Page 38 of Won By The Highlander

Orla bit her lip. What was the point of arguing when he would have his way? And she needed to get out of Blackreach to take her mind off what she had just done abed with Wolfric.

The wretch had the gall to lean over and try to kiss her, but she leapt to the other side of the bed. It did not seem to bother him.

‘I will see you in the stables. Make haste,’ he said cheerfully, and then Wolfric was off, and Orla was left in a crumpled bed – a shameful reminder of the terrible, lustful things she had just let him do to her. Yet, as she chewed on a nail, she could not help but grin at the recollection. How could he make her feel like that? She had been utterly lost in pleasure so intense that it had made her forget her own nature and how much she hated Wolfric. And that moment with his tongue down there. Orla put her hand between her legs, sending a throb of pure lust searing up her belly just at the thought of him between her legs. Oh, the man was a fiend, and no matter how good he had felt under her hands, she would not be bested by him.

She got up, and as she was getting dressed, Orla glanced out of the window, down into the yard. She hung back when she spotted Wolfric striding out, shouting his orders.

There was no denying he made a fine sight with his black hair catching the sunlight, so glossy and thick. He swept it off his face with a broad hand. That same hand had been between her legs, driving her to a peak of pleasure just a short while earlier. Aye, he was a stallion indeed, not a gelding like Robbie Dunn.

Wolfric stopped and waved at someone, and then Elva, the servant came into view. She was carrying a basket of laundry. Wolfric smiled at her, took it from her hands, and set it down. To Orla’s surprise, he took hold of her arms and squeezed them, and Elva hung her head.

Wolfric looked furtively about the yard and then leant in and whispered something in her ear. Elva looked up and gave him a beaming smile, and Orla gasped.

There was something between them, something secret, hidden. It could only be one thing.

***

They rode for hours. Thankfully, Wolfric seemed to need little conversation and seemed content to bring her along for company as he visited crofters living within the rugged, green folds of Wildwood Glen. The homes had few comforts - thatched cottages with clay floors and smoky fires.

They would find large families of scrawny children and adults bent like wind-blown trees from years of back-breaking toil. Their sunken faces were wary at first, and their deference to Wolfric resentfully given, yet he was charming and cheerful in return.

Surprisingly, he introduced her as his wife with some pride, variously declaring her virtues as an excellent rider and in possession of a keen mind. Other times, he would declare that she had insisted on coming as she could not bear to be apart from him. He did it to tease, but Orla smiled through it like a simpleton so that she did not give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait. She was churning inside at what she had just conceded to him in bed and was determined not to be a fool, especially after seeing him with Elva. But what could she possibly expect from Wolfric Munro - loyalty, love, surety? It was disappointing that he might have another woman, to be sure, but it should come as no surprise. So why did it hurt so much?

With the midday sun bearing down, they finally sat on a fallen log to eat some oatcakes and cheese Wolfric had brought along. He offered her a flask, and Orla glugged down some whisky gladly.

When Wolfric reached out a hand, Orla flinched back. ‘There is dirt on your face,’ he said, licking his thumb and stroking it away with that look in his eye, which she was starting to recognise as lust.

‘What matter? I don’t mind a little dirt. Or do I not look grand enough for the Lady of Blackreach?’

‘I do not care about such things, nor should you. I am more concerned with the yield of this land. It should be higher and their conditions better.’

Orla frowned. ‘I am surprised the Laird’s son would bother to visit his tenants. Was it to declare your power over them?’

‘If you say so,’ he said, shrugging and looking away.

‘I believe a landowner can learn much from his tenants,’ said Orla, sensing she had angered him. ‘My father used to declare they were nought but peasants - mucky crofters, flea-pricked low folk. ‘Uneducated louts and thieves, who bleed me dry,’ he would say.’

‘Bleed him dry!’ said Wolfric. ‘It is clearly the other way around, for it seems his rents are set too high for what the land yields. These folk barely scratch a living and must survive on a handful of oats and some watery broth each day. I believe they are in dire straights. Do you disagree, Orla?’

‘No, for I can see with my own eyes that you are right. But my father would say, ‘They constantly bleat of their hardships with no mind to mine – the responsibility I have to the Crown, my other lairds, the taxes I have to raise to keep these lands safe. Fighting men don’t cost nothing, you know. They are mouths to feed.’

‘And yet he had a habit of gambling away his riches, did he not? Aye, Dunbar Gordon is a regular patron of the gaming houses of Inverness, and a few seedier establishments, too.’

Orla regarded the cheese in her hand as if it were the most important thing in the world as her face heated.

‘Is that why you do not trust men, Orla?’ said Wolfric. ‘Is it because your father shames your mother with other women?’

Wolfric’s expression was momentarily kind, but she did not trust it. He was after something. She searched his eyes and then, feeling she was staring too long, said, ‘That white slash through your eyebrow. How did you get it?’

‘A gambling disagreement in my youth. I called out a fellow for being a cheat, and he came at me with a bottle. Does it ruin my pretty face?’

‘You would have to have one in the first place, to ruin one.’

‘A good answer, lass.’ He smiled and held her gaze. ‘You did well today. You have a good manner about you with the common folk. They warmed to you, and I think it is because you have few airs and graces. You speak to them as equals, and that is a rare quality in a lass of your upbringing.’

‘I believe we can learn a great deal from these people. The farmers and village elders know herbs and potions to ease agues and fevers. They know how best to rotate crops, which fields to leave fallow, and which crops to set to get the best yield. They can tell if a winter will be harsh, a spring soft and bountiful. They are at one with the land. My mother would say, ‘What need have you of these things when you can be dainty and pleasing and bonnie?’

‘I can only imagine the bitterness of your response. Wolfric mimicked Orla perfectly as he said, ‘I cannot spend my youth simpering at worthless young men who are not my equal in intelligence, courage and fortitude.’

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