An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(9)

“I'm not marrying you!” she snapped, trying to jerk her arm from his grasp. “I'm not marrying any filthy Scotsman—”

“Your mine now,” he reminded her. “Your shelter, your food, and your safety are up to me. And when we go back to the highlands, you can either come as my wife or my slave. Which is it?”





5





Dalla stared up at the rough-looking man, for the first time noticing his hazel eyes, flecked with specks of gold, the laugh lines at their edges, the way the sun glinted off his long brown hair.

He was muscular and burly with chiseled features, a wide nose, and strong jaw. He wasn't handsome, but he wasn't ugly, either. At the moment, his lips were frowning.

She wanted to bolt again, but he had threatened to leave her in the village, and she was smart enough to know that she had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, no one who would protect her. He had followed her after she'd run from him at the tavern, and he had confronted those disgusting, stinking sailors who had temporarily captured her. But who was going to protect her against him?

He hadn't hurt her, yet. But… but marry him? She shook her head. “Why? Why would you want to marry me?”

“I don't, not really, but the decision is yours. You come with me as my wife or as my slave.” He offered a slight shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”

“But… but you don't even know me! I don't know you! I'm Norwegian. Your Scottish. We're at war! It's not proper—”

He chuckled then, a deep, rumbling sound that started deep in his chest.

“Proper? Take a look around you, lass. You're a captive, sold into slavery by your captors. I bought you. You are mine to do with as I see fit. I'm giving you the opportunity to come with me as a decently married woman, one with the rights that marriage—”

“Pshaw!” she snapped. “Women have no rights, whether through marriage or not!” She pulled her arm from his grasp but remained rooted to the spot, arms akimbo, fists balanced on her hips now. “I may be a captive, but I am no fool!”

He stared at her. She stared back. What was he thinking? His features offered no hint as to his thoughts. As yet, he had not harmed her, but based on her experience, men only had so much patience. She could tell this one was running out of it. Still, her stubborn streak showed itself.

“I would not marry you if you were the last—”

“Fine then,” he interrupted, once again snatching at her wrist. His big hand enveloped her wrist and then some. “You belong to me anyway.”

She tried to resist his tug, tried to dig in her heels, to prevent him from turning and striding back toward the village. Panic engulfed her. She cast a quick gaze down at the village, the sea beyond, the uncertainty, the fear swelling inside her. What to do? What to do!

“No! Wait!” she stalled, trying to think.

He had to give her a minute to think! Since the moment that she'd been struck on the jaw, a burlap bag yanked over her head, then tossed over her kidnapper's shoulder, she had not been given a choice. About anything. Now she was. Not a good choice, but nevertheless a choice.

He stared at her, his gaze unwavering, waiting.

“A moment,” she sighed. “Please.”

Should she choose marriage to this complete stranger, this Scotsman, or slavery? Weren't they the same thing? She had never had a serious beau, had never experienced feelings of love, had never experienced true affection other than to Megan.

She had known women who'd gotten married. They were treated as less than men, to do what men wanted them to do without any say so. To her, marriage meant nothing more than a miserable life spent in close proximity to someone that you could not agree with, could not even respect. And yet what was her recourse? Slavery.

“What's the difference?” she grumbled.

His frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“Both of the choices you just gave me result in the same, at least as far as I am concerned,” she said, perhaps foolishly, but she was fast gaining the impression that he would not hurt her as long as she didn't push back too hard. At least not yet. Maybe, if she made his life miserable, he would choose to let her go. Maybe choosing to go wherever it was he was going as a slave would be a better option than being legally tied to him in marriage forever.

“Make your decision, woman,” he said, calmly.

He was growing impatient. Then again, she was a good Christian girl. The thought of going anywhere with a man, much less as a slave, to do whatever he chose with her—but he would have rights to do as he pleased if she became his wife as well. She grew frustrated and shook her head. “You are not giving me any choice!” she said, stomping her foot against the ground.

He lifted an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what other option would you suggest, considering that I purchased you legally, and I have a bill of sale stating such?”

She didn't know whether it was his amusement or if he was genuine, but what would it hurt to throw in a third option? “Perhaps we can make a deal?”

He grinned. “And what would you propose?”

Her mind went blank. She hadn't really considered… that he would actually even consider another option. What could she broach as a bargain? She was without rights, without a homeland, without any means of survival. What if—