me return! Whatever ye're askin', he'll pay."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Cold. Cruel.
