Page 12 of Won By The Highlander

Clapping and jeering ensued, and Orla wanted the ground to swallow her up. Dunbar took hold of Orla’s hand and raised it aloft. ‘My fair daughter comes not just with beauty and grace and the lofty lineage of the Gordon blood, but with land - good, fertile land at Wildwood Glen. It is groaning with timber and game, and, it is rumoured, there are coal seams within its rocky crags. What a boon that would be to any man looking to swell his fortune.

Orla caught the smirk on Robbie Dunn’s face and wished she had not. He was astride a huge steed, sleek and muscular, a thoroughbred, just like its master. Robbie was sure to do everything he could to win that land, and the fact that she came with it was just an irritating encumbrance to him.

Her father pressed on, oblivious to her discomfort. ‘Now, listen well, for I’ve to make clear the rules to all of you. To win, you must ride down one side of the loch and reach the kirk at Nairn, where you will collect a marker from its main door as proof you have made it to that place. You must then return to Machrief along the other side of the loch to deposit that marker at my feet. The first man to do so is the winner. It is up to you which route you take around the loch, and as you know, some parts are treacherous, so every man enters at his own risk, freely and without responsibility on my part. But remember, fortune favours the bold. The hour is almost upon us, so make ready and ensure your name has been left with my man, as only the cream of Inverness society will take part today.’

One wretch shouted, ‘Gordon, do you swear on your honour that the result is binding and that if I win, I get the land and her?’ A portly middle-aged man pointed rudely, and Orla bridled.

‘I doubt you are man enough for this, so do not fret. No doubt you will have fallen on your arse by the time you get to the loch, or I’ll wager that old nag will have died under you by day’s end.’

‘Well, I never heard such bald-faced cheek from a wee lass,’ huffed the man.

‘Aye, ‘tis binding, Fearghal,’ snapped her father. ‘And aye, my daughter is a little too spirited for her own good, unlike that horse of yours!’ Laughter followed his observation. ‘My notary is here today to draw up a marriage contract as soon as the race is decided, and we’ll have no argument at day’s end.’

‘And the land?’ the fat man continued.

‘Aye, that will be in the marriage contract, of course.’

Orla pulled against her father’s hand. ‘Must I stand here and be paraded before these wretches. It is not to be borne.’

‘Must you shame me before all in the county with that shrew’s tongue? Would that I could cut it out. They must get a good look at you, my dear, and see what they are getting. It will spur them on.’

‘Would they like to come closer and check my teeth, perhaps? Or mayhap they need to feel my fetlocks and run their fingers through my mane? This is insufferable.’

‘Now do be calm, Orla,’ said her father. ‘All will be well. Look at Robbie Dunn. Is he not magnificent astride a horse, and a fine one too? It is most valuable beast in the county and runs like the wind. I have a hefty wager on him, so I am hoping to make some profit along with an alliance this day. Aye, Robbie will triumph, and so will you, by having the best husband in all of Inverness. Now, what young woman would not be thrilled at the prospect?’

‘Are you throwing me away on some fool just so that you can have a wager?’

‘Can a man not have some sport now and again as a refuge from women pecking at him like crows at a corpse? If you will not be polite to your future husband, then be off with you, Orla, and seek out your mother. It is almost time to start the race.’

Orla was sick with nerves as she rushed from the yard, avoiding contact with her mother, and then on to the stables, where she had left a bundle the night before. She managed to wriggle free of her stays and skirts with some difficulty, for her hands were shaking. Next, she tore open the bundle and pulled out some breeches and a padded cloth waistcoat. It was tight enough to flatten her bosoms while still allowing her to breathe. A jacket over the top gave additional camouflage to her womanly curves, and after she tied her hair up tightly atop her head and stuffed it into a blue cap, her ruse was complete. For surety, she tied a dark kerchief around her face. With any luck, she would go unnoticed in the excitement of the yard and pass for a young man, albeit a weedy one. Midnight had four white feet, so she had bound them with black cloth to avoid being noticed.

There! Surely she had thought of everything.

With a pounding heart, Orla snuck out of the stables and entered the yard via a back entrance, ensuring she was at the rear of the crowd. As everyone was concentrating on her father checking his watch and raising his arm to start the race, she went unnoticed by crowds of her clansmen atop Machrief’s walls, all waving and cheering. All around her, horses jostled for position, their flanks heaving with excitement, coats shining in the dawn sun and breath heaving out in white clouds in the crisp air. It was the most exhilarating feeling she had ever had, and for a moment, Orla forgot her plan and its purpose. She was free from the shackles of a woman’s sedate existence, and for once, she could compete on equal terms with men.

Her joy was short-lived, for there was a sudden uproar as a lone rider clattered in through Machrief’s gates and drew his dun horse to a skidding halt before her father. The mount reared up, almost unseating its rider and commenced chomping at its bit. Flattened-back ears and wild eyes told of a shocking temper, and the way it danced and tore at the bridle, it seemed almost unbroken. And it had the ugliest, lumpen head of any horse Orla had ever seen.

‘What is this? Who the hell are you?’ shouted her father.

The man brought his horse under control with a vicious tug on the reins, and it quieted a little. Still, he had to hold it steady, arm muscles bulging with the effort as he faced her father.

‘I am here to compete with all these other young bucks, Laird Gordon, for the hand of your fair daughter, and I look forward to taking possession of both her and the land up at Wildwood Glen.’

‘By God, Sir, you are bold to come here unannounced and late and expect to compete. I do not know you, and you will leave at once.’

‘I am not late,’ said the man, sweeping one arm out at the other riders. Orla got a glimpse of wild black hair and stubble. When he next spoke, a shudder went through her at his gruff voice, as deep and dark as a well. ‘And as to being a stranger, I suppose I am in a sense, yet you know my father well, nigh on twenty years or more.’

‘And who might he be?’

‘My father is Rufus Munro, and my name is Wolfric Munro.’

‘Wolfric? You are Wolfric. But you disgraced yourself, and you were cast out many years ago, as I recall.’

‘Well, the prodigal son has returned. I am happy to say that I am fully reconciled with my father. It is upon his urging that I come along today to compete in his stead, for the honour of our family.’

‘But you cannot. I will not allow it,’ sputtered Dunbar Gordon.

‘Why?’ shouted the man. ‘Did you not invite all the landed gentry to compete in a fair contest today? And as I have it, my father spoke to you just a few nights ago about his intention.’

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