Page 61 of Won By The Highlander

‘My own,’ said Wolfric.

‘And you keep rooms in Narrows Lane, above the dressmaker’s.’ The Major frowned. ‘I must confess, that surprises me, for it is not the most respectable part of town. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Wolfric held the man’s gaze, and Orla’s heart thumped against her ribs in the silence. He kept rooms. Why? Humiliation tightened her throat. Her eyes darted to Nash, and he gave her a pained look.

‘Why keep a place there when you have a fine home and a lovely wife to come home to?’ said Nash in a rush. The Major shot him a warning look.

‘Ah, the lapdog speaks at last,’ growled Wolfric, dismissing Nash with a sneer and looking at Major Sutherland.

‘He is merely curious, as am I,’ said Major Sutherland.

Wolfric gave a sickly smile, swirling his whisky in the glass. ‘Surely, you do not expect a man to divulge all his secrets before his wife, do you?’

‘Ah, yes. Discretion is the better part of valour, or so they say, and it takes a brave man to upset the Lady Munro. Indeed, your wife has the reputation of being a strong woman.’

‘Honestly, Major Sutherland, I am not sure if you are insulting or complimenting me with that comment,’ said Orla, with a forced smile.

‘A compliment, Mistress, always a compliment, where you are concerned,’ said the Major. ‘And let me thank you for the diversion of your company. We rough, soldiers lack the refinement of genteel female company, being so far from our families in England. Wouldn’t you agree, Nash?’

‘Yes, absolutely. A soldier’s life is lonely and sorely lacking the civilising influence of the ladies.’ Nash coughed and grabbed the lapels of his jacket. Orla was sure it was to keep his hands from shaking. He was clearly angry on her account.

Wolfric leant forward. ‘But do your soldiers not endeavour to find female company in the Highlands, whether it be willing or not?’

‘What are you implying, Sir?’ said Nash.

Rufus banged his hand on the table. ‘Enough talk of women. Confounded devils and whores, most of them, leading men astray. That is my opinion. Now let us get to the crux of the matter before you have drunk my cellars dry. I have not seen your blasted men on my land, nor should I, as they are forbidden from marauding here.’

‘Marauding?’ said Orla, thinking back to her wedding day and those two sly redcoats challenging Wolfric.

Nash addressed her. ‘Lady Munro, we are seeking two men from Fort George who have disappeared. They were last seen heading onto Clan Ross land up at Burnfoote and have not been sighted since. So we are come to enquire if they have strayed onto your land.’

Clan Ross. Callum’s land. Could Bryce and his best friend be involved in this?

‘I have not seen them, and if I did, I would tell my husband,’ said Orla casually.

‘Of course, she would,’ said Wolfric. ‘My wife knows her place and is ever obedient.’ He downed his whisky in one go and slammed the glass down, making Orla jump. Then he gave a bitter smile. ‘Perhaps these fools are deserters, common criminals. Not everyone likes to suffer under the lash of the English army, and it is not too choosy about how it swells its ranks,’ said Wolfric. ‘I would wager they are halfway back to London by now, and good riddance.’

‘Oh, no,’ declared Major Sutherland. ‘These men were not deserters but good, loyal soldiers, both eager to do the King’s work.’

‘Ah, the King’s work - thieving, bullying and interfering with women. Are you proud of the King’s work, Major?’

‘It is insurrection, Sir, to insult the King. If you were in my army, I would flog the skin off your back.’

‘But I am not, and this is our land, under our rule, our justice.’

‘On the indulgence of King George,’ said Nash.

‘I don’t give a fig for King George or his indulgence,’ glared Wolfric, and he held Nash’s gaze until the other man looked away.

Rufus looked from one to the other with alarm, so Orla tried to intervene.

‘You men and your tedious talk of politics,’ she exclaimed, shaking her head. ‘I swear I cannot grasp most of it and….’

The Major cut her off. ‘So, Munro, you prefer to bow down before that pretender cowering in France, the upstart James Stuart.’ Spittle flew from his mouth. ‘Why he is nothing more than a foundling, a bastard smuggled into his mother’s birthing bed in a warming pan. And you fools raise him up to be King of Scotland. What idiocy.’

‘At least we are not hypocrites,’ said Wolfric.

‘How so, Sir?’

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