The man cut her father off with astonishing rudeness. ‘Then I can only assume the rider you sent to my estate threw a shoe from his horse and was therefore delayed,’ he snapped. ‘Or did your carrier pigeon get taken by a hawk, Dunbar? I cannot account for this omission any other way.’ The man turned to the crowd. ‘Unless you lied, Dunbar Gordon, when you said it was an open contest.’
The entire hall fell silent. ‘There is no lie here, Rufus,’ sputtered her father.
‘Then surely it is a mistake, for do I not sit as a magistrate hereabouts? Do I not have sufficient standing amongst all here?’
‘Aye, but you seldom come to assemblies and….’
‘Then it is fortunate, Dunbar, that I heard of the contest for the hand of your fair daughter through tavern gossip. ‘Tis the talk of the county. So, I intend to throw my hat into the ring. Unless you have any objection, of course?’ The man narrowed his eyes.
A pained expression took Dunbar’s face. ‘Of course, you may compete, but I warn you, the course laid out is arduous and perilous. Only the most accomplished rider with the stoutest of hearts and a surfeit of stamina will prevail. Are you sure you want to risk it at your age?’ Dunbar smirked, but the other man did not seem to feel the barb.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. Plenty of life left in me yet. Now where is the prize?’ said the Rufus fellow, beaming at the assembly.
Someone hurled Orla forward with a shove to her back, no doubt her mother, and suddenly she was the object of everyone’s scrutiny. Her face turned to fire, and Orla could do nothing except lock eyes with the horrid old man.
His gaze roamed over her, and then he nodded, and a smug smile broke on his face. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I am pleasantly surprised. Not plain enough to repel, but not bonnie enough to stray.’
Everyone gasped at his rudeness.
‘She will do very well,’ he continued.
‘For who?’ squealed Orla, struggling to get her breath in the despicable corset, which was suddenly akin to having a bear bite down on her ribs.
His rheumy old eyes locked with hers. ‘A week, lass. You will see in a week.’ With that, the man turned and stalked out of the hall without so much as a by your leave.
Her mother grabbed her arm and hurried Orla from the hall as whispers spread like a plague.
‘Who is that old man, Mother?’ she gasped. ‘Surely you can’t mean to wed me to him if he wins the race?’
‘I would rather see you dead than wed to a Munro,’ said her white-faced mother. ‘How dare he barge in and ruin everything.’
‘A Munro. You mean that is….’
‘Aye, Rufus Munro, Laird of that clan and a snivelling, conniving thief of livestock, coin and land, is what he is.’
‘But I thought he was a hermit. No one has seen much of him for years, and he hardly ever comes into society.’
Her mother ignored her. ‘How dare he invade my festivities and disrupt our plans. I will die before I let him get his filthy hands on our land. To think his murky line might be joined to our pristine Gordon blood. It cannot be.’
‘But he is old. Surely he does not mean to compete? And surely he cannot win?’
‘No, he cannot. He is riddled with ague and has old bones. With any luck, he will be thrown from his nag and break his scrawny neck. Fear not. No one is a better horseman than Robbie Dunn. So you need not vex yourself.’
Her mother rushed away, and Bryce appeared at Orla’s side.
‘Well, that was unexpected,’ he declared gleefully, scratching his head.
‘Where have you been all night. I needed an ally.’
‘I was, erm, otherwise engaged. I didn’t expect old Rufus Munro to turn up. The gall of the man, really.’
‘What manner of man is Rufus Munro? The Munros have the most shocking reputation, and I hear he rarely goes into company.’
‘Ah well, you are not wrong. He is a bad lot, aye, a very bad lot. He was wed, but he is a widower now. He sired a son and a wild one at that. But the son was sent away by his father a few years ago after a serious falling-out. Maybe Rufus wants to wed because he is lonely and needs an heir.’
‘That is far from comforting. The very notion of sharing a bed with that old man is nauseating.’
‘But he’ll not win, and even if by some miracle he did, he is as likely to spurn you as to wed you, just to offend Dunbar. As they say, ‘there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip.’ You can hope for jilting at best, or wedlock to an old man at worst, and then a speedy widowhood to set you free.’