Page 1 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER ONE

Berwick-upon-Tweed, 1517

"Straighten your spine." Her father's voice cut through the silence. "You'll fetch nothing if you slouch like a kitchen maid."

Fetch. As though I am a hound he is bringing to market.

She straightened anyway, because she would not give these men the satisfaction of seeing her cowed. Through the carriage window, she counted the arriving conveyances. Six coaches, fine enough to bear noble crests she did not recognize. Eight men on horseback, their clothing marking them as wealthy. Scots, some of them, if the plaids half-visible beneath their cloaks were any indication.

Her father had been pleased about that. "Highland coin spends as well as English," he'd said three days before, when he'd finally told her why they were making that journey.

Not that he'd used the word auction. He'd called it a "gathering of interested parties." As though wrapping ugliness in silk made it any less vile.

She had learned the true nature of it by listening at doors, as she'd learned most things worth knowing in her father's house. The servants whispered when they thought she couldn't hear.

"Daughters sold to the highest bidder while their fathers drank wine and called it business."

"I hear he is taking poor Lady Elinor there to be sold."

Shocked at the servant's words, she'd hurried to confront her father.

She had found him in his study, a glass of claret already in his hand though it was barely past noon. When she had knocked, he had not responded, neither had he looked up when she had entered.

"Father, I need to speak with you."

"Then speak." He turned a page, his finger tracing a column of figures marked in red. Debts, Elinor realized.

Her hands twisted in her skirts, but she kept her voice strong. "There are rumors that you mean to take me to an auction. That you intend to—" The words stuck in her throat like shards of glass.

"To sell you?" He looked up then, his expression utterly calm. "Yes."

The simple confirmation struck harder than a blow. She had expected denials, anger at her eavesdropping, perhaps even shame. Not this casual acknowledgment.

"You cannot be serious."

"I am entirely serious." He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving her face. "We need coin, Elinor. Despite you blissfully indulging in your everyday luxuries, the estate is drowning in debt. The creditors are circling like vultures. And you are the only thing of value I have left."

"Me?! I am your daughter!"

"You are an asset." He set down his glass with deliberate care. "One I have fed and clothed for three and twenty years. It is time you provided a return on that investment."

When she'd protested, his hand had cracked across her face so fast she hadn't seen it coming.

"You will do as you're told," he'd said softly, "or I will drag you there in chains if I must."

Her mother had stood in the hallway, pale and silent as a ghost. Their eyes had met. Her mother had looked away first. No help would come from that quarter. It never did.

Now, the manor loomed ahead, its stone façade grey and unwelcoming against the winter sky. Elinor's hands were numb inside her gloves, partly from the cold and mostly from dread, she was sure.

After three days, the bruise on her cheek had faded to a dull yellow. She'd covered it with powder that morning, her hands steady despite the tremor in her chest.

Let them see a lady, not a victim. Let them see someone worth more than the coin they'd pay.

Though what difference it would make, she did not know.

"You'll do as you're told," Her father's voice cut into her thoughts, startling her back to the present. His breath carried across the small carriage distance, reeking of stale wine. "You'll smile. You'll curtsy. And you'll go with whichever man pays the most. We need the coin, girl, so do your own part and save the family estate."

He'd said it as though she should be grateful. As though being sold like a mare at Smithfield was an honor she didn't deserve.