Dalla stared up at the rough-looking man, for the first time noticing his hazel eyes, flecked with specks of gold, the laugh lines at their edges, the way the sun glinted off his long brown hair.

He was muscular and burly with chiseled features, a wide nose, and strong jaw. He wasn't handsome, but he wasn't ugly, either. At the moment, his lips were frowning.

She wanted to bolt again, but he had threatened to leave her in the village, and she was smart enough to know that she had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, no one who would protect her. He had followed her after she'd run from him at the tavern, and he had confronted those disgusting, stinking sailors who had temporarily captured her. But who was going to protect her against him?

He hadn't hurt her, yet. But… but marry him? She shook her head. “Why? Why would you want to marry me?”

“I don't, not really, but the decision is yours. You come with me as my wife or as my slave.” He offered a slight shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”

“But… but you don't even know me! I don't know you! I'm Norwegian. Your Scottish. We're at war! It's not proper—”

He chuckled then, a deep, rumbling sound that started deep in his chest.

“Proper? Take a look around you, lass. You're a captive, sold into slavery by your captors. I bought you. You are mine to do with as I see fit. I'm giving you the opportunity to come with me as a decently married woman, one with the rights that marriage—”

“Pshaw!” she snapped. “Women have no rights, whether through marriage or not!” She pulled her arm from his grasp but remained rooted to the spot, arms akimbo, fists balanced on her hips now. “I may be a captive, but I am no fool!”

He stared at her. She stared back. What was he thinking? His features offered no hint as to his thoughts. As yet, he had not harmed her, but based on her experience, men only had so much patience. She could tell this one was running out of it. Still, her stubborn streak showed itself.

“I would not marry you if you were the last—”

“Fine then,” he interrupted, once again snatching at her wrist. His big hand enveloped her wrist and then some. “You belong to me anyway.”

She tried to resist his tug, tried to dig in her heels, to prevent him from turning and striding back toward the village. Panic engulfed her. She cast a quick gaze down at the village, the sea beyond, the uncertainty, the fear swelling inside her. What to do? What to do!

“No! Wait!” she stalled, trying to think.

He had to give her a minute to think! Since the moment that she'd been struck on the jaw, a burlap bag yanked over her head, then tossed over her kidnapper's shoulder, she had not been given a choice. About anything. Now she was. Not a good choice, but nevertheless a choice.

He stared at her, his gaze unwavering, waiting.

“A moment,” she sighed. “Please.”

Should she choose marriage to this complete stranger, this Scotsman, or slavery? Weren't they the same thing? She had never had a serious beau, had never experienced feelings of love, had never experienced true affection other than to Megan.

She had known women who'd gotten married. They were treated as less than men, to do what men wanted them to do without any say so. To her, marriage meant nothing more than a miserable life spent in close proximity to someone that you could not agree with, could not even respect. And yet what was her recourse? Slavery.

“What's the difference?” she grumbled.

His frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“Both of the choices you just gave me result in the same, at least as far as I am concerned,” she said, perhaps foolishly, but she was fast gaining the impression that he would not hurt her as long as she didn't push back too hard. At least not yet. Maybe, if she made his life miserable, he would choose to let her go. Maybe choosing to go wherever it was he was going as a slave would be a better option than being legally tied to him in marriage forever.

“Make your decision, woman,” he said, calmly.

He was growing impatient. Then again, she was a good Christian girl. The thought of going anywhere with a man, much less as a slave, to do whatever he chose with her—but he would have rights to do as he pleased if she became his wife as well. She grew frustrated and shook her head. “You are not giving me any choice!” she said, stomping her foot against the ground.

He lifted an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what other option would you suggest, considering that I purchased you legally, and I have a bill of sale stating such?”

She didn't know whether it was his amusement or if he was genuine, but what would it hurt to throw in a third option? “Perhaps we can make a deal?”

He grinned. “And what would you propose?”

Her mind went blank. She hadn't really considered… that he would actually even consider another option. What could she broach as a bargain? She was without rights, without a homeland, without any means of survival. What if—

“You're coming with me, whether you come as a slave or a wife,” he finally said. “It makes no difference to me. Either way, you belong to me, and you have nothing with which to bargain.”

“Oh, but I do!” she said, an idea forming in her head. “I come from…” She paused.

Maybe it wasn't a good idea to tell him about her history, her link to the Royal Norwegian family. Maybe such knowledge would not bode her well after all. In fact, he might use it against her—

“Well?”

She sighed. She had no options. Nothing with which to bargain. As a slave or as a wife, she would be subject to his whims, no matter what they were. He could abuse her, take her to his bed, treat her in any manner he saw fit, and it wouldn't make a difference. Not only that, but she had no way of contacting her family in Norway. As far as they were concerned, she had probably been kidnapped and killed. It didn't matter that she had been on her way to—

“Come along then,” he said.

Once again, his hand wrapped around her wrist. Not too tightly, but enough to prevent her from attempting to once again bolt. With heavy steps, her heart thumping dully in her chest, she followed him up to the small church on the rise. Maybe she should tell him the truth. But that probably wouldn’t sway him, either. He had paid for her, probably with what little coin he had.

She cast a quick glance up at him. His gaze was focused on the church, his expression resolute, not glancing down at her, not likely caring that she had been on her way to a convent, sent there because she had refused to marry a man chosen by her father.

Dalla had been prepared to take vows of chastity, had resolved to never finding love, having a family of her own, growing old with someone who knew her soul. He probably wouldn't care that she was terrified, that she didn't want to marry him, that all she wanted, more than anything in the world, was to go back home.

None of those things were going to happen. She had been kidnapped. Who was behind it, she didn't know, but it didn't much matter, did it? She was here, having crossed the sea to arrive in Scotland. She didn't even know where in Scotland. All she knew about Scotland was that it was a land of rugged landscape and uncouth, lawless, and warring clans.

She had seen one Scotsman in her life before arriving on the shores of this dirty little village, and the sight that had held her eyes had terrified her. The man had sported wild, tangled long hair, a bushy beard, and heavy, bushy eyebrows. His teeth rotten, he had spoken a harsh, unintelligible language, but his hatred had shown in his dark brown eyes as he showered his Norwegian captors with curses.

As they neared the door of the church, a priest wearing a long, dark brown robe tied with a piece of rope stepped from its entrance. He watched the two approaching, expressionless. He, a man of God, would certainly save her and offer her sanctuary. Wouldn't he?

His hand still firmly gripping her wrist, her captor stopped before the priest and offered a nod.

“You need to marry us.”

The priest glanced from the highlander to her, then back again, offering a brief nod.

Dalla's eyes widened in surprise. No questions? Nothing? Then again, if such occurrences happened frequently in this godforsaken village, what was she to expect?

Her captor tugged her inside the small confines of the church, its bare plank walls broken by two narrow windows. Overhead, the thatched roof looked dry and dusty. Four long benches occupied each side of the interior. With increasing dread, she walked down the aisle between them toward a small table bearing a small wooden cross. A far cry from the beautiful chapel on her family's estate—

“Name,” the priest asked her captor, reaching for a large book situated in a small cubbyhole in the wall. He then withdrew a small bottle of ink and a quill.

“Hugh McInnis,” he said, watching as the priest scribbled his name with a quill dipped into a small ink bottle and wrote the name in the book.

The priest looked at her. “Name?”

She didn't answer.

The priest looked at Hugh was a lifted eyebrow and sighed. “Does she speak English?”

He nodded. “She does.” He turned to her, frowning. “Give the man your name.”

She thought it best not to test him much further. “Dalla. Dalla Jorstad.”

The priest scribbled her name beside that of her captor, Hugh.

She tried to turn her mind away from what was happening; to picture her home, the lush green of the fjords, the image of her mother's portrait, smiling. She'd always pretended that her mother could see her through that portrait, and that she smiled down at her with encouragement.

Dalla tuned out the droning voice of the priest as he said the words of holy matrimony, her mouth growing dry, her heart pounding, her head spinning.

And then, in a matter of moments, it was over. The priest extended the quill pen toward Hugh and he wrote his name, large and bold, at the bottom of the marriage decree. He then handed the quill to her. She didn't reach for it. Signing her name to that document would seal her fate.

“If you can't write your name, simply make a mark,” the priest said.

Dalla gave him an angry glare, then quickly prayed for forgiveness. He was a priest. Still, what kind of a priest would marry two people without even asking if she was willing? Even in a harbor town and port cities such as this, with prisoners and slaves arriving, shouldn't he question demands for quick marriages? Shouldn't he have even asked her whether she was willing?

Her mind raced. Who had done this to her? And more importantly, how was she to ever find her way back home?

She watched Hugh bend forward, prepared to make a mark on the paper for her. She snatched it from his hand, scowling.

“I can write my own name,” she grumbled.

Angrily, she wrote her name on the paper, every stroke of the tip scratching against the parchment paper sending a toll of dread through her. She finished with a flourish, gave her new husband a glare, and tossed the quill onto the parchment. A blob of ink splattered the paper, marring a portion of her name.

It didn't matter. She had just lost her identity, her namesake, and her homeland. She was, in the eyes of God, regardless of the lack of tradition, irrevocably bound to the Scotsman named Hugh McInnis.

But if he thought she would acquiesce to this farce of a marriage without putting up a fight, he was sadly mistaken.