Page 62 of Won By The Highlander

‘You cling to your laws of primogeniture, you noble Englishmen. The first born in any family is the true heir, but when Queen Anne died without one of her poor children surviving her, you scratch about in Prussia and find the hapless King George. You happily ignore hundreds of years of heredity and put a foreigner on your throne and call him your King - a man who has no more connection and true love of England than I do.’

‘Aye, Sir, your disdain for our King could not be any clearer. It offends and injures me to hear such ingratitude. England’s union with Scotland has brought order here, even to these lawless Highlands. We give you people protection.’

‘You bring famine, food riots and forfeiture of estates and weapons for those who would champion the cause of independence.’

‘Yes, for those who cling to old dreams of lost influence and glory and choose to back the Jacobite rebels, there is a price to pay,’ said Nash.

‘And you will take that price, every penny of it.’

‘Aye, especially from those who side with a pretender King who clings to France’s skirts like a whimpering child. The Stuart is a coward, and if you are for him, you are a traitor who is doomed to disappointment, you and all the other malcontents.’

‘I am for Scotland and the Scots,’ said Wolfric evenly, narrowing his eyes at Nash.

‘Do you declare yourself a Jacobite, Sir?’ countered Nash.

‘I declare nothing to you, nor am I bound to. We are having a lively discussion of politics, are we not?’ said Wolfric, lounging back in his chair as though they were talking of the weather and not murderous insurrection. ‘But I will declare one thing. If your deserters or any of your soldiers so much as set foot on clan lands, they will be met with Munro justice.’

‘And what is that?’

‘You don’t want to find out, Captain Nash,’ said Wolfric.

Nash gave Orla a blatantly pitying look. Wolfric was certainly living up to her description of him as a brute, and Nash no doubt pitied her loveless marriage. Yet Orla’s certainty in his kindness waivered, for he sounded so different in the company of his own kind – rigid, superior, arrogant. Gone was the sad, gentle, understanding Nash who had consoled her on her unhappy union. Now, there was just this stranger who irritated her with his pity for her life and his contempt for Scotland. Was her friend also her enemy?

‘Aye, my son is right,’ said Rufus, snapping her out of her confusion. ‘Clan Munro land is out of bounds for English soldiers, and you have no business here.’

Major Sutherland stood. ‘We have come today in the spirit of goodwill.’

‘Aye, and you can go in goodwill too,’ snapped Rufus. ‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Those men are long gone. You’ll likely never see them again, nor any who get up to mischief on my land.’ Rufus stood. ‘I bid you good day, Major.’

With a curt bow, the two men stalked out, and a hideous silence followed. Wolfric’s steely gaze cut into Orla. He frowned when she looked at him, and his eyes seemed to scour her soul. Had he noticed the exchange of looks between her and Nash?

‘Well, that could have been handled with a great deal more discretion,’ said Rufus.

‘Insults are all they understand or respond to,’ said Wolfric, still staring at Orla. ‘Smarming and cowering will not serve us.’

‘But you as good as told them you are a Jacobite,’ shouted Rufus. ‘And as for you,’ he said, rounding on Orla. ‘What use are you, woman, if you cannot divert and entertain our guests?’

Wolfric grabbed Orla’s arm and hauled her out of the hall, shouting back, ‘They were not guests, father, and the lass played the obedient wife well enough.’

‘Aye, well, I am sorely discomforted by this turn of events, son. Indeed, I feel unwell. I am for my bed.’

‘Take the whisky with you, and drown your sorrows then.’

‘What are you doing?’ cried Orla, trying to escape his grasp.

‘We need to talk, somewhere quiet, where the walls do not have ears.’

***

The little walled garden on the south side of Blackreach was a refuge of sorts, tucked away from the main house and pretty in the pink blush of a setting sun. It was not manicured like Machrief’s. Wild heather and gorse had blown in and taken root, refusing to be dislodged, though they had no business being there, just like her at Blackreach. The gold and purple of their blooms softened the rough stone walls and vied for space with tangles of sweet peas and struggling vegetable plots. Orla stood shivering in the shade of apple trees at the far end of the garden.

Wolfric did not look at her as he said, ‘Do you share your father’s treacherous sympathies with those English bastards, or were you just all a’flutter at that young Captain’s shiny brass buttons and aristocratic good looks?’

‘My father’s what?’

Wolfric turned to her. ‘You heard me. Have those two ever been to Machrief? Have you seen them there? Does your father make them welcome, fawn over them, pass them information about us?’

‘No, I….’

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