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‘Jealous of that excuse for lovemaking? I am not, for you seemed to be doing a woeful job of it. I’ve seen farmyard dogs couple with more finesse.’
‘Is that so?’ he said lightly, yet anger flushed his face. She had hit a nerve. ‘Well, as you are quite plainly jealous, and as you’ve curtailed my pleasure by barging into my tryst, perhaps I should seek recompense. I clearly have much to learn, so why don’t you take the lass’s place up against that wall, and we shall see if I can hone my skills on you?’
‘How dare you. That is unthinkable!’
‘Why? You are comely enough. I wouldn’t say no. I like a lass with flesh on her bones and paps that overspill my hands. Aye, a tasty morsel, you are to be sure. And as long as you keep that plump little mouth shut, we should get along very well.’ He took a step forward and smiled. ‘On our short acquaintance, I have realised that the less you speak, the better.’
Up close, it was clear he was a villain - roughly dressed in mud-spattered breeches, a leather jerkin and an old jacket, moss green and moth-eaten. He was also heavily armed.
‘You will leave me be, Sir. I’ll have you know, I’m a lady.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t look like one, and besides, no one around these parts of Inverness is a lady. Come on. You are a fine little filly, and I promise to give you a vigorous gallop now that I have anger to work off as well as lust. I have coin, lass, lots of it.’
The young man stepped closer, with mischief all over his handsome face. The thought of being on the receiving end of the treatment he had just given the woman made Orla’s legs turn to jelly, her stomach flip over and her loins flood with heat.
Holding his black gaze, Orla lifted her skirts slowly, and his smile deepened, bringing dimples to his cheeks. But it faded when she snatched out the dirk strapped to her thigh. Orla held it out in front of her.
He frowned. ‘I appreciate the show of leg, lass. Most shapely, I must say. But put that toothpick down before you prick yourself with it.’
‘Come any closer, and I’ll….’
Before she could react, the man took two strides and was upon her, clutching her wrist firmly and directing the dirk well away from him. He shook it free from her hand, and it clattered to the cobbles. She was now defenceless, and his grip was like iron.
Orla bit her lip. ‘Would you do me harm, Sir?’ she said in desperation. Perhaps she could appeal to his good side if he had one. She tried to force tears into her eyes.
The man brought his face close to hers. ‘Quite the opposite of harm,’ he breathed, his mouth inches away, black eyes locked to hers. ‘You have a strong spirit and more courage than most lasses, taking me on like this. But you are out of your depth, lass. No one should challenge me when my blood is up.’
His snarl of a mouth edged closer – even white teeth, whisky and sin on his breath. And he was so big, towering over her. Any minute now, he would press that mouth to hers, kiss her, take liberties, for he was obviously a foul lecher.
‘Don’t,’ whined Orla in a panic.
‘Never fear. I find you to be a pious, preaching shrew, and though you are comely enough, aye, enough to tempt any man, I still wouldn’t have you up against that wall if you paid me to. So rest assured, your virtue is quite safe around me.’
The rude devil released her, picked up the dirk and handed it back to her, hilt first. ‘The market square is that way,’ he said, with a jerk of his head. ‘Best scurry back, lass, before I really lose my temper.’
Orla took her chance and rushed away on weak legs. When she was a good distance off, she turned and shouted, ‘You are a blackguard of the highest order.’
‘Am I now?’ he said, amusement all over his handsome, slappable face.
‘I pray I never set eyes on you again,’ spat Orla.
‘Likewise,’ he spat back.
Orla rushed off, cheeks on fire and blood boiling, nursing the awful feeling she had just been bested. Oh, was there no end to the vexation of men?
Chapter Four
Race Day arrived, and heavy rains came and went, and by the light of torches before dawn’s full light, Orla saw the yard at Machrief turn to a quagmire of muck and puddles. A pewter sky was streaked pink as if the clouds were bleeding, and Orla shivered as a bad feeling tickled down her spine. Courage now. It was just a lack of sleep bringing on a grim mood.
Her plan was not for the faint-hearted, but she was sure she could pull it off, and she had lain awake all night perfecting it. But even on a fine day, the course was treacherous - a twisting, five-mile loop around the loch, through steep inlets, rock-strewn glens and dark woods. It would be even more dangerous in wet weather.
The yard was soon packed with foolish young men astride fine horses, all jostling for the best position to funnel out of Machrief’s gates and along the narrow bridge spanning the moat. Orla prayed none of them would come to grief before they could fan out and head down the glen onto more open ground at the loch’s edge. If any of these young men lost life or limb this day, the blame would be placed firmly on her father’s shoulders, and it would cause a nastier feud than marrying his daughter wherever he chose.
Her father had obviously thought of this thorny issue as he kept staring white-faced at Machrief’s gates from his vantage point atop the steps leading into the castle. Or was he looking for the arrival of the shrivelled Rufus Munro? Either way, this day could see his plan come crashing down and be the ruin of them all, her especially.
Finally, when the riders in the yard became restless to be off, and the sun rose, Dunbar Gordon stepped forward and rang a bell for silence.
‘Welcome, one and all,’ he shouted, taking out his timepiece and checking it. ‘The hour is almost upon us, and ‘tis a fine day for a race, for glory and for finding a bride.’
