Page 10 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"Dinnae," Tristan said quietly. "Ye'll start a war."

"There's already a war." David pulled free. "I'm just choosin' me side." David stepped forward, his voice carrying clear across the suddenly quiet hall.

"Two-hundred fifty."

David's voice carried clear across the suddenly silent hall. Every head turned. Langley's face went white, then red.

"Have ye gone mad?" Tristan hissed. David kept his eyes on the platform. On Elinor, whose gaze had finally broken from that distant point to find him in the crowd. Her eyes were wide, questioning, desperate.

"Two-hundred fifty pounds," the auctioneer repeated, recovering his composure. "Dae I hear two hundred sixty?"

"Three hundred!" Langley's voice shook with rage. "Three-hundred pounds!"

"The Duke of Albany said he wants an English bride." David pulled free, preparing to bid again. "He didnae specify which one."

David felt Tristan's hand on his arm. "David, ye cannae⁠—"

"Three-hundred fifty."

"Have ye lost yer bloody mind?" Tristan grabbed his shoulder. "That's more than⁠—"

"Four hundred!" Langley was shouting now, his face purple. "Four-hundred pounds, and damn you Highland savage if you try to⁠—"

"Five hundred."

The words fell into the hall like stones into still water. The ripples of shock spread outward. Men gasped. Someone laughed, sharp and disbelieving. Langley stood frozen, his mouth open, his face a mask of fury and disbelief.

Five hundred pounds. More than most estates brought in in a year. More than any sane man would pay for a bride, purchased or otherwise.

The auctioneer cleared his throat. "Five-hundred pounds from..." He hesitated, realizing he didn't know David's name.

"David MacDonald. Laird of Keppoch."

The addition of his title sent another wave of murmurs through the crowd. A Highland laird, here, outbidding English nobility for one of their own.

"Five hundred pounds from Laird MacDonald," the auctioneer said, his voice climbing with barely suppressed excitement. This would be a story told for years. "Do I hear five hundred ten?"

Silence.

Every eye turned to Langley. The knight's hands were fists at his sides, his jaw working as though chewing through his own rage. He looked at Elinor. At David. At the sum that had just been named.

Finally, through gritted teeth: "You cannot be serious."

"I'm entirely serious." David met his gaze steadily. "Dae ye wish tae bid higher?"

Langley's face twisted. For a moment, David thought the man might actually draw his sword. Then, slowly, Langley shook his head. Not in answer, but in disgust.

"Five-hundred pounds," the auctioneer called, lifting his hand. "Going once..."

"David," Tristan gasped desperately. "What are ye daeing? Dae ye realize how much coin ye just spent on an English lass ye dinnae even ken?"

David finally turned to look at his friend. Concern and confusion marked Tristan's otherwise handsome features.

"It seems, old friend. I’ve solved the regent’s problem and mine in one simple transaction," David muttered quietly.

"Ye've gone mad."

"Going twice..."