Page 3 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
Isobel’s eyes flashed. “He isnae a monster.”
“I didnae say he was. I said people think he is one.”
“He is fierce,” Isobel argued. “That isnae the same thing.”
Ava gave a small shiver, half theatrical and half sincere. “It is close enough for mothers with daughters of marriageable age.”
Isobel leaned back, exasperation and affection tangled together on her face. “He may be grim, and quiet, and terrible at putting anyone at ease, but he is still me brother. I must help him.”
Ava’s gaze dropped once more to the list spread over the desk, and for the first time, she understood this was not some strange little family inconvenience. It was a problem big enough to pull Isobel out of the life they had shared, and it had Ciaran Nairn’s name written over every inch of it.
Even though she had never met Isobel’s brother face to face, somehow his impact on her life had not gone unnoticed.
Bruce shifted in her lap, then gave up on dignity and put both front paws on the desk, sniffing the nearest sheet until Ava nudged him back with one hand.
“Ye are nay help at all,” she chided.
Bruce sneezed on the margin and settled deeper against her dress, which Ava thought was likely his way of disagreeing.
Isobel had already drawn the papers closer between them.
Aside from the list of items, Ava could see that there were also names written on the pages. They were most likely family names from neighboring clans. She noticed there were other little marks beside some and full lines struck through others.
“I am guessing these are the families ye reached out to?” she asked. “None of them responded?”
Isobel made a face and pointed to a name on the list. “That one was at least polite enough to ignore us quietly.”
Ava looked at the next and saw the short note Isobel had written beside the name. “This one regrets that his daughter isnae presently inclined toward marriage.’”
“A bald-faced lie. She wed a tanner’s son three months later.”
Ava glanced up. “Did she truly?”
“Aye.”
“That is almost insulting enough that I should admire it.”
Isobel laughed, though it came out thin with frustration.
Ava leaned further over the desk, Bruce protesting when her arm tightened around him to keep him from sliding off her lap.
There were more names. Better ones than she had expected, in truth. Daughters from respectable families, some with decent dowries and strong bloodlines. Ciaran Nairn was a laird. His lands were secure, and his name carried weight. On paper, there was no reason he should be failing so badly.
“That is what vexes me,” Isobel sighed, as if following Ava’s train of thought. “He is nay wastrel. He is nay fool. He is nay gambler or drunkard. He doesnae have bastards in every village.”
Ava smiled faintly. “Ye do set the standard high.”
“I am serious.”
“I ken.”
And she did.
That was the trouble. If the matter had been simpler, if Ciaran had been ridiculous or dissolute or plainly unsuited to marriage, the whole business would have settled more easily in the mind. But this was something else. The list itself proved it.
The only thing stopping these people was fear.
Ava traced one finger down the edge of a folded letter. “So he is suitable in every sober, sensible way.”
