Graham leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. "Oh, lass. Ye really dinnae ken, dae ye?"
"Ken what?"
"Who dae ye think brought ye here?"
The world tilted.
"Ninety scots!" A new voice. English accent. Cultured. Old.
Mhairi's gaze snapped toward the sound. There—in the third row—a man perhaps fifty years of age, dressed in fine English fashion. His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to scrub her skin raw.
Her father. Her own father.
"Yer faither sold ye tae me a fortnight ago," Graham said, almost conversationally. "Needed coin fer his debts. Yer sister too, though she's a wee bit young yet. Give her another year or two." He gestured to the crowd. "Now I'm makin' me profit."
The pieces were falling into place. Her father's tension those past months. The closed-door meetings. The way he'd looked at her at breakfast two weeks before.
The room went quiet.
Graham's smile could've cut glass. "Ninety scots. Any advance on ninety scots?"
Silence.
Mhairi's legs threatened to give out. The guards holding her were the only reason she was still standing.
"Ninety once!" Graham raised his hand. "Ninety twice!"
"Sold!" Graham's hand came down like a gavel. "To His Grace, the Duke of Ravenscar!"
The English lord stood, and Mhairi's stomach turned over.
"Get her backstage," Graham ordered. "His Grace will want tae finalize the transaction."
The guards dragged her off the platform. She fought—God, did she fight—but there were too many of them. They hauled her through a narrow doorway into a dimly lit corridor, then into a small room with a desk and two chairs.
Graham followed, closing the door behind him. He moved to the desk, pouring himself whisky. "Ye're worth Ninety scots tae me now, lass. So, I suggest ye stop fightin’ and accept yer fate."
"I dinnae belong tae anyone!" The words came out fierce, but tears were burnin' behind her eyes. "I'm nae property tae be sold!"
"Ye are what I say ye are." Graham set down his glass.
The door opened. Mhairi spun toward it, and her heart stopped.
The English lord stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. Up close, he was even worse. Tall enough to loom over her. Eyes cold and calculating. And when he smiled, it didnae reach anywhere near those eyes.
"My dear," he said, his accent crisp and refined. "How lovely to finally meet you properly."
Mhairi backed away until her spine hit the wall. "Stay away from me."
"Now, now." He moved closer, each step deliberate. "Is that any way to greet your new husband?"
"Husband?" The word came out strangled. "I'm nae marryin' ye! I'll die first."
His smile widened. "I do hope not. Where would the fun in that be?" He was right in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive, cloying. "We have a long journey ahead of us, my dear. Plenty of time to begin your education."
Mhairi tried to dart past him. He caught her wrist before she made it two steps, yanking her back against his chest. She screamed, thrashed, clawed at his arm.
Two more men burst through the door. Ashcombe's guards. They grabbed her flailing arms, wrestling her still.
