The Laird’s Masked Claim (Preview)
Chapter One
Inveraray Castle, 1593
“And I willnae have ye question me again,” Laird Malcolm MacDonald squeezed through clenched teeth.
Isobel MacDonald inclined her head very slightly, not in agreement but in acknowledgment, for she had long understood the futility of pressing her father when he had resolved upon silence. The carriage rolled on without pause, its wheels grinding against the rough road with a monotonous insistence that seemed to echo through the narrow space and settle uneasily in her chest. Within, the air was close and faintly oppressive, warmed too long by confinement and filled with the mingled scents of leather, wool, and the sharper note of his cologne, which she had always associated with formality rather than comfort.
She sat opposite him with the careful stillness of one accustomed to restraint. Her posture was straight despite the constant sway of the carriage, and her gloved hands were clasped together in her lap with more force than she intended. The leather pressed into her palms, but she did not loosen her hold. It was a small discipline, yet it steadied her.
Her father, for his part, seemed entirely occupied with the arrangement of his cuffs, or the precise fall of his coat, or anything, indeed, that did not require him to meet her gaze for longer than the briefest glance.
After some minutes, during which the silence grew not peaceful but strained, she spoke again. “Are ye going tae tell me where we are going, Faither?”
He did not answer immediately, and when he did, it was with the same measured calm that had marked his earlier rebuke. “Ye will understand soon enough.”
“That is nae an answer,” she returned, unable to keep a trace of sharpness from her voice.
“It is the only one ye require,” he said, and then, as if to close the matter entirely, he added. “Ye must remember tae conduct yerself properly. Dinnae forget yer place.”
The words were neither new nor unexpected, yet they fell with a weight that made her draw a slow breath and turn her gaze toward the small window at her side. Beyond it, the Highlands stretched into the dimming light, with their broad, shadowed slopes fading beneath a sky that had already begun to lose its color. There was a certain austere beauty in the scene, but it did little to ease the growing unease within her.
She had been summoned without notice, given no explanation for the journey, and expected, as always, to comply without question. That she had done so was less a mark of obedience than of habit, for she had never been permitted an alternative.
At that exact moment, the carriage began to slow, with the steady rhythm of its movement giving way to a more deliberate pace as the wheels passed from stone to gravel. Voices reached her then, faint and indistinct through the carriage walls, yet notably lacking in any tone of merriment. There was no music, no laughter, nothing to suggest the kind of gathering she had been led, however indirectly, to expect.
When the carriage came at last to a halt, the silence that followed struck her as peculiar. It was not the lively anticipation of arrival, but something more restrained, as though whatever waited beyond the door had been carefully arranged and did not permit disorder.
The door was opened, and a rush of cool evening air entered at once, clearing the oppressive warmth of the carriage and carrying with it the scent of damp stone and earth. Her father descended without so much as a glance in her direction, offering neither hand nor assistance. Isobel followed of her own accord, gathering her skirts and stepping down with as much composure as the uneven ground allowed.
Upon straightening, she lifted her gaze and found herself at once unsettled by what she saw.
There were men assembled before the entrance of Inveraray Castle, standing in quiet formation beneath the steady light of torches fixed along the stone walls. Their presence, in itself, was not remarkable, yet the absence of anything to soften it was. There were no women among them, no attendants or companions, no hint of the bustle or brightness that might attend a social gathering. The men stood apart from one another with a certain orderliness that bordered on severity, and more than a few bore arms in a manner that suggested readiness rather than ceremony.
“This… is a gathering?” she asked, turning slightly toward her father. “But… where are the ladies?”
He did not reply. Instead, he reached into his coat and withdrew an object which, upon being brought closer, she recognized with some surprise as a mask.
Before she could speak again, he placed it against her face and secured it with firm, practiced movements. The fabric was smooth and cool, and the ties drawn tighter than she found comfortable, so that she became at once acutely aware of her own breathing beneath it. The world beyond seemed subtly altered, her vision narrowed and her senses sharpened rather than eased.
“Why dae I require this,” she asked, unable now to disguise her unease, “if this is only some gathering?”
“Walk,” he ordered, and offered nothing further.
There was something so final and so entirely dismissive in his tone that made further protest seem not only useless but also dangerous. A chill, sharper than the evening air, passed through her, yet she moved forward as he had commanded, keeping pace without allowing herself to hurry.
As they entered the building, the impression of wrongness did not lessen. The interior was well lit, and the torches were arranged with careful symmetry along the walls. Despite that, the light did not warm the space as it ought to have. The air carried the scent of wax and stone, with a faint metallic note beneath it that she could not at once place. There was no music here either, and no murmur of polite conversation usually present during merry social gatherings.
They were stopped almost immediately by a man whose manner was neither welcoming nor deferential. He regarded Isobel with a frankness that bordered on intrusion, and his gaze was moving over her in a way that made her shoulders stiffen beneath it.
“Her age?” the man asked, without so much as a glance in Isobel’s direction.
“Four and twenty,” her father replied.
“And her name?”
“Lady Isobel MacDonald, of Dunnyveg.”
The man’s pen moved swiftly across the page. “Lineage?”
“Daughter of Laird Malcolm MacDonald and Lady Morag MacDonald.”
A pause, brief but deliberate. “Any kent infirmities?”
“None.”
“Disposition?”
Her father hesitated only a fraction. “Manageable.”
Isobel’s fingers tightened in her gloves.
The man inclined his head slightly, as though the answer satisfied him, and continued without looking at her. “Education?”
“Sufficient.”
“Health?”
“Sound.”
Then came the question that made her breath catch entirely.
“Is she untouched?”
The heat that rose to her face was immediate and fierce. “How dare—?”
“Aye,” her father replied, without the slightest pause.
The word seemed to strip the moment of any remaining dignity. Isobel felt the force of it like a blow, not for its content alone but for the ease with which it was given. The man who had asked merely nodded and made a mark upon his parchment, as though nothing of consequence had been said.
Another stepped closer and lifted his hand toward her in an effort to touch a lock of her hair. The presumption of it and the sheer audacity, broke through the last of her restraint. She caught his wrist before he could touch her, in a grip that was swift and unyielding.
“Dinnae ye dare touch me,” she snarled.
He looked at her with surprise, then amusement. “A spirited one,” he remarked.
She tightened her hold, prepared to make her displeasure felt more clearly.
“Enough.” Her father’s voice cut through the moment with sudden authority.
“Release him, Isobel,” he gave another order. “Ye will dae yer duty.”
The word struck her with a force that went beyond the immediate insult.
Duty.
It had been invoked so often, in so many forms, that it had come to stand for obedience without question, and sacrifice without acknowledgment.
For an instant, she held the man’s wrist still, feeling her anger warring with the knowledge of what defiance would cost her. Then, with visible reluctance, she let go. The man withdrew with a darkening expression on his face, while another stepped forward to pin a small piece of cloth to the front of her gown. Isobel glanced down, and her breath stilled.
A number.
The significance of it did not at once present itself, yet something in her recoiled instinctively.
“Nay,” she said under her breath, though she could not yet have explained precisely why.
Her father did not look at her. He gave only a brief, subtle signal. Two guards moved toward her at once. Their hands closed around her arms, firm and unyielding, and the shock of it broke through her composure entirely. She pulled back, instinctively resisting.
“Unhand me.”
They did not comply.
She twisted against them, her heart beginning to pound in earnest. “Faither—”
He turned then, and for the first time since their arrival, met her gaze fully. There was no hesitation in his expression.
“Ye willnae shame me,” he spoke, as if speaking to a wild animal that could or could not understand him fully.
And with that, he left her. He did not linger, did not offer explanation or reassurance. He simply turned and walked away, his figure receding into the ordered stillness as though she were already no longer his concern.
The sense of betrayal struck her with a force that momentarily eclipsed even her anger. That he had brought her here under false pretenses was one thing, but that he would abandon her to whatever purpose this place served was quite another.
The guards tightened their hold.
“Move,” one of them barked.
She resisted still, though the effort availed her nothing. Each step forward was taken against her will, while her questions remained unanswered and her protests ignored. The corridor ahead seemed to stretch longer than it ought. Everything about it felt wrong: the light was too bright, the air too close.
At last, they came to a set of doors, which were opened without ceremony. Light spilled through, stronger than before, illuminating a space beyond that seemed, at first glance, orderly to the point of severity.
They brought her across the threshold, and there she saw it.
A line of women stood before her, each masked as she was, each marked in the same manner, and each held in a stillness that spoke not of composure but of constraint. They were arranged with a care that suggested display rather than welcome, while their presence was acknowledged only by the men who stood apart from them, observing the sight in silence.
Understanding came not gradually, but all at once, like a tidal wave. Isobel ceased struggling, not from surrender but from clarity. The pieces fell into place with terrible precision: the questions, the number, the absence of women unmarked, the presence of men who did not mingle but watched.
This was no gathering. This was no masquerade. It was something far more deliberate, and far crueler.
An auction.
And she, unmistakably, was among those to be claimed.
Chapter Two
“Bring the lady forward,” said one of the attendants, with a civility so smooth and practiced that it made the command beneath it more offensive than rudeness could have done.
Isobel had barely time to draw herself up before the guards on either side of her obeyed. Their hands remained at her arms with sufficient firmness to remind her that every step she took was permitted only because it was in the direction chosen for her.
She was brought from the shadowed side of the hall toward the raised platform at its far end, where three other women already stood beneath the steady blaze of torches. Each was masked as she was and each was marked upon the breast with a number pinned so carefully it was insulting.
The stage itself was not high. A few inches of polished wood were enough to separate those who were observed from those who observed.
One of the women beside her made a sound so slight it might have been mistaken for a caught breath. Isobel turned her head. The woman nearest her was trembling. Her mask concealed much, yet not enough, for fear had a language that no silk could fully silence. Isobel felt an immediate compassion for her. It was almost a relief to be useful to another, if only for the span of a whispered sentence.
“Dinnae look at them too long,” Isobel murmured, scarcely moving her lips. “Choose one place upon the wall and keep yer eyes there. Breathe slowly, if ye can.”
The woman turned a little toward her, and though no answer came, the trembling seemed to pause in surprise.
“It is only a room full of men,” Isobel continued, with more courage in her voice than she possessed in her heart. “They arenae improved by being numerous.”
The woman gave the smallest broken breath that might, in kinder circumstances, have become a laugh. The moment was not allowed to last.
“Ye,” said the attendant sharply.
Before Isobel could answer, his hand closed about her upper arm and drew her back into position. He did not use enough force to hurt her, which somehow made it worse.
“We dinnae encourage conversation during presentation,” he said, in a tone meant for the hall as much as for her. “Though this one appears tae have brought a ready tongue with her.”
A few men below responded with subdued amusement.
The attendant’s eyes moved over her mask and gown with an air of professional consideration. “Some gentlemen prefer spirit, I am told, but too much of it may prove troublesome in a household.”
There was another ripple of laughter. Isobel felt the blood rise warmly beneath her mask. Her first impulse was to reply, yet she also knew the danger of granting these men the entertainment they expected. A woman could be called spirited until she spoke, and then, with astonishing speed, the same quality would be named insolence.
“Forward,” a man ordered.
Isobel obeyed. The hall beneath her appeared at first as a pattern of dark cloth, pale linen, leather belts, weapons, and shadowed faces. Some of the men wore masks, and others had come with their faces uncovered, either from arrogance or assurance that secrecy, in this place, was provided by rank rather than disguise. A few seemed uneasy, though not uneasy enough to leave.
As her sight adjusted, fragments of recognition began to gather. A man she had once seen at a kirk door, speaking to her father with a hand upon his sword. Another whose name had been mentioned at Dunnyveg in connection with ships, debts, and disputed loyalties. This was not a gathering of idle suitors. It was a council of powers, and there was a careful absence of feeling.
Then her gaze found a man standing somewhat apart from the rest, and all other impressions receded.
Laird Ruaridh MacLean.
Even masked in part by distance and torch-shadow, he could not be mistaken. There was a stillness about him unlike the stillness of the others.
Broad, dark, and severe, he seemed made of the same hard elements as the western coasts over which his name was spoken with fear. His image had been shaped in her mind long before this night: MacLean of Duart, the Wolf of the Western Isles, heir to old violence, keeper of blood-debts, lord of men who had taken her brothers from the world and left her father with nothing but bitterness to spend upon his remaining child.
Of all men, she thought, it had tae be him.
She looked away at once, then found that looking away did not free her from the knowledge of him. She knew where he stood as surely as if a thread had been drawn from him to the place where her heart beat too quickly beneath her bodice.
An official stepped forward with a parchment in hand. He waited until the last murmur in the hall faded.
“Me lairds,” he said, “the next presentation is entered under the authority granted for settlement of claim and pledge. The lady’s house and qualifications have been recorded. Bidding shall proceed without disruption. All offers, once accepted, shall bind the claimant before the witnesses of the Crown.”
The witnesses of the Crown.
Isobel nearly laughed, though there was no mirth in her. The Crown, then, had not dirtied its own hands, yet had sent clean gloves for others to wear while they did it.
The official glanced down. “Number seven.”
Her number.
She did not need to look to know it.
“Lady of Clan Donald,” the official continued. “Daughter tae Laird Malcolm MacDonald of Dunnyveg.”
The name of her father, spoken publicly, struck her with renewed force. She searched then, despite herself, but he was not there. He had not merely handed her over. He had deprived her of even the chance to accuse him with her eyes.
The official folded the parchment slightly. “Offers may be declared.”
There was a pause. Then, a voice rose from the hall.
“I make claim.”
The words were not shouted. They did not need to be. The speaker possessed the confidence of a man accustomed to being heard without exertion, and Isobel knew him before the official named him.
“Laird Ewen MacDonald of Sleat,” came the reply. “State pledge.”
Ewen.
A chill passed through her. Ewen MacDonald was of her broader kin by name and blood. It was one thing to have feared being given to a stranger. It was another to hear herself claimed by a man whose cruelty had been made familiar by rumor long before his voice entered the room.
His pledge was named: land, loyalty, silence, influence. The exact arrangement mattered little to her, though each term seemed another stone added to the wall closing around her. The official repeated it for the record. Another man marked it down.
Until then some remnant of hope, irrational though it had been, had survived in her, that perhaps her father meant only to frighten her into some agreement already chosen. But Ewen’s claim severed the last of such comforts. She was being sold.
“An initial claim is entered,” the official announced. “Daes any lord counter?”
The hall held its breath. Then, a voice answered.
“I counter.”
Men turned their heads without appearing to do so too quickly. The official lifted his eyes with the first sign of interest he had shown all evening.
“Laird Ruaridh MacLean of Duart.”
Only then did Isobel look. Ruaridh had not moved forward, yet the space around him seemed clearer than before. He spoke his pledge in a voice low enough to preserve the decorum of the hall and strong enough to command every ear within it.
He had countered Ewen… for her.
A strange and unwelcome sensation passed through her. It was not relief. It was rather a fresh horror, made sharper by confusion. Why would the Wolf of the Western Isles raise his hand for a MacDonald daughter unless he meant to make punishment of possession?
Ewen’s voice came again. “I increase.”
Ruaridh answered. “I increase.”
She had the peculiar sensation of being both entirely central to the event and wholly absent from it. Every word concerned her, and no word was required of her.
Ewen stepped forward. “Ye are generous, MacLean, fer a prize ye cannae want.”
The official’s gaze sharpened, but he did not interrupt.
Ruaridh’s answer came evenly. “Still, I shall yield naething tae ye.”
A sound moved through the room, not laughter now but recognition of insult elegantly kept within bounds.
Isobel’s pulse quickened despite herself.
Ewen’s face darkened, though he mastered it quickly. “Ye would take a MacDonald woman intae Duart?”
“I would take what I claim.”
The words struck her with immediate dislike.
What I claim.
Her anger, which fear had nearly displaced, returned with such force that it steadied her. She fixed her gaze upon Ruaridh then, and though she could not know whether he saw the full hatred in her eyes through the mask, she hoped he did.
The official intervened before the exchange could sharpen further. “All claims proceed by pledge. Personal challenge is forbidden within this hall.”
Ewen inclined his head. “Then record mine.”
He gave another offer, greater than the last.
Ruaridh countered. “And mine.”
The official repeated the pledge. The scribe wrote. The room seemed to lean toward the conclusion.
“Final counter is received,” the official announced.
The words rang with dreadful neatness.
“Laird Ewen MacDonald of Sleat,” he continued, “dae ye advance?”
The hall waited. Ewen’s eyes did not leave Ruaridh. For the first time, his composure showed a fracture small enough that only those who looked closely might see it.
“Nay advance is entered,” the official concluded after a silence. “The claim is awarded tae Laird Ruaridh MacLean of Duart by pledge witnessed and accepted.”
The words did not fall loudly. They did not need to. They settled over her with all the permanence of a sentence pronounced.
There were more formalities after that. She knew because mouths moved and parchment changed hands. Yet the meaning had already been delivered in full.
She had been sold. And he had bought her.
For several seconds, Isobel could not move at all. She felt the weight of the mask against her face. She could barely breathe.
Then Ruaridh MacLean began to walk toward the stage. The crowd parted. Men always stepped aside for power more readily than for virtue. Nearer now, he seemed even larger than he had from below, his presence carrying the harshness of sea-wind and iron though he wore neither armor nor open blade. He stopped before her.
“Me lady,” he told her.
The address was correct. His tone was not unkind. Both facts enraged her.
“Dinnae call me that,” she hissed.
Something unreadable passed through his expression. “Would ye prefer yer number?”
The words were quiet enough not to carry far, and for that reason they shocked her more. There was no mockery in them, or if there was, it was directed at the proceeding rather than at her. She did not wish to notice the distinction.
“I would prefer nae tae be here.”
“Aye,” he nodded. “That I believe.”
It was the first human sentence she had heard from any man in that room, and she resented him for being the one to speak it.
He extended his hand toward her arm. She stepped back. The movement was small, but the reaction below was immediate. The attendant who had earlier scolded her took half a step forward, prepared, perhaps, to remind her how little dignity remained at her disposal.
Ruaridh did not turn. “Leave her.”
The attendant stopped. Isobel noticed it despite herself.
Ruaridh’s eyes remained on hers. “We are leaving.”
He offered no hand this time. He took her arm, not roughly, but with a steadiness that allowed no illusion of escape. His grip was firm, warm through the fabric of her sleeve, and she felt the strength in it as one felt a locked door in the dark. She tried to pull free once, sharply, and he held her without tightening his fingers.
“Dinnae make them touch ye again,” he urged quietly.
She looked toward the guards, then to the attendant, then to the room of watching men. He was right again, and she despised that. She allowed him to guide her toward the steps. As they passed the place where Ewen stood, Isobel did not look at him, but she felt his attention like cold fingers at the back of her neck.
“MacLean,” Ewen spoke.
Ruaridh did not stop.
“Ye have purchased trouble,” Ewen added.
Ruaridh led her on. The doors opened ahead of them, and cooler air entered from the corridor beyond. Only then did Isobel understand how hot the hall had been. She drew in the fresher air as if she had been drowning.
But relief did not come. The door closed behind them with a deep, final sound. Ruaridh released her arm and Isobel stepped away at once, turning to face him.
“Ye willnae touch me again. And if ye think I shall thank ye fer outbidding Ewen MacDonald, ye are a greater fool than I was raised tae believe.”
“I dinnae expect gratitude.”
“Then ye possess one virtue.”
“Only one?”
The question was dry, almost careless, and for a moment she stared at him, unable to believe he had chosen wit in such a circumstance.
“Ye find this amusing?”
“Nay.”
It was then, with a clarity more terrible than panic, that she understood the true nature of her helplessness. No chain had been placed upon her wrists. No blade was at her throat. She could speak, she could stand, she could refuse in every manner that pride allowed, and still the world around her had already agreed upon the result.
The corridor opened toward the night as they continued walking. Cold air moved through the archway ahead, carrying the smell of rain, river, and stone. The ordinary sounds of departure awaited them, indifferent to the extraordinary ruin of her life.
Ruaridh stopped at the threshold and looked back at her.
“Ye may lead me from this place,” she said, “but dinnae mistake silence fer surrender.”
His gaze held hers. “I wouldnae make so poor a mistake with ye.”
The answer unsettled her almost as much as the rest, for it was neither mockery nor command, and she had been prepared for both.
Then he stepped into the night, and because the world had left her no kinder choice, Isobel followed the man she hated out of Inveraray, carrying with her the certainty that whatever had been taken from her that evening, her will would not be among it.
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