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Chapter Five
Orla swung her horse around, and there was Wolfric Munro, his nasty mount still fighting the bit. And he was looking straight at her when he said, ‘Laird, I demand you declare the race settled, and I as the winner.’
‘But you are not the winner. This fellow came in first,’ sputtered Dunbar Gordon.
‘Fellow? I think not,’ said Wolfric with a smug smile. ‘That is no lad. That is a woman.’
Robbie Dunn came galloping in, jerking his horse’s head about to bring it to a skidding halt and glaring at her and Wolfric.
All eyes turned to Orla, and there was nothing she could do but pull down her mask and rip off her cap to reveal herself. Her long blonde hair fell about her shoulders, and she was met with horrified gasps from the crowd.
‘That is Orla Gordon. What trickery is this?’ snarled Robbie.
‘Stay out of it. You lost,’ sneered the awful Wolfric.
‘So did you. Bested by a lass,’ retorted Robbie.
Wolfric’s face hardened. ‘If I was bested, so were you and all us fellows in this race. The lass reached the finish first, and she out-rode every one of us.’ He locked eyes with her and nodded. Confusion clutched at Orla’s heart as his approval heated her face. Then she caught sight of her mother’s steely glare and her father’s worried face and was chastened. She stared down at the reins in her hand and could not meet their eyes
Several other riders were streaming in to witness the spectacle. Shouting broke out in the crowd - angry, outraged.
‘Dunbar entered his own daughter in the contest. That is unfair.’
‘I’ll not pay out on any wager with this outcome.’
‘A blasted woman, racing against men. It is insupportable.’
Any minute now, they would become a lynch mob with her father the target.
‘What mischief is this, Dunbar? Do you mean to dangle a prize in our faces and then snatch it away?’ said one man. ‘Did you bring us here to make fools of us, to be bested by some slip of a lass?’
One rider stood in his stirrups and bellowed, ‘I say he owes us recompense for this ruse. I risked life and limb today, and for what?’
‘For the hand of the fair Lady Gordon, here before us,’ said Wolfric, turning to the man. ‘Is she not a fine sight? Will she not make me a fine bride?’
‘But you didn’t win,’ she shouted at him. ‘I beat every one of you, fair and square, so that means no man here is worthy, especially not you.’
‘Ah, but I did win,’ Wolfric replied, not to her but to the crowd. ‘The contest was laid out thus. The first man to return to Machrief with the marker wins the race and the hand of Orla Gordon, along with the land at Wildwood Glen. Nowhere did I hear mention of the woman who wins the race receiving anything. And how can the prize in a race also be the winner? It defeats logic. I am in the right, am I not, Laird Gordon?’ he continued, turning to her father, whose face had now gone a startling shade of puce. ‘I am the man who won the race. The lady is surely disqualified by virtue of her sex?’
‘This is not right,’ snarled Robbie. ‘The Munro wretch cheated. There is some wicked plot at play here. That bastard swerved his horse into mine and forced it down a gully. He punched and kicked me and ….’
‘No, he did not.’ The words spilt out unbidden, fuelled by rage that squeezed Orla’s heart and hardened her resolve. ‘You did that. I saw it all. You tried to kill him. You are the cheat. And instead of snivelling about losing, like a whimpering bairn, maybe a better use of your time might be to practise your skill on a horse, you pitiful wretch of a man.’
‘Daughter, be silent. Come here this instant and cease this shameless display,’ shouted her mother, giving Robbie a stricken look.
‘Are you going to allow this travesty, Laird Gordon?’ snarled Robbie.
‘Aye, he is,’ said Wolfric. ‘How can he do otherwise? I am the best man on this day, and I rode you into the ground, maggot.’ He narrowed his eyes at her father. ‘Unless your word is worthless, you must name me the winner. Well?’
Dunbar looked around at the crowd, who now bore a hushed hostility. He shook his head at Orla.
‘No, father. Please,’ she said.
‘Enough. I made a vow, and I will keep it. My daughter is disqualified from this race as she entered without my consent or knowledge. My word is my bond, and so her hand in marriage and the land up at Wildwood Glen and all its bounty shall go to….’ Her father struggled on as if the very words choked him. ‘It shall go to Wolfric Munro.’
The wretch dismounted and rushed over to her. Before Orla could protest, Wolfric grabbed her around the waist and tore her from Midnight’s back. And then, with horrible cheek, he pulled her roughly against his belly and planted a kiss on her mouth.
His lips were so hot and dominating that Orla was momentarily dumbstruck. Wolfric slid his cheek against hers, his mouth to her ear. ‘Well, if it isn’t the harpy who spoiled my pleasure in that alley in Inverness. Seems you may not be such a prude after all. You certainly don’t taste like one.’
