Page 26 of Won By The Highlander

Blackreach Manor lived up to its dismal name. Its stone walls might once have been grey but were now streaked black with age, as if they were oozing pitch. It was little more than a huge tower house, five storeys high, and was no grand castle like Machrief.

A high wall surrounded the house, sprouting moss and weeds, and beyond, the wind raised white flurries on patches of water visible through dense trees. A small loch revealed itself as they rode closer, gleaming coldly like wet slate - dark and forbidding. There was an island out in the middle of the water, and in the rapidly fading light, Orla could just make out a dark shape squatting upon it.

A shiver ran down her spine. What a ghastly place. This was no Machrief, where the creamy-brown stone glowed amber at dusk as the setting sun warmed its walls. No, this place was the opposite, nought but a cold, unwelcoming prison.

The gate in the high wall squealed wide open, and Orla rode into a yard, deserted save for one man who came limping over to grab the horses’ bridles, with a nod to Wolfric. There was no welcoming party for the newlyweds and no gracious greeting from Wolfric’s father. In fact, the only thing which seemed alive in Blackreach were the shadows dancing across the walls, cast by a few flaming torches set here and there. Orla’s stomach sank to her toes. She had entered the jaws of hell with the Devil for a husband.

Courage now. Her parents had abandoned her to her fate, so she must fend for herself. Wolfric Munro and his awful family would not trample her underfoot. She must be strong and find a way to survive.

***

Wolfric led Orla into the hall, where he found his father sitting before a meagre fire. Three hounds rose on their arrival, but his father did not. Instead, Rufus Munro merely beckoned them forward with a flick of his hand as he scolded his physician, who cowered before him.

Doctor Banbury was a rotund man with a high voice and a jumpy manner, and no wonder. ‘I see little improvement, Laird. Therefore, it is imperative that we bleed you again,’ he twittered.

‘Must you suck me dry in coin and life’s blood, like a leech, Banbury? It does not one iota of good,’ snapped Rufus Munro.

Banbury cast them a worried look and stumbled on. ‘Then might I suggest a regimen of calm and a quiet routine, with less imbibing of liquor. A simple diet of broth and so forth would do wonders.’

‘Quiet? Broth?’ declared Rufus. ‘Am I an infant in a cradle? Begone, you mountebank, before I kick you up your fat arse for such nonsense.’

‘I would not recommend that Laird Munro, what with the swelling and all on your toe,’ sputtered the wretched Banbury, making a hasty exit with this medicine bag clutched to his chest.

Wolfric said nothing, waiting for his father’s temper to calm - a fool’s errand if ever there was one.

‘So here she is,’ snorted Rufus. ‘I have a daughter at last. A pity that she is a Gordon and has the look of an angry crow,’ he continued as his eyes roamed over Orla in her black dress.

‘Leave her be, father,’ growled Wolfric as he steered Orla over to the fireplace by her elbow. ‘Warm yourself a bit, lass,’ he said. She shook her arm free as if his touch was dirty.

Orla’s gaze flicked from his father’s peevish countenance to roam wide-eyed about the hall. Her dismay was evident, and Wolfric was acutely aware of the hall’s sparseness, the dingy light from too few candles, the ageing, mouse-chewed tapestries, the dank walls, the scraps not yet cleared from supper littering the long table.

Unfortunately, Orla had not exhausted her supply of insolence. She fixed her eyes on his father. ‘Is this all the welcome I can expect as your guest, Laird Munro? Has your courtesy abandoned you?’

‘See, father, my bride has lots to say and a sharp tongue on her,’ said Wolfric. ‘You two will get along famously.’

‘Oh, we shall get along, young Orla, lass.’ Rufus flicked his hand for her to come forward, but she remained where she stood. ‘Humph,’ he said. ‘You are no guest, woman, to receive a guest’s courtesy. You are my son’s wife, his property and part of Clan Munro. And I trust you will be diligent in your duties as Lady of Blackreach.’ He paused and exchanged glances with Wolfric, and smirked at her. ‘All of them.’

‘I will do as I please, and I am no one’s property,’ she countered.

‘Cheek, is it? My son will beat that insolence out of you, lass. Aye, he will beat it out.’

‘I intend to do no such thing,’ said Wolfric, rather enjoying Orla baiting his father. ‘Quarrel if you must, the two of you, but I want none of it.’

Rufus settled back in his chair and, keeping his eye on Orla, he said to Wolfric, ‘The servants tell me you demanded a fire lit in the east chamber for your return.’

‘Aye, that was my order.’

‘That a Gordon should pollute our house is bad enough, but that she should taint the very chamber where….’

‘Enough, father. I warned you, did I not?’ A sudden protective urge rose in Wolfric. His father was being obnoxious. ‘My wife will have that chamber, and we will say no more about it.’

‘Very well.’ Rufus Munro drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘What do you think of Blackreach, lass?’ he said to Orla.

‘It is as I expected, Laird Munro.’

Rufus leaned forward and smirked. ‘You look like you have a bad smell under your nose, lass. Leave your airs and graces behind, for here, we are simple folk and have no need for finery.’

‘No, only land,’ she retorted.

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