Page 7 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"This willnae end well," Tristan muttered.

"Probably nae."

"And yet here we are."

"Aye. Here we are."

The auctioneer spread his arms wide, his robes catching the candlelight. "Welcome, gentlemen, to an evening of opportunity. What we conduct here tonight is intended to become as noble as our traditions of forging of alliances, the joining of bloodlines, the securing of futures."

Pretty words, David thought. Silk wrapped around rot.

"Discretion, as always, is paramount. What happens within these walls remains within these walls. You have my word as a gentleman, and I expect the same discretion from each of you."

Around the room, men nodded. Some raised their glasses in approval. As though the man were speaking wisdom rather than dressing up human trafficking in velvet.

"And now." The auctioneer gestured toward a door at the side of the platform. "Our first prospect of the evening."

The door opened. A lass emerged—and lass was the only word for her. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, slight and dark-haired, with eyes too large for her sheet-white face. She walked to the center of the platform with small, careful steps, as though the floor might give way beneath her.

She didn't look at the crowd. Kept her gaze fixed on some point on the floor, her hands clasped in front of her so tightly David could see her knuckles bleaching white from across the room.

"Miss Arabella Fenwick," the auctioneer announced, circling her slowly. "Daughter of Lord Harold Fenwick of Northumberland. Seventeen years of age."

Seventeen. David's stomach turned.

"A gentle disposition." The auctioneer ticked off qualities on his fingers as he walked. "Accomplished in needlework, household management, and the feminine arts. Healthy constitution. Her father has graciously agreed to include a modest dowry with the winning bid."

He stopped beside her, close enough that the girl flinched.

"We'll begin at thirty pounds. Do I hear thirty?"

A hand went up near the front. An English lord, heavy-jowled and florid. "Thirty."

"Thirty pounds from Lord Ashworth. Do I hear thirty-five?"

Another hand. A man David didn't recognize. "Thirty-five."

"Forty," Ashworth countered immediately.

"Forty-five."

"Fifty."

The girl's breath had gone shallow. David could see her chest rising and falling too quickly, could see the way her fingers twisted together, white-knuckled, the only outward sign of the terror she was trying to contain.

"Fifty-five," someone called out.

"Sixty."

"Sixty-five."

A laugh from somewhere in the middle rows. "Ashworth's determined tonight!"

More laughter. The girl's eyes squeezed shut for just a moment. When they opened, they were wet.

"Sixty-five going once," the auctioneer called. "Going twice..."

"Seventy." Ashworth's voice was final, a warning to the other bidders. She's mine. Back away.