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Chapter One
Scottish Highlands 1720
The sound of breaking crockery and yelling alerted Orla to her parents’ latest quarrel long before she reached their bedchamber. Orla rushed in to find her mother hurling an exquisite gilt clock at her father’s bald spot. He swatted it away just in time and bellowed, ‘What nonsense is this, you foolish old hag? ‘Twas but few hours drinking and wagering, gentlemanly pursuits, that is all.’
‘In a whorehouse, you worm,’ squealed her mother.
Orla rushed between them and brought a finger to her lips. ‘Hush, both of you, before you wake the entire household.’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ wailed her mother, Ada, her fine-boned face turning beetroot red with anger. ‘Oh, woe is me that I should be saddled with such a deceitful wretch as your father. He dares to come to my bed in the early hours reeking of ale and sin. God save us as we are all led to ruin by his depravity.’ Ada Gordon seized upon a jug, and Orla had to wrench it from her hands before it served as a weapon.
‘Dearest, sweetling, nothing untoward occurred. I swear,’ said Dunbar Gordon, shoving his wig onto his head to cushion it against another missile. ‘I only frequent such an establishment to keep an ear to the ground, my love. And it was a most auspicious visit last night, for I heard some vexing news which affects our prospects and those of our dear daughter.’
‘Me?’ said Orla, reluctant to be dragged into the discussion. The less she was the object of her parents’ scrutiny, the better.
‘Aye, and this news rocked me to my core,’ said her father, eyes flicking nervously to her mother.
Fortunately for Dunbar, his wife’s rabid appetite for gossip meant she was easily distracted. ‘What news, about whom?’ said Ada.
Dunbar rushed to Ada and put his arms on his wife’s shoulders, if only to stop her from grabbing more weapons to hurl. Brace yourself, Ada. Ewin McTaggart is betrothed to one of the Erskine daughters. They will forge an alliance through marriage as we have done with our daughters.’
Ada’s mouth fell open. ‘That cannot be. Ewin is meant for our Orla.’
‘No, he is not,’ said Orla. ‘And this is the first I’ve heard of it.’
Her parents ignored her. ‘Which daughter, husband?’ said Ada.
‘The youngest, I believe.’
‘That skinny, slip of a thing, Meg? Why she has neither wit nor beauty and with barely a hint of a bosom to recommend her, unlike our darling child who has….’
Her mother trailed off. Both her parents gave Orla a glance up and down before continuing with their outrage, as though she was not an object of vast disappointment.
‘This is very bad, Dunbar, very bad indeed. McTaggart lands abut ours. If they join in this unholy union, it will affect our own standing with the other clans hereabouts. My God, to have the McTaggarts and the Erskines breathing down our necks. They are not fond of you, Dunbar, either of them, and now those devils will scheme to take your place as the most esteemed Laird of the county.’
Orla piped up. ‘If Ewin Mc Taggart has found happiness with this Meg lass, can we not be happy for them, Mother?’
‘Happy?’ squealed her father. ‘Are you run mad? They are loyalists, supporters of those Hanoverian upstarts squatting on the throne.’
‘But are we not loyal to King George too?’ said Orla.
‘When it suits us, aye, but presently it does not. Have you not noticed English troops garrisoned at Fort George, watching our every move since the last Jacobite rebellion?’
‘Aye, but when the English soldiers came last week and asked for shelter, you were most accommodating. I recall them quaffing a good deal of your finest whisky.’
‘A wise man does not pick a side, daughter. Instead, he watches and waits to see his advantage.’
‘But you were positively fawning over them, Father.’
‘I was not fawning. I was manoeuvring. And you don’t antagonise a wolf when he has you by the throat, foolish lass. You should stay out of political matters that do not concern you.’
‘Oh, never mind the English troops,’ said her mother. ‘What are we to do about the McTaggart wretch and his marriage?’ Her mother began pacing whilst gnawing on a nail, and so Orla attempted an escape.
‘I will leave you to puzzle out this dilemma,’ she said.
‘No, you will stay,’ said her mother. She turned to her husband. ‘We need a wedding of our own to crow about, to take the shine off theirs.’
‘An alliance of our own, aye, of course,’ piped up Dunbar, his fox-sly face rapt on Orla’s. ‘One that will unsettle the McTaggarts and make them look like the money-grubbing peasants they are.’
