Sold to the Highland Brute (Preview)
Chapter One
Private Auction Hall, Glen Dochart, Scottish Highlands, March 1657
“Turn around fer us, if ye please, me dear.”
The voice came from behind Isobel Munro—cultured, almost gentle, as though requesting a dance rather than commanding her display. Isobel’s legs felt numb beneath her skirts, her body fighting the command even as her mind understood the futility of resistance. She turned slowly on the raised dais, her throat tight enough that each breath required conscious effort. She was dressed in a plain but well-made dress of dark blue Highland wool that made her fine-boned frame appear even more delicate, her hair neatly braided at the crown, tumbling over her shoulders.
I look like a laird’s daughter acceptin’ an arrangement, nae a captive bein’ sold tae the highest bidder!
The hall was small, intimate in the worst possible way. Shuttered windows blocked any glimpse of the outside world. Candlelight flickered from wall sconces, while perhaps a dozen men sat around the platform. Their faces were partially obscured, but their attention on her was absolute.
Cold sweat gathered at the base of her spine and her hands trembled where they hung at her sides—visible, shameful proof that she understood precisely what she was to these men.
This was not a public auction. This was something far more deliberate, calling for no witnesses beyond those who had paid for the privilege of being present.
Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it down forcefully.
Lord Eòin Calder of Calderbrae stepped up beside the dais, his presence as refined as his clothes. Iron-gray hair swept away from a face that might have been handsome if not for the calculating coldness in his pale eyes. Even his posture suggested a man accustomed to being obeyed without ever needing to raise his voice.
“Gentlemen.” His words echoed in the auction room as silence settled among the assembled crowd. “Thank ye fer yer discretion in attending tonight’s private auction. As promised, our offering is quite… extraordinary.
Isobel forced herself to breathe slowly despite the tightness in her chest and her hands trembled where they hung at her sides. She wanted to cross her arms over her chest, to shield herself from the male gazes that traveled over her body with unsettling interest.
“May I present tae ye, Lady Isobel Munro,” Calder continued, his tone conversational, almost pleasant. “Second daughter of Laird Angus Munro.”
Around the room, Isobel heard the subtle shift of fabric as men leaned forward with renewed interest.
“Delivered here,” Calder added softly, “by her own kin.”
Where are ye, Mhairi? The name blazed trough her mind. Her older sister had been sold a year ago—also to settle their father’s debts—and Isobel hadn’t seen or heard from her since. Not knowing what happened to her gnawed at her.
Shame flooded Isobel’s veins like poison. Her father had now successfully sold both his daughters to pay off debts, and now, every person in the room knew it. The humiliation of it pressed against her throat until she could barely draw breath.
Then, a surge of desperate defiance rose in Isobel’s throat. “I dinnae… I never agreed tae this!” The words burst from her. She took a step toward the edge of the platform, reaching for the steps, but firm hands clamped onto her shoulders from behind—one of the guards holding her in place with bruising strength. “Please,” she begged, struggling against his iron grip. “Please dinnae dae this!”
“Mind yerself.” Calder’s voice was smooth. He nodded to the guard who released her shoulders, only to grip her elbows, holding her centered on the dais. “There’s nay need fer such feminine dramatics.”
Isobel’s chest heaved as she glanced around the room. Not a single man moved to help her. Some looked away. Others leaned forward with interest. The room tilted slightly. Months in the dark had left her weakened and in a constant state of hunger, daylight something she’d nearly forgotten existed.
The fight drained from her limbs as quickly as it had come—or perhaps her body simply had nothing left to give. Her vision blurred at the edges, and defeat crashed over her’. Isobel swayed slightly where she stood, dizziness draining any fight she might have had left.
Then, the heavy door at the back of the hall swung open. Every head turned. Even Calder paused, his gavel suspended mid-air, a flicker of annoyance crossing his refined features.
Two men entered, and the atmosphere in the room shifted.
The first was tall—powerfully built in a way that spoke of hard labor and battle rather than leisure. His dark brown hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, revealing a weathered face marked by a faint scar along his jaw. His clothing was practical—Highland wool and leather, with a broadsword belted at his hip, and boots that had seen better days.
Och… those eyes!
They were deep blue, steady and scanning the room with a sort of controlled intensity that suggested he was cataloging everything—every face, every exit, every potential threat. When that gaze landed on her, something in Isobel’s chest tightened in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with fear.
He is… strikin’. Not handsome in the polished way of the Lowland nobles, but compelling in a way that made it simply impossible to look away. He had strong features, a full mouth set in a hard line, and a presence that commanded attention without effort.
And he looked furious.
It was not the explosive fury of a man losing his temper. It was something more dangerous—a banked rage that simmered beneath absolute control.
Beside him stood his companion, leaner, but no less alert, with sandy-brown hair and sharp gray eyes that swept the room with obvious wariness. His hand rested near his own weapon, ready but not threatening.
The two newcomers moved into the room without apology, claiming the space as though it belonged to them. Several of the bidders shifted uncomfortably. Even Calder seemed momentarily unsettled, though he recovered without missing a beat. “Gentlemen,” he said, his tone remaining pleasant despite the interruption. “How good of ye tae join us. Ye’re just in time.”
“Aye, I can see that.” The tall man replied, his Scottish burr cutting through the space. His voice was quiet but carried easily—the kind of voice accustomed to being heard without needing to shout. He inclined his head to proceed.
“As I was saying,” Calder circled her, his footsteps soft against the stone as he paced around the platform. “The terms of tonight’s arrangement are quite straightforward. One item. One sale. Complete discretion guaranteed tae all parties.” He paused, allowing his icy gaze to sweep across the men. “But most importantly—once me gavel falls, the transaction is final. Nay exceptions. Nay renegotiations. I trust ‘tis understood.”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
Final. The word echoed in Isobel’s mind.
Nye reprieve. Nay rescue. Nay second chances fer me.
“Excellent.” Calder’s mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes. “Now then, gentlemen. As ye can observe, the lady possesses the refined qualities one would expect from noble bloodlines. As of this very day, the eighteenth of March, she’s a tender eighteen years of age, well-bred, educated in all manners appropriate tae her station.” His pale gaze swept over her with clinical assessment. “Note the beautiful dark hair and the gray eyes—distinctive coloring of Clan Munro. And …” his voice dropped slightly, taking on a quality that made Isobel’s stomach turn. “It has been confirmed by her kin that she remains… untouched.”
This cannae possibly get any more humiliatin’!
Heat crawled up Isobel’s neck and face, splotching her fine skin. She did not dare look up. If she looked at them, if she saw the hunger and calculation in their expressions, her fragile composure would shatter entirely.
“I’ll open the bids with fifty pounds sterling,” Calder announced, lifting a small wooden gavel.
“Sixty.” The response came immediately from a portly man in the front row, his jowls quivering as he shifted forward in his chair.
“Seventy-five.” Another voice came—older, belonging to a thin-haired gentleman whose steady gaze made Isobel’s skin prickle with unease.
The numbers climbed with frightening speed. Eighty. Ninety. One hundred. Each increment felt like another piece of her being carved away, until she wondered if anything that made her who she was would be left by the end of the night.
Her delicate fingers curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to fight, to do something—but what? The two guards flanking the dais would stop her before she managed to take three steps. And even if she somehow escaped that room, where would she go?
Back tae a faither who sold me? Intae the Highland winter with nay coin, nay horse and nay protection?
The trap was complete and absolute.
“One-hundred-and-five.”
The new voice carried the refined accent of English nobility. Isobel’s attention snapped to a well-dressed man in the second row, perhaps fifty years of age, with eyes that studied her with the cold assessment of someone evaluating an investment, rather than a person.
There was something in his gaze that was worse than the open lust some of the others displayed.
“One-hundred-and-twenty,” countered the portly man, sweat now beading on his forehead despite the cool air.
“One-hundred-and-twenty-five.”
“One-hundred-and-forty-five.” The Englishman said again, his tone utterly unconcerned, as though the large sum meant nothing to him.
There was a tense pause, the other bidders shifting in their seats, some settling back in their chairs with expressions of resignation.
Calder raised his gavel, and Isobel’s heart lurched against her ribs. “One-hundred-and-forty-five pounds sterling,” he said smoothly, “Going once—”
He paused, clearly expecting another bid. When none came, he continued.
“Going twice,”
“One-hundred-and-fifty.”
Isobel gasped, despite herself. The words came from the tall Highlander, spoken with the same quiet intensity that marked everything about him. His companion muttered something in his ear as the bid sent a ripple through the room.
It was an enormous sum under any circumstances.
The Englishman turned in his seat, his pale eyes narrowing as he studied the newcomer. “One-hundred-and-sixty,” he countered, his refined accent somehow sounding even more clipped than before.
“One-hundred-and-seventy.”
The Highlander didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just blurted out the offer that made even Calder’s eyebrows lift.
Around the room, men exchanged glances. The Englishman’s jaw tightened. His gaze traveled from the Highlander to his companion, who lounged against a pillar with deceptive casualness. The two men exchanged a glance.
Slowly, deliberately, the Englishman settled back in his chair, his expression neutral, but Isobel noted the rage simmering beneath the surface.
“The Highland gentleman is welcome to his prize,” he said, each word carefully measured, but his pale eyes promised that it wasn’t over.
Isobel’s attention snapped to the tall man who had just offered a fortune for her. His blue eyes were fixed on Calder now, that barely contained fury still evident in every line of his body.
His companion stepped closer, murmuring something. The Highlander’s jaw tightened further, but he just gave a single, sharp nod.
Calder raised his gavel, and Isobel’s world narrowed.
“One-hundred-and-seventy pounds sterling to the Scottish gentleman,” he announced. “Going once,”
The entire room held its breath.
“Going twice,”
Isobel’s hands trembled.
Me fate’s been decided then.
The gavel fell, reverberating through the room like a death knell. “Sold.” Calder said smoothly.
And just like that, Isobel Munro belonged to a stranger whose name she didn’t even know.
Probably the most handsome stranger in all of Scotland.
Though his eyes, she realized as he turned to look at her fully, held no triumph or possession as she’d expected them to. What they held instead, she couldn’t say. But for the first time since being dragged into that hall, the weight in her chest loosened just enough to let her draw a full breath.
“Two-hundred pounds.”
A new voice came from shadows near the entrance and Isobel’s head snapped toward the sound, her heart hammering.
Chapter Two
“I believe that should suffice,” the new bidder said, addressing Calder as though the room held only the two of them, “tae reopen the matter.”
A silver-haired man stepped into the light, perhaps around sixty with the bearing of someone who’d been wealthy long enough to forget what refusal felt like, his refined Scottish accent screaming nobility.
Isobel looked at Calder, silently willing him to refuse, but there was a gleam in his eyes that made her stomach drop.
“The gavel’s fallen.” The Highlander’s voice cut through the space—quiet, but with an edge that made several bidders shift nervously in their seats. “Sale’s done.”
A pause. The new bidder tilted his head slightly, assessing.
“Ach, I ken who ye are, Laird Hamish MacKenzie.” At least four men stiffened at the name. Calder inclined his head as though they were discussing weather over wine. “In most circumstances, ye’d be quite correct. However…” his gaze drifted to Isobel, and lingered. “Extraordinary value occasionally merits… extraordinary accommodation.”
The word slithered through Isobel’s mind. The gall! As though breaking his word was simply good business.
“Ye set the terms yerself.” Hamish hadn’t moved, but somehow his presence filled more space than before.
Calder’s tone remained pleasant. “Any reasonable man would recognize—”
Isobel’s breath caught. How can he stand there with a straight face, threatenin’ that beast of a man?
“I made an offer.” MacKenzie pointed a finger at Calder. “Ye struck yer wee gavel and accepted. Simple enough.”
For a long moment, no one said anything. The silence stretched, pulled taught as a wire, until Isobel could hear her own pulse hammering in her ears.
Then MacKenzie moved. Not toward Calder, but toward the platform. Toward her.
“Lady Isobel Munro.” He stopped at the base of the dais, looking up. His blue eyes were steady on hers. “Yer faither gave ye tae this man?”
Isobel’s throat closed up entirely. She managed a single nod.
“Did ye agree tae it?”
Her hands were shaking. “I…”
“‘Tis a simple question, lass.”
“Nay.” Her voice cracked and she pressed her lips together, fighting for control.
MacKenzie held her gaze a moment longer. Then he turned back to Calder, and despite the control in his movements, violence radiated from him like heat from a forge.
“So.” His voice had gone deadly quiet. “Ye’re nae just a thief, but somethin’ worse.”
“Her faither’s debts—”
“I dinnae give a damn.” Each word was precise, clipped. “The lass just said she daesnae want tae be here.”
Calder’s pleasant mask slipped fractionally. “Ye’re overwrought, Laird MacKenzie. Perhaps if we stepped outside, discussed this like civilized—”
“There’s naethin’ civilized about this and naethin’ tae discuss, ye pompous bastard,” MacKenzie said as his companion moved toward the door. Casually. As though simply stretching his legs.
“The audacity….” The silver-haired bidder’s voice dripped with disdain.
MacKenzie’s head turned. Slowly. “That’s interestin’, comin’ from a man offerin’ gold fer flesh.”
“Fergive me, Laird MacKenzie, but it rather seems like the thistle is calling the heather purple. Ye’re going tae an awful lot of trouble fer a bit of merchandise—”
“She’s nae merchandise. And if anyone here’s brave enough tae call her that again, they’ll get what’s comin’ tae them.” His hand settled on his sword hilt, fingers gripping tightly.
His partner had reached the door. His hand paused on the latch.
That earned him a single, almost imperceptible nod.
The door swung open, and his companion returned with six Highland warriors on his heel—armed, silent, spreading through the hall with confidence. They took positions near the door, beside windows—a threat that needed no words.
MacKenzie gave another nod, and the room erupted—men rising from their seats, shouting, reaching for weapons. The Englishman was demanding explanations. The silver-haired bidder had gone pale, his earlier disdain replaced with something that looked remarkably like terror.
Isobel’s heart leaped into her throat, her eyes wide as her feet remained firmly planted on the dais of their own accord.
And through it all, Calder remained calm, his pale eyes fixed on Hamish with an expression that promised retribution. For a long moment, the two men stared at each other—Highland laird and Lowland noble.
Then, Calder smiled. “Take her then,” he said pleasantly. “If ye believe ye can.” He glanced at his guards who had materialized behind him, armed, tense and ready.
MacKenzie didn’t budge. Around the room, weapons cleared leather with harsh, metallic whispers.
MacKenzie’s right-hand man moved back to his side. “Aye or nay, Hamish?”
“Aye.”
A Calder guard lunged first, his blade singing thought the air toward MacKenzie.
He swerved, and Isobel’s breath caught. She’d expected brutality, but this… this was something else entirely. His sword met the guard’s blade with a shriek of steel that made her teeth ache, but the impact barely slowed him. He twisted further, using the guard’s momentum against him and his blade opened the man’s throat in a single, precise strike.
Blood sprayed across the stone floor and the guard collapsed in a wet gurgle.
MacKenzie’s breathing remained steady, controlled—as though killing a man required no more effort than drawing water from a well.
Shock crashed over her and Isobel pressed her hand against her chest, trying to keep her heart from bursting through.
How can he be so calm?
Then, chaos erupted. Chairs splintered as men dove for cover or reached for weapons. Two more guards rushed to Hamish from opposite sides.
He spun between them without hesitation. His blade caught the first man’s sword arm, severing muscle and sinew. The guard screamed but before he could finish Hamish had already pivoted, his dirk appearing in his left hand as if conjured, driving deep into the man’s ribs.
The silver-haired bidder scrambled backward, his expensive boots slipping on the slick stone underfoot.
Isobel couldn’t tear her eyes away. She knew she should—knew the violence happening mere feet from her should send her cowering. But she was utterly transfixed by the way MacKenzie fought. Every movement flowed into the next with lethal grace, each strike devastatingly efficient.
‘Tis like watchin’ a predator move through water!
MacKenzie cut down another guard, then turned. His blue eyes found hers across the chaos—steady, unwavering and absolutely focused despite the mayhem. Blood splattered across his face and chest as his partner slashed his sword across a guard’s chest.
He took two strides and then stopped at the base of the platform.
“Isobel,” Her name came, spoken quietly, like a prayer. “I need ye tae come down. Now.”
Around them, violence bloomed. Another Calder guard rushed forward, his blade raised high. His partner spun, his blade carving upwards, opening the man’s throat in a spray of crimson. Another lunged from behind, sword aimed at MacKenzie’s unprotected back.
MacKenzie’s head turned slightly. Without looking away from Isobel, his sword came up and back, meeting the attack blind. Steel shrieked. He twisted his wrist, disarming the man, then drove his elbow into the guard’s nose.
The guard dropped instantly.
How? How did he even ken he was there?
Isobel’s legs trembled.
Even as one of the MacKenzie warriors drove his axe into an attacker’s skull right next to him, his focus on her remained absolute.
A jolt that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure surged through her malnourished frame.
“I cannae…” Isobel breathed, her voice cracking. Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t feel her legs. “I cannae walk…”
“Aye, ye can.” MacKenzie’s voice remained steady. Absolute. As though nothing was happening around them. “Trust me, lass. Just fer now. Can ye dae that?”
The word felt foreign and impossible. Every time she trusted someone, it had been weaponized against her. But this man, this massive Highland warrior simply stood there, hand extended, waiting for her to make a choice.
“What will it be, lass?” MacKenzie said, his tone urgent, yet gentle.
Isobel moved. Her legs barely supported her—months of captivity had stolen her strength, left her hollow and shaking. She stumbled down from the platform steps, her vision blurring at the edges, her body failing even though her mind screamed at her to hurry.
MacKenzie caught her elbow—firm, steadying, but not restraining. The moment her feet hit solid ground, he positioned himself between her and the fighting, using his body as a shield.
“Stay behind me,” he said. “Dinnae let go, ye hear?”
His other hand came up, steadying her. Up close she could see the controlled tension in his jaw, the barely leashed rage still thrumming through his powerful frame.
A nauseating lump lodged itself in her throat. He was soaked in blood, and yet his grip on her was careful, gentle.
I dinnae understand ye. And I dinnae understand why I’m nae scared of ye.
“Move!” Lewis’s shout cut through her spiraling thoughts.
MacKenzie rushed her toward the door. Around them, the hall had erupted into pure mayhem. Calder’s guards fought the MacKenzie warriors with desperate brutality.
“No… please… I don’t want to die in this godforsaken place!” The Englishman shouted frantically from where he had wedged himself into a corner.
Sassenach coward!
The silver-haired bidder cowered against the wall, pale and trembling, while Calder stood near an overturned chair, watching them go. His mask had cracked completely, revealing something cold and vicious beneath. When his pale eyes met Isobel’s, she saw a promise there.
This isnae over.
MacKenzie pulled her through the door and the cold air hit Isobel’s face like a slap, pulling her back from the edge of panic. Outside, horses waited—Highland garrons, sturdy and steady, held by two more of Hamish’s men.
“Can ye ride?”
Isobel nodded. She’d grown up with horses. And before everything had gone wrong, before her father’s debts had consumed their family, she’d loved to ride every chance she got.
“Wi’ me, then.” Hamish swung up onto a massive black stallion, then reached down, offering her his hand.
She grabbed it, noticing how sure his grip was as he pulled her up behind him. She lost her balance, and his hand came back, steadying her.
“Hold ontae me lass. Tight as ye can.”
Isobel’s arms slinked around his waist. He was solid and warm, smelling of leather and wool and pine. Even through his shirt and plaid she could feel the rigid planes of muscle, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Her cheek pressed against his broad back, and despite the terror, the uncertainty, the chaos, she felt her racing heart begin to slow.
He’s real. This rescue is real!
MacKenzie’s heels touched the stallion’s flanks and the beast surged forward.
Behind them, shouting men poured through the door. Isobel heard Calder’s voice, refined even in fury. “Ye will regret this, Laird MacKenzie! Laird Graham daesnae take kindly tae losin’ his merchandise!”
The MacKenzie warriors flanked Calder’s guards, blocking the narrow approach, buying their laird precious time.
The night swallowed them—dark and absolute. Their hoofbeats thundered underfoot, the rhythm matching Isobel’s racing heart. Trees flashed past, and the road—barely visible in the moonlight—twisted ahead.
Hold on, just hold on! She gripped tighter to MacKenzie, to consciousness, to the fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—this time, someone had actually meant what they’d said.
That perhaps, this time, she was being rescued rather than claimed.
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