An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(10)

“You're coming with me, whether you come as a slave or a wife,” he finally said. “It makes no difference to me. Either way, you belong to me, and you have nothing with which to bargain.”

“Oh, but I do!” she said, an idea forming in her head. “I come from…” She paused.

Maybe it wasn't a good idea to tell him about her history, her link to the Royal Norwegian family. Maybe such knowledge would not bode her well after all. In fact, he might use it against her—

“Well?”

She sighed. She had no options. Nothing with which to bargain. As a slave or as a wife, she would be subject to his whims, no matter what they were. He could abuse her, take her to his bed, treat her in any manner he saw fit, and it wouldn't make a difference. Not only that, but she had no way of contacting her family in Norway. As far as they were concerned, she had probably been kidnapped and killed. It didn't matter that she had been on her way to—

“Come along then,” he said.

Once again, his hand wrapped around her wrist. Not too tightly, but enough to prevent her from attempting to once again bolt. With heavy steps, her heart thumping dully in her chest, she followed him up to the small church on the rise. Maybe she should tell him the truth. But that probably wouldn’t sway him, either. He had paid for her, probably with what little coin he had.

She cast a quick glance up at him. His gaze was focused on the church, his expression resolute, not glancing down at her, not likely caring that she had been on her way to a convent, sent there because she had refused to marry a man chosen by her father.

Dalla had been prepared to take vows of chastity, had resolved to never finding love, having a family of her own, growing old with someone who knew her soul. He probably wouldn't care that she was terrified, that she didn't want to marry him, that all she wanted, more than anything in the world, was to go back home.

None of those things were going to happen. She had been kidnapped. Who was behind it, she didn't know, but it didn't much matter, did it? She was here, having crossed the sea to arrive in Scotland. She didn't even know where in Scotland. All she knew about Scotland was that it was a land of rugged landscape and uncouth, lawless, and warring clans.

She had seen one Scotsman in her life before arriving on the shores of this dirty little village, and the sight that had held her eyes had terrified her. The man had sported wild, tangled long hair, a bushy beard, and heavy, bushy eyebrows. His teeth rotten, he had spoken a harsh, unintelligible language, but his hatred had shown in his dark brown eyes as he showered his Norwegian captors with curses.

As they neared the door of the church, a priest wearing a long, dark brown robe tied with a piece of rope stepped from its entrance. He watched the two approaching, expressionless. He, a man of God, would certainly save her and offer her sanctuary. Wouldn't he?

His hand still firmly gripping her wrist, her captor stopped before the priest and offered a nod.

“You need to marry us.”

The priest glanced from the highlander to her, then back again, offering a brief nod.

Dalla's eyes widened in surprise. No questions? Nothing? Then again, if such occurrences happened frequently in this godforsaken village, what was she to expect?

Her captor tugged her inside the small confines of the church, its bare plank walls broken by two narrow windows. Overhead, the thatched roof looked dry and dusty. Four long benches occupied each side of the interior. With increasing dread, she walked down the aisle between them toward a small table bearing a small wooden cross. A far cry from the beautiful chapel on her family's estate—

“Name,” the priest asked her captor, reaching for a large book situated in a small cubbyhole in the wall. He then withdrew a small bottle of ink and a quill.

“Hugh McInnis,” he said, watching as the priest scribbled his name with a quill dipped into a small ink bottle and wrote the name in the book.

The priest looked at her. “Name?”

She didn't answer.

The priest looked at Hugh was a lifted eyebrow and sighed. “Does she speak English?”

He nodded. “She does.” He turned to her, frowning. “Give the man your name.”

She thought it best not to test him much further. “Dalla. Dalla Jorstad.”

The priest scribbled her name beside that of her captor, Hugh.

She tried to turn her mind away from what was happening; to picture her home, the lush green of the fjords, the image of her mother's portrait, smiling. She'd always pretended that her mother could see her through that portrait, and that she smiled down at her with encouragement.

Dalla tuned out the droning voice of the priest as he said the words of holy matrimony, her mouth growing dry, her heart pounding, her head spinning.

And then, in a matter of moments, it was over. The priest extended the quill pen toward Hugh and he wrote his name, large and bold, at the bottom of the marriage decree. He then handed the quill to her. She didn't reach for it. Signing her name to that document would seal her fate.

“If you can't write your name, simply make a mark,” the priest said.

Dalla gave him an angry glare, then quickly prayed for forgiveness. He was a priest. Still, what kind of a priest would marry two people without even asking if she was willing? Even in a harbor town and port cities such as this, with prisoners and slaves arriving, shouldn't he question demands for quick marriages? Shouldn't he have even asked her whether she was willing?