Page 4 of No One's Bride
Perhaps the heat radiating from their palms shocked him.
Perhaps an odd tingle chased up his arm, too.
When it seemed like he might never relax his grip, Ailsa snatched back her hand. She stole one more glance at his long fingers before dismissing them from her mind for good.
They fell silent.
Both faced the auctioneer.
Both sat rigid.
Seconds passed, then they happened to look at each other at precisely the same time, both releasing a grumble of annoyance.
Mr Murden smacked the lectern with his gavel again and congratulated Lord Eccles on his purchase. “Next, we have a rather unusual offering dating back to the fifteen hundreds. A grimoire of sorts.”
A grimoire?
The term made Ailsa sit bolt upright.
All thoughts turned to her visit to the mystic’s tent at the Bartholomew Fair and the crone’s cryptic prediction.
You’ll marry a man who puts you under an ancient spell.
One found in a tome of old.
It is your fate, your destiny.
Ailsa gulped when the assistant presented the red leather-bound volume. It looked thick and heavy, like it held centuries-old secrets. The gold metal corners were tarnished, perhaps from the spillage of magical potions. Like firm hands, two intricate clasps bound the pages together. A message from an otherworldly force warning the fainthearted not to dabble.
Then the assistant did the most shocking thing possible—he opened the tome and read the first few lines from a love incantation.
Ailsa contemplated jumping to her feet and begging him to stop. But the bidding started at thirty pounds, and the devil closed the book.
Every fibre of her being urged her to raise her hand.
Was it not better to own the grimoire than let it loose amongst the men of theton? Then a shocking thought took hold. What if Lord Denton decided to bid and learnt of a spell to make her subservient?
She thrust her hand in the air, much to the lord’s surprise.
“I understood you to be an intelligent woman,” he whispered, his strong hands gripping his solid thighs as if trying to stop himself from bidding. “What the devil do you want with a book of fake incantations?”
But Ailsa didn’t answer.
A raw-boned gentleman in the front row, dressed from head to toe in black, turned and stared at her with some menace. His sharp, assessing gaze sent an icy shiver skating down her spine. In an emotionless voice, he offered forty pounds, almost defying her to bid against him.
In a room of thirty men, no one dared make a challenge.
Ailsa raised her hand again, though Lord Denton tugged the sleeve of her pelisse and whispered, “You don’t want that book. Mark my words. It will bring nothing but trouble.”
Despite feeling a little unsettled, she managed a weak smile. “Why? Do ye believe in bad omens and superstitions?” Had he visited the fortune-teller’s tent, too?
“Only people of unsound mind delve into the realms of witchcraft.” There was an urgency to his tone, a tinge of fear. “Withdraw your interest, madam. Don’t make me intervene.”
Saints and sinners!
The viscount was obstinate and often exercised his patriarchal dominance but was rarely so rude. He might be used to commanding English women but would not find a Scotswoman so biddable.
Ailsa frowned. “I can do as I please. Ye’re nae my father nor my husband.” She looked at the auctioneer and gave a curt nod. “I will pay a hundred pounds.”
