Page 8 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

Silence.

"Seventy pounds to Lord Ashworth!" The auctioneer beamed. "An excellent choice, my lord. Miss Fenwick, if you'll step down."

The girl walked off the platform like she was walking to the gallows. Ashworth was already rising from his seat, moving toward the side room where the transactions would be completed. Where he would pay his seventy pounds and take possession of a seventeen-year-old girl like she was cattle he'd just purchased from the market.

David's jaw ached. He'd been clenching it without realizing.

"We should leave," Tristan said quietly.

"Soon."

"David—"

"I said soon."

Two more women followed. The bidding grew animated as wine loosened tongues and competition heated blood. Men shouted numbers like they were at a fair, laughing when they were outbid, cursing when prices climbed beyond what they were willing to pay.

David stood motionless through all of it, watching, his hands fisted at his sides.

He couldn't save them. Couldn't stop this. He was one man in a room full of wolves, and if he tried to intervene, he'd accomplish nothing except getting himself killed or arrested.

But he couldn't make himself leave either. Couldn't shake the image of pale green eyes and blood on a split lip.

Where is she?

The auctioneer clapped his hands again, calling for attention. "And now, gentlemen, a prize worthy of your finest offers."

David went still.

"Lady Elinor Royse, daughter of Lord Thomas Royse."

The crowd stirred with interest. David's attention sharpened.

He told himself this wasn't his concern. These weren't his people.

But those eyes. Large and shadowed by pain and almost pleading for him to rescue her.

He couldn't save them all. Couldn't stop this.

But maybe he could stop one.

She walked onto the platform with her head high, her spine straight as steel. The split on her lip had stopped bleeding, but he could still see the damage, a dark line against her pale skin. Her gown was fine, deep blue that brought out the color of her eyes, but there was a rigidity to her posture that spoke of barely contained fury rather than fear.

She did not look at the crowd. Did not acknowledge the men already leaning forward, assessing her like she was a mare they were considering for purchase. Instead, she fixed her gaze on some point beyond them all, her expression carved from ice.

David's chest tightened.

"Here we go," Tristan muttered.

The auctioneer began his speech. "Well-bred. Educated. Accomplished in all the feminine arts. Father willing to negotiate terms."

The crowd murmured, and David knew she had stirred the interest of more than one gentleman.

"We'll start the bidding at fifty pounds," the auctioneer announced.

A hand went up immediately. David recognized the crimson cloak. Langley.

"Sixty pounds," Langley said, his voice carrying across the hall.