The Bride Sale (2 page)

Brought up short by the absurdity of such a harsh appraisal, James chuckled mirthlessly to himself. Who was
he
to question a man's honor? What right did
he
have to pass judgment on another man's treatment of his wife? So what if the young man was prepared so casually to abandon her? So what if he decided to humiliate her in so public a fashion? So
what if he was imbecile enough not to realize how lucky he was to have her, and how empty a man's life could be without a wife by his side? So what? It was nothing to James. It was no concern of his.

“Wot 'bout Big Will?” a female voice shouted. “He could use a wife, an' fer certain ain't no one else'd have him!”

The crowd erupted in laughter once again. James followed a sudden movement toward the opposite edge of the square, where the hulking figure of Will Sykes, Gunnisloe's smithy, stood staring at the harnessed woman on the plinth. His beefy arms—bare to the shoulder and covered with thick black hair, soot, grease, and God only knew what else—were crossed over his broad chest.

“How 'bout it, Big Will?” Moody said as several men pushed the huge man forward. “Wot else yer gonna spend yer blunt on? Here be a nice, soft female jus' waitin' fer yer tender touch.”

The blacksmith glared slack-jawed at the young woman, who kept her eyes averted. Big Will Sykes had lived in Gunnisloe his entire life and had always been a competent blacksmith. But his size, his general lack of intellect, and his peculiar notions of personal hygiene had made him the butt of local jokes for years. The women teased him from afar, but none would go near him.

“Wot says 'ee, Will?” old Moody cajoled. “A woman of yer own at last. A real lady, too.”

Big Will licked his lips and James felt a momentary tightening of his stomach. Did he pity the woman? Did he care? No. He did not. It was none of his concern what happened to her. It was none of his con
cern if the young husband happened to be a cad of the first degree, who allowed his wife to be ogled by that great slobbering animal, and who was ready to toss away his responsibilities to the highest bidder. Was James so confident of his own sense of honor? Did he honestly believe that he was himself incapable of such perfidy?

What a foolish notion, when he was in fact guilty of much more.

Urged on by the other men, Big Will edged closer to the plinth.

“She be yers fer twen'y pounds,” Moody said. “A bargain she be, too. God knows 'ee won't never do no better.”

“That be a lotta money,” Big Will said, shaking his large head slowly side to side.

“Ah, but not fer the likes of 'ee, Will,” Moody replied. “Got plen'y of the ready stashed away, 'ee does. Make decent money at forge. And all the district knows 'ee ain't spent a ha'penny in years. Besides, look at her, man.
Look
at her!”

Big Will continued to stare while the women in the crowd snickered and began beating their tin kettles once again. “Will! Will! Will!” the men shouted in time to the banging kettles. Will turned to the crowd and grinned, obviously pleased at being the center of attention.

“Will! Will! Will!”

The square throbbed with the hellish din until James could feel it through the soles of his boots.

“Will! Will! Will!”

With each shout and clang of kettles, the crowd surged forward slightly, closing in on the plinth.
More revelers entered the square and James was jostled from behind. He had to scramble to keep his balance as the mob continued to push, push, push ahead in rhythm with the pounding of kettles and the pulse of a hundred chanting voices.

“Will! Will! Will!”

The big man nodded at last and turned to the auctioneer. Old Moody held up his hand for silence, and the kettle banging gradually ceased.

“Aw right,” Will said in his thick, toneless voice. He continued to leer at the woman who stood as still as Lot's wife. She had not raised her head once during all the commotion. “Twen'y quid, then.”

Cheers and laughter rose from the crowd, and were soon drowned out by more kettle banging. James looked around him, astonished that these people, many of whom he'd known his entire life, were so eager to see this unknown, unsuspecting young woman thrust into the filthy, beefy arms of Will Sykes. They were going to let it happen; in fact, they were encouraging it to happen with no little enthusiasm.

James's glance darted between the woman and her husband. She stood ramrod straight against the rising wind, her head still bent down. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, their trembling the only outward sign of her anguish. Rarely had James witnessed such courage, even on the battlefields of Spain. And the wretched husband was going to let this thing happen. The young fool made no move to stop it.

It took Jud Moody some minutes to coax the raucous crowd to quiet. “Twen'y pounds from Big Will
Sykes,” he said at last. “Does I have any more bids, then?”

The silence following the auctioneer's question sliced through James's gut like a French bayonet. Good Lord, what was wrong with him? He did not know this woman. He did not care what happened to her. It was none of his affair. If a young woman was about to be sold—
sold
, for God's sake!—to the most repulsive man in all of Cornwall, then so be it. It was nothing to James.

Still, she had not raised her head. She had no idea what fate awaited her. No idea at all. James wrenched his gaze from her and looked at the husband. The man had paled and looked as though he was about to be ill as he stared wide-eyed at Big Will. But he said nothing.

It was time to leave. James had no wish to remain for the last act of this hideous little drama.

But he could not seem to turn away.

“No more bids, then?” Moody repeated.

A knot began to form in James's stomach. His gaze raked the grinning, laughing crowd, whipped up by the wind and the excitement of the bidding like participants in some frenzied pagan ritual.

He looked once more at the tethered woman, rigid and trembling before the impassioned mob.

Damnation
.

“If I has no more bids, then, the lady be sold—”

“I'll give one hundred pounds!”

 

A collective gasp rose from the crowd, followed by an ominous hush. Verity Osborne Russell looked up for the first time since mounting the plinth.

The gathering in the market square appeared incongruously small compared to the monstrous horde she had imagined. She had seen them, of course, when Gilbert had first led her into the square. But once the halter had been placed around her neck, everything had changed. The crowd had swelled and swelled into a hostile, taunting mob. To acknowledge them would have been to acknowledge what was happening, which Verity could not bring herself to do. And so she had resolutely refused to look up.

But she had felt thousands of sneering eyes raking her from head to toe, groping her with their prurient regard as surely as the auctioneer had with his wretched hands. And the rhythmic chanting had risen to such a pitch that Verity had felt herself shrinking beneath the enormous weight of that one hideous, united voice.

And the ear-shattering din of a hundred metal drums. For one irrational moment, she had believed they might take those sticks and spoons and whatever else they used to pound their kettles and turn them on her. She had actually feared for her life.

But Verity no longer interested them. All eyes had turned toward the tall, dark-haired man who stood at the back of the crowd. The man who had, apparently, just offered one hundred pounds for her.

He placed a high-crowned black hat upon his head, and it served as some sort of signal to the crowd. They parted before him like the Red Sea before the staff of Moses. He did not move forward, but seemed to glare straight at Verity. An uncontrollable shiver of apprehension danced down her spine. Her moment of terror was not yet over.

“Well, then,” the auctioneer said into the silence. No longer that of the eager, bantering pitchman, his voice had become hesitant, almost strained. “One hun'red pounds from Lord Harkness.”

Lord
Harkness? He was a titled gentleman? A nobleman? A small bubble of hope rose up in Verity's chest. Perhaps he had come to put a stop to this unspeakable exhibition. Perhaps he was a true gentleman who was not about to allow this nightmare to continue. Perhaps he meant to bring Gilbert to his senses.

But no. His unwavering gaze was fixed on her. Not on the rowdy crowd that had tormented her. Not on the loathsome auctioneer. Not on Gilbert. His interest was all on Verity. This nobleman was not her savior. He had bid on her. He meant to purchase her.

“Don't suppose any o' the rest of 'ee can outbid His Lordship, eh?” the auctioneer said. After only the briefest of pauses, he continued. “The lady be sold, then, to Lord Harkness fer the gen'rous sum o' one hun'red pounds.”

Sold
.

A renewed and heart-pounding panic engulfed her. She had been sold. Sold.

The word reverberated in her head, louder than the crash of ten thousand metal drums, overpowering everything that had gone before.
Sold
.

It was impossible. This was the nineteenth century, for God's sake. Such things simply did not happen in these modern times, in this modern, enlightened Britain. Did they?

And yet she had just been sold. Like a horse at Tat
tersall's. Like a bonnet in a milliner's window or a sweetmeat from a confectioner. Like a slave.

Verity heard Gilbert's sigh of relief behind her. She had been sold and her husband was relieved. Was it because he was rid of her at last? Because he could now turn her over to a nobleman instead of the local blacksmith? Because he would receive one hundred pounds for her rather than a mere twenty?

It did not matter. Nothing about Gilbert mattered anymore.

Verity concentrated on the dark stranger now advancing through the crowd. The hat shadowed his face, so she was unable to get a good look at him. But something in the way he moved was arresting—an almost threatening kind of animal grace, an imperious arrogance. The unnerving silence of the crowd gave way to hushed whisperings as he walked toward the plinth. Those he passed watched him with eyes wide and mouths agape, stepping back as though afraid to get too close. Neighbor nudged neighbor and whispered in each other's ears. Children clung to their parents. Some pointed and giggled nervously.

The man ignored their reactions and strode ahead with a haughty arrogance that implied they had every right to be afraid.

Verity watched his maddeningly slow approach and every muscle in her already tense body tightened until she began to quiver like a bow string. She made a tiny, instinctive movement toward Gilbert—but her husband was no longer available to her. He never had been, really. Whatever tenuous ties bound
them had been loosened the moment he put the halter around her neck, then severed completely with the single word “sold.”

Verity clenched her hands tighter, locked her elbows and knees in an attempt to control her body. But the tighter she held herself, the more she trembled. She could not stop shaking.

The man continued his slow progress through the square. She overheard several muffled exclamations of “Lord Heartless!” But surely the auctioneer had called him Harkness. It was only her own anxiety that twisted the name into something more sinister.

But, dear Lord, how the people seemed to fear him. Who was he? And was she truly to be turned over to him like some prime bit of horseflesh, to this strange man who seemed to strike terror in the hearts of those who knew him?

Sold.

She could not stop the trembling. It overtook her completely: down into her belly until she felt queasy, and up into her throat so that she could not seem to swallow. She tried to stop it, to hold herself still, but it only seemed to get worse. Every muscle was held so taut she began to feel the sticky dampness of perspiration from the effort. Her petticoat clung to her legs and a trickle of moisture inched down the back of her neck. The wind against her damp skin chilled her. And still she trembled. Her whole body shook uncontrollably. She could not seem to stop it.

She must get hold of herself. She must not show her fear to this man, for perhaps he was one of those men who thrived on it. With slow, jerky movements, she reached up and grabbed the edges of her cloak
and pulled it close about her, twisting her hands into the fabric to disguise their shaking.

When he reached the plinth, Verity saw the man's face clearly for the first time. It was harsh and angular and frowning. Heavy black brows beetled over intense blue eyes that skewered her to the spot, rapier sharp. When at last he jerked his glance away toward Gilbert, Verity let out a ragged breath. Her heart thundered in her ears. Surely he would hear it and know her fear.

“Are you the husband?” he asked in a deep, cultured voice.

She heard a shuffling movement behind her. “Yes.”

“You wish to be rid of your wife?”

“Yes.”

A wave of white-hot anger swept through Verity at that moment, almost smothering her fear. If she could have managed it, Verity would like to have swung around and slapped her husband full across the face. How dare he wish to be rid of her? It was not as though she had ever wanted him. Their marriage had been arranged by their fathers before they had even laid eyes on each other. If truth be told, during these last two interminable years she had often wished to be rid of Gilbert. But
she
had not been allowed to do so, simply because she wished it.

“You will sell her to me for one hundred pounds?” the dark man asked.

Gilbert moved forward so that he was standing beside Verity. Without moving, she slanted her eyes toward him. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his fair hair.

“Well, as to that…” He paused, smoothed his hair, and replaced the hat upon his head, adjusting it to a cocky angle. He darted a glance toward Verity. “A hundred pounds will get you the woman,” he said. “Another hundred will get you her things.”