Page 5 of No One's Bride
“Strike the lady’s offer from the record,” the lord shouted.
A few men in the room gasped.
The sinister fellow at the front gave a wolfish grin.
“Denton’s right,” the rotter behind her mocked. “The woman’s head is full of nonsense. Heaven forbid we let her loose with a book of spells.”
His minions laughed.
Affronted, Ailsa stood. “Lord Denton is nae my keeper. Unless anyone else cares to bid, the grimoire is mine for a hundred pounds.” She would lock the tome in a chest and throw away the key. Then no man could subdue her with a spell.
Mr Murden consulted his papers before surprising them all by saying, “Let me settle this argument by revealing that an anonymous buyer is willing to pay a thousand pounds for the book.”
Shocked whispers breezed through the room.
The devil in black looked ready to murder Mr Murden.
Ailsa grew instantly suspicious. She faced Lord Denton. “Are ye the mystery bidder? Is that why ye stopped me raising my offer?”
The viscount jerked his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m an educated man. Why would I want a book of drivel?”
“This is what happens when you let a woman attend an auction,” said the bigoted oaf behind. “It causes nothing but chaos.”
Ailsa swung around and met the tubby man’s gaze. “Be quiet, else I might cast a spell and turn ye into a filthy hog. It willnae take much effort.”
Lord Denton laughed.
The man rarely smiled, let alone showed signs of mirth.
Mr Murden struck the lectern with his gavel, so hard he would need a carpenter to smooth out the dents. “Silence! The bid stands at one hundred and fifty pounds. Are there any more offers?”
The shady fellow in black stormed from the room, muttering death would likely befall them all.
“Miss MacTavish?” Mr Murden said with a weary sigh. “Do I hear two hundred pounds, or might you sit down so we can continue with the sale?”
As Ailsa didn’t have a thousand pounds to waste on a whim, she was forced to concede. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to own a book coveted by a man who threatened murder.
“Ye may continue, sir,” she said, sitting down.
“This whole thing has turned into a farce,” the lord grumbled.
“Aye, one of yer making,” she snapped, watching with some trepidation as the assistant packed the grimoire into a small wooden casket. One would think it was a vicious animal desperate to escape.
Mr Murden attempted to settle those in the room by hastening to the next antiquity. “Lot four is the much anticipated Thomas More’sUtopia.”
Ailsa’s heart lurched. Her mind was still hazy after her interaction with Lord Denton. Suspicion flared. Had he meant to set her on edge? Had the handshake and the threats been part of a ploy to unnerve her?
Mr Murden gestured to the leather-bound book held carefully in his assistant’s gloved hands. “Here we have a rare seventeenth-century edition ofUtopia, one of the first printed in English. As one might expect, there’s foxing on the pages, but the .…”
“Why do you want the book?” Lord Denton whispered.
Ailsa did not look at him. “Why do ye want the book?”
His silence stretched for a few seconds.
“Because my brother died in search of his utopia.” Spoken in the lord’s blunt tone, the sentiment carried no emotion. “I mean to donate it to Cambridge as a legacy in his name.”
Possessing her mother’s kind heart, Ailsa’s resolve faltered. It was a touching gesture from someone who was always cold and cynical. Her reasons for wanting the book might seem silly to a man who occupied a powerful place in society.
