The Bride Sale Read Free Page A

coax the raucous crowd to quiet. “Twen’y pounds from Big WillSykes,” he said at last. “Does I have any more bids, then?”
    The silence following the auctioneer’s question sliced through James’s gut like a French bayonet. Good Lord, what was wrong with him? He did not know this woman. He did not care what happened to her. It was none of his affair. If a young woman was about to be sold— sold , for God’s sake!—to the most repulsive man in all of Cornwall, then so be it. It was nothing to James.
    Still, she had not raised her head. She had no idea what fate awaited her. No idea at all. James wrenched his gaze from her and looked at the husband. The man had paled and looked as though he was about to be ill as he stared wide-eyed at Big Will. But he said nothing.
    It was time to leave. James had no wish to remain for the last act of this hideous little drama.
    But he could not seem to turn away.
    â€œNo more bids, then?” Moody repeated.
    A knot began to form in James’s stomach. His gaze raked the grinning, laughing crowd, whipped up by the wind and the excitement of the bidding like participants in some frenzied pagan ritual.
    He looked once more at the tethered woman, rigid and trembling before the impassioned mob.
    Damnation .
    â€œIf I has no more bids, then, the lady be sold—”
    â€œI’ll give one hundred pounds!”
    Â 
    A collective gasp rose from the crowd, followed by an ominous hush. Verity Osborne Russell looked up for the first time since mounting the plinth.
    The gathering in the market square appeared incongruously small compared to the monstrous horde she had imagined. She had seen them, of course, when Gilbert had first led her into the square. But once the halter had been placed around her neck, everything had changed. The crowd had swelled and swelled into a hostile, taunting mob. To acknowledge them would have been to acknowledge what was happening, which Verity could not bring herself to do. And so she had resolutely refused to look up.
    But she had felt thousands of sneering eyes raking her from head to toe, groping her with their prurient regard as surely as the auctioneer had with his wretched hands. And the rhythmic chanting had risen to such a pitch that Verity had felt herself shrinking beneath the enormous weight of that one hideous, united voice.
    And the ear-shattering din of a hundred metal drums. For one irrational moment, she had believed they might take those sticks and spoons and whatever else they used to pound their kettles and turn them on her. She had actually feared for her life.
    But Verity no longer interested them. All eyes had turned toward the tall, dark-haired man who stood at the back of the crowd. The man who had, apparently, just offered one hundred pounds for her.
    He placed a high-crowned black hat upon his head, and it served as some sort of signal to the crowd. They parted before him like the Red Sea before the staff of Moses. He did not move forward, but seemed to glare straight at Verity. An uncontrollable shiver of apprehension danced down her spine. Her moment of terror was not yet over.
    â€œWell, then,” the auctioneer said into the silence. No longer that of the eager, bantering pitchman, his voice had become hesitant, almost strained. “One hun’red pounds from Lord Harkness.”
    Lord Harkness? He was a titled gentleman? A nobleman? A small bubble of hope rose up in Verity’s chest. Perhaps he had come to put a stop to this unspeakable exhibition. Perhaps he was a true gentleman who was not about to allow this nightmare to continue. Perhaps he meant to bring Gilbert to his senses.
    But no. His unwavering gaze was fixed on her. Not on the rowdy crowd that had tormented her. Not on the loathsome auctioneer. Not on Gilbert. His interest was all on Verity. This nobleman was not her savior. He had bid on her. He meant to purchase her.
    â€œDon’t suppose any o’ the