An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(7)

As it was, she slammed into her… her buyer's back.

He felt hard, huge and muscular.

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Instinctively it seemed, he wrapped his arm around her, catching her, keeping her on her feet while he growled to the man who had obviously attempted to trip her.

“You want to lose that foot?”

Again, the words were spoken quietly, but with such an underlying threat that once again, the boisterous group quieted.

One hand wrapped around her shoulder now, he guided her out of the tavern. She cringed at his touch, but blindfolded, allowed him to guide her outside.

Once they stepped outside and the smells of the men inside was replaced by the smells of the docks, the harbor, and the sea, she felt the blindfold being removed from her eyes.

She squinted against the brightness and ducked her face, but almost unbidden, then turned to look up at the man who had just bought her.

Their eyes locked as her head tilted upward, her head barely reaching his chest.

And then, as if suddenly realizing that she was no longer bound, she bolted.





4





For several moments, Hugh watched, bemused, as the lass lifted her tattered skirt and fled down the cobbled street, passersby staring with wide eyes as she flashed a bit of ankle and small, dainty slippers.

They looked from the fleeing woman to Hugh, the structure behind him, then either snorted, shook their heads, turned and spat, or otherwise went about their business.

Where did she think she was going to go? Who did she think was going to help her? The port town was a dangerous place for a woman, let alone an unaccompanied one. With a sigh, he turned to trail her, following the flash of her simple pale blue cote, parts of her cream-colored chemise showing through several tears in the cote's skirt as she disappeared through a narrow cut between two buildings a short distance away.

She had nerve.

He started to laugh, but then realized to the fullest what he had just done. He had bought a human being.

What had compelled him to take pity on any of those women? The Norwegians and the Scots were at war. He'd just happened to be in the tavern when they were brought in. He'd been startled at first, but then he'd seen her, a petite woman a head shorter than the rest, but standing taller than any of them.

Was it because of the way she'd lifted her chin in wordless defiance? Was it her long, blonde hair, that thick braid draping over her shoulder that reminded him so much of… or was it her beauty, which was not difficult to see beneath her dirt-smudged face, her dirty gown, nevertheless a bit finer than the plain homespun of a peasant.

He paused at the entry of the alley through which she had disappeared, picking up his pace to a slow trot. She was headed toward the pier, but she would find no help there.

Seconds later a cacophony of shouts and a broken off scream prompted him to pick up his pace.

He took a turn at the back of the alley and behind the wooden storehouses, weaving his way between stacks of crates and wooden barrels until the alley opened up into the docks by the shore. It stank of dead fish and aromas of foreign and exotic spices and dried meats from who knew where.

Two ships were docked nearby, their ropes creaking, furled sales flapping gently in the breeze coming off of the ocean. The water in the harbor was fairly calm, lapping gently at the shoreline and pier.

A short distance ahead, he saw her, captured in the arms of a sailor around her waist, two of his cronies gathering around, all reaching out to touch her hair, her face, her—

“Let me go, you filthy dogs!”

She struggled mightily, swinging her arms, her tiny hands balled into fists. One of those small fists managed to strike the nose of the man who held her, resulting in a startled shout, and a resulting burst of laughter. Her feet lashed out too, and the heel of one foot stomped down hard on top of the foot of the sailor touching her hair.

“Don't touch me, you dirty Scot!”

Hugh paused only a moment before he approached the trio of sailors. “Release her. She belongs to me.”

He spoke quietly, but firmly.

The men, and of course, his new… whatever she was, turned to stare at him.

Everyone froze for several seconds, before she started to struggle again and the sailor, arms still wrapped tightly around her waist, lifted her off her feet to avoid her kicking legs.

“Let me go!” she grunted with exertion, twisting and bucking in his grasp.

One of the other sailors laughed, stepping between his friend and Hugh. “If she belongs to you, why is she running away from you?”

“That is no matter of yours,” Hugh said. “Give her to me.”

He reached out a hand though he knew that they wouldn't relinquish their prize quite so easily. He turned his attention to the young woman, for the first time getting a good look at her.

Her eyes were ice blue, almost gray, her dark pupils dilated with furious emotion. A small nose, nostrils flared, also from emotion. Her lips slightly open, displaying white, healthy teeth. Even held tightly against her new captor, she struggled, twisting this way and that, her braid swinging with her movements. Her hands, still balled into fists, continued to strike out.

He couldn't tell how old she was, but she was a fierce little thing, and she wasn't afraid of fighting, wasn't afraid of the ramifications for doing so, he determined then and there that no matter what happened, she was going to be a handful. He took a step forward, his head slightly lowered, glaring at the man who stood between them.