Excerpt of The Bride Sale by Candice Hern

Chapter One

Cornwall

October 1818

“C'mon, me laddies. What'm I bid fer this fine bit o'
flesh?”

“'Alf a crown!”

Raucous laughter almost drowned out the auctioneer's rude
response to the opening bid. James Gordon Harkness, fifth
Baron Harkness, leaned against the rough granite wall of
the village apothecary shop just off Gunnisloe market
square. The lane and its shops were deserted; most of the
villagers and market-day travelers had gathered in the
square to watch the livestock auction. James nibbled on
the last bit of savory meat pie as his servant loaded the
carriage boot with the day's purchases: several bolts of
local wool, a few hammered copper cook pots, two large
bags of seed, a brace of pheasant,a basket of smoked fish,
and three cases of wine.

“Two pounds!”

James licked the pastry crumbs from his long fingers as he
listened to the auction taking place around the corner.
The voices of auctioneer and bidders rang clearly in the
crisp air of early autumn.

“Two pounds ten.”

“Aw, c'mon,” a female voice shouted above the din. “The
poor cow be worth more'n that, you bleedin' idiot.”

“Not to my man, she ain't,” another female replied,
eliciting howls of laughter from the crowd.

“Two pounds fifteen!”

This was followed by more laughter and the ear-splitting
din of what had to be the banging of dozens of tin
kettles. Village women often took up the old tradition of
kettle banging to encourage more intense bidding. It must
be some primebit of flesh indeed, James mused as the
rhythmic clanging grew louder.

A stiff breeze chased a flutter of red birch leaves down
the lane, and James brushed back a lock of thick black
hair blown forward by the wind. He watched the leaves
skitter away, but kept his ear to the auction in the
square.

“Three pounds!”

As he listened, James savored the fragrant scent of
freshly baked cinnamon buns and meat pies, of roasting pig
and rabbit shank, of fresh cider and ale. The delicious
smells and the sounds of gaiety and fierce bartering
inevitably drew his thoughts to earlier times, when he
might have enjoyed such a day, when he would have been a
welcome participant. Now he would not willingly walk into
a crowd that size, a crowd of people who knew him, knew
who and what he was.

He seldom ventured into Gunnisloe at all, though it was
the closest market town. He preferred the larger, more
distant markets of Truro or Falmouth, where he was not as
well-known. But he had business in Gunnisloe today. Taking
advantage of market day, he had sent his footman into the
stalls to purchase a few household goods. While the
markets bustled and thrived in the village square, James
had kept his distance. He was in no mood to endure the
strained silence, the wary glances, the hushed whisperings
that would inevitably follow his entry into the public
square.

The footman closed the boot and locked it, then opened the
carriage door and stood aside. James pushed away from the
granite wall and walked toward the open door. He replaced
his curly brimmed beaver on his head and tugged it low
against the wind.

“Four pounds!”

“Don't 'ee dare bid on her, Danny Gower, lest 'ee want yer
heart ripped clean outa yer chest.”

Peels of laughter and more banging of tin kettles followed
this interesting pronouncement. James halted his ascent
into the carriage. What on earth was going on? He had
never before heard a crowd behave in such a strangely
boisterous manner at an auction. What the devil was so
special about this particular cow?

His curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped away
from the carriage. Just one look was all he wanted. Just
to see for himself what all the fuss was about. Just one
quick look and he would be on his way.

“Five pounds!”

James walked the few steps to the end of the lane and
peered around the corner, hoping no one would notice him.
He quickly removed his beaver, realizing the tall, elegant
hat would act as a beacon, drawing the attention of the
simply dressed villagers and miners. But he needn't have
worried. When he moved to the edge of the crowd of perhaps
two hundred people or more, no one paid him the least mind.

For a moment he savored the once-familiar hustle and
bustle of Gunnisloe on market day. Makeshift pens lined
one side of the square where cattle and sheep were
exhibited for auction. Many were already being rounded up
and led away by their new owners. In one corner, several
dozen individuals and families sat at long trestle tables
and benches that were lined up in a herringbone pattern
and sheltered from the wind by a temporary awning of
striped canvas stretched over wooden poles. The
substantial figure of Mag Puddifoot threaded her way among
the tables, ladling out portions of her famous furmity
pudding, just as she had done since James was a boy.
Colorful carts and stalls selling all manner of goods and
produce dotted the rest of the square's perimeter. Sweet
and pungent aromas from the food vendors -- stronger and
more seductive here than in the adjacent lane -- caused
James to forget for an instant why he had made so bold as
to enter the square in the first place.

“Six pounds!”

James's gaze darted warily through the crowd as he moved
closer. No one had yet noticed him. All eyes were on the
stone plinth next to the market cross where the
auctioneer, old Jud Moody, stood with one arm raised and
stirring the air, punctuating the banging of the kettles
and urging the crowd on to higher bids. In Jud's other
hand was a leather harness attached to the neck of a
woman.

A woman.

What in blazes was going on here?

The...