Two Weeks Before the Auction

“Another letter from the Regent, me laird.”

David looked up from the ledger he’d been reviewing to find Malcolm standing in the doorway of his study, holding a sealed parchment. The royal crest was unmistakable—red wax stamped with the crown and thistle.

“Let me guess. Another invitation tae court that’s actually a summons in disguise.”

“I wouldnae ken, me laird. I havenae opened it.” But Malcolm’s expression suggested he had a pretty good idea of what it contained.

David set down his quill and held out his hand. “Let’s see what His Grace wants this time.”

The seal broke easily under his fingers. David unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the elegant script. With each line, his jaw tightened further.

Laird MacDonald,

His Majesty’s Regent, John Stewart, Duke of Albany, acting on behalf of King James V

David read it twice more, his anger building with each pass.

“Well?” Malcolm’s voice was carefully neutral. “What daes it say?”

“The Duke of Albany wants me tae marry an English bride of his choosin’.” David’s voice was flat. “And by ‘wants,’ I mean he’s all but commanded it.”

“Ah.” Malcolm moved into the study, closing the door behind him. “That’s… unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate.” David barked out a laugh with no humor in it. “That’s one word fer it. Controllin’. Presumptuous. Another attempt tae turn Highland lairds into obedient English puppets, those are other words fer it.”

“Ye could refuse.”

“Could I?” David stood, moving to the window. Below, the courtyard bustled with activity—guards training, servants going about their work, the normal rhythm of castle life. “The Regent ‘requests’ me presence. ‘Expects’ me cooperation. That’s nae a request, Malcolm. That’s an order wrapped in polite language.”

“What will ye dae?”

“I dinnae ken yet.” David’s hands curled into fists against the windowsill. “But I’ll be damned if I let the Duke choose me wife like I’m some pawn tae be moved around his political game board.”

“Ye’ve already been moved around his political game board,” Malcolm pointed out. “The Covenant saw tae that.”

The words hit harder than David cared to admit. The Covenant, that agreement forged when he was a boy, binding him to four other Highland lairds in brotherhood. It had shaped his entire life. His training. His education. His responsibilities.

He’d never had a choice in any of it.

And now the Crown wanted to take away another choice. The most personal choice a man could make.

“The Covenant was different,” David said, though even he didn’t believe it. “That was about alliance. Protection. Survivin’ in a hostile world.”

“And this isnae?”

“This is about control. About the Crown showin’ it can dictate terms even tae Highland lairds who’ve served him loyally fer years.” David turned from the window. “I willnae dae it. I willnae marry some English rose they’ve picked out just tae prove I’m obedient.”

“Then what’s yer alternative?” Malcolm’s voice was pragmatic. “Ye cannae just ignore a royal summons. And ye cannae refuse tae marry without consequence. The Duke will see it as defiance.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what it should be.”

“Me laird.” Malcolm’s tone turned serious. “I ken ye’re angry. Ye have every right tae be. But ye need tae think carefully about this. Ye’re nae just a man anymore. Ye’re Laird of Clan MacDonald. Every decision ye make affects hundreds of people who depend on ye.”

“I ken that.” David slumped back into his chair. “Ye think I dinnae ken that? Every day I make decisions that could mean life or death fer this clan. And I accept that responsibility. But this—” He gestured at the letter. “This is different. This is personal.”

“Personal decisions are still political decisions when ye’re a laird.”

“Then maybe I’m tired of being a laird.” The words came out before David could stop them.

Malcolm’s eyebrows rose. “Ye dinnae mean that.”

“Ye think?” David ran a hand through his hair. “What if I dae? What if I’m tired of every aspect of me life being dictated by duty and politics and what’s good fer the clan? What if I want something that’s just mine?”

“Like what?”

“Like the right tae choose me own wife. Or nae marry at all. Or—” He stopped, recognizing he was spiraling. “I just ken I’m tired of being controlled.”

Malcolm was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved to the chair opposite David’s desk and sat, something he rarely did without invitation.

“I’m going tae tell ye something ye might nae want tae hear,” the steward said. “But ye need tae hear it anyway.”

“Go on.”

“Ye’re nae tired of being controlled. Ye’re tired of being alone.” Malcolm held up a hand to forestall David’s protest. “Let me finish. Ye’ve been laird fer eight years. Eight years of makin’ every decision, carryin’ every burden, with nay one tae share the weight with. Yer maither’s gone. Yer faither’s gone. Even yer uncle, terrible as he was, is gone. Ye’ve got the Covenant braithers, aye, but they have their own clans, their own problems. And ye’ve got me and Tristan and the others, but we’re nae—”

“Nae family,” David finished quietly.

“Aye. Nae family. And I think part of ye wants that. Wants someone who’s just yers. Someone who chooses ye, nae because of yer title or yer clan or yer responsibilities, but because of ye.”

David stared at his steward, feeling uncomfortably seen. “When did ye become a philosopher?”

“I’ve been watchin’ ye fer eight years, me laird. Ye learn things.” Malcolm stood. “So here’s me advice, fer what it’s worth. Go tae Alnwick. Meet this lady the Crown has chosen. And if she’s terrible, if she’s completely unsuitable, then ye’ll have grounds tae refuse without seemin’ like ye’re just being defiant.”

“And if she’s nae terrible?”

“Then maybe ye’ll find what ye’re lookin’ fer.” Malcolm moved toward the door. “Either way, ye need to go. Ignorin’ the summons will only make things worse.”

After Malcolm left, David sat alone in his study, the Duke’s letter on his desk like an accusation.

A month. He had a month to figure out what to do.

He could go to Alnwick, meet this mystery bride, and hope she was unsuitable enough to give him a legitimate reason to refuse. But what if she wasn’t? What if she was perfectly pleasant and appropriate and everything a Highland laird’s wife should be?

Could he refuse her then? Could he look the Duke in the eye and say no, he wouldn’t marry the woman specifically chosen to tie him closer to England?

And what would the consequences be? For him. For his clan.

David stood and moved to the window again. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beautiful. Peaceful.

He’d protected the peace, the prosperity through careful politics, strategic alliances, and yes, sometimes through compromises that stuck in his throat.

But this felt different. This felt like one compromise too many.

A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. “Enter.”

Tristan stepped in, his expression concerned. “Malcolm said ye received another letter from the Crown.”

“Aye.” David gestured to the parchment on his desk. “Read it.”

Tristan picked up the letter, his expression growing darker with each line. When he finished, he set it down carefully, as though it might explode.

“Well,” he said finally. “That’s unfortunate.”

“That’s what Malcolm said.”

“Because it’s true.” Tristan moved to stand beside David at the window. “What are ye going tae dae?”

“I dinnae ken. Malcolm thinks I should go. Meet this woman. Hope she’s terrible.”

“And what dae ye think?”

David was quiet for a long moment. “I think I’m tired of being a good little laird who daes what he’s told. I think I’ve spent me entire life following rules set by other people. And I think maybe it’s time I made me own rules.”

“That’s a dangerous way tae think when dealin’ with kings.”

“Aye. It is.” David turned from the window. “But I mean it, Tristan. I’m done being controlled. By the Covenant. By politics. By the king. I’m done.”

“So what’s yer plan?”

“I dinnae have one yet. But I will.” David’s voice hardened with determination. “I’ll go tae Alnwick like the Regent wants. I’ll be polite and respectful. But I’ll nae marry whoever he’s chosen. I’ll find a way around it. I’ll find—”

He stopped, an idea beginning to form.

“What?” Tristan asked, recognizing the look on his friend’s face. “What are ye thinkin’?”

“The Duke wants me tae marry an English bride. That’s what he said in the letter, aye?”

“Aye.”

“But he dinnae specify which English bride.” David’s mind was racing now. “He said a lady of appropriate station. But that’s vague. That could be anyone.”

“David.” Tristan’s voice held warning. “What are ye plannin’?”

“I’m plannin’ tae give the Regent exactly what he asked for.” A smile—sharp and slightly reckless—crossed David’s face. “An English bride of appropriate station. Just nae the one he chose.”

“And how dae ye plan tae find this alternate bride in less than a month?”

“I dinnae ken yet. But I will.” David felt energy surge through him for the first time since receiving the letter. “I’ll find a way tae give the Duke what he wants while keepin’ control of me own choices. I just need tae think.”

“This is insane.”

“Probably.”

“Ye’re going tae cause a diplomatic incident.”

“Possibly.”

“And ye might end up making everything worse instead of better.”

“Aye. I might.” David turned to face his friend fully. “But I’d rather try and fail on me own terms than succeed at being obedient. I’ve been obedient me whole life, Tristan. And where has it gotten me? Alone. Controlled. Expected tae marry whoever the Regent thinks will be politically useful.”

“So ye’d rather marry a complete stranger of yer own choosin’ than a complete stranger of the king’s choosin’? How is that better?”

“Because it’s me choice.” David’s voice was fierce. “That’s how it’s better. If I’m going tae be forced intae marriage, at least let it be on me terms. At least let me choose the cage I’m walkin’ intae.”

Tristan studied him for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Ye’ve made up yer mind about this, havenae ye?”

“Aye. I have.”

“Then I suppose I’m coming with ye. Someone needs tae keep ye from daeing anything too stupid.”

“I thought ye said this whole plan was insane.”

“It is. But ye’re me laird and me friend. And if ye’re going tae dae something insane, ye’ll need backup.” Tristan’s smile was rueful. “Besides, this should at least be entertainin’.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They stood at the window together, watching darkness fall over Keppoch.

Maybe this wouldn’t work. Maybe he’d end up making everything worse. Maybe the Regent would be furious and there would be consequences David couldn’t predict.

But at least he’d be trying. At least he’d be fighting for some measure of control over his own life.

And sometimes, that was enough.

“So,” Tristan said after a while. “Any ideas where ye’re going tae find this English bride?”

“Nae yet. But I’ve got a month tae figure it out.” David’s smile turned slightly wild. “How hard can it be?”

Tristan just shook his head. “Ye’re going tae regret this.”

“Probably.” David looked at the letter on his desk one more time. “Right now, that’s worth more than playing it safe.”

He had no way of knowing, of course, that in two weeks’ time, he’d find himself at an auction near Berwick-upon-Tweed. That he’d see a woman with pale green eyes standing on a platform, bleeding and terrified but unbowed.

That he’d make the most impulsive decision of his life.

And that it would change everything.

But standing in his study on that evening, with the Duke’s letter burning a hole in his desk and defiance burning in his chest, David MacDonald made himself a promise.

Whatever happened, he would choose his own path. Make his own decisions. Control his own fate.

Even if it meant buying a bride at an auction. Even if it meant lying to the Crown. Even if it meant risking everything he’d built.

Because some things were worth the risk.

And freedom, true freedom, was one of them.

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