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‘I doubt that.’
‘Doubt it, do you? Well, I do not. This is all the more reason to stamp your authority on this union with the lass, once and for all. Start as you mean to go on, son. Else Dunbar makes a fool out of us both. It is weakness to spare the lass. You shouldn’t give a savage filly its head, and you know it.’
‘Orla is not a horse, and I know just how to handle her, father. So, take yourself off to your bed, and leave me in peace.’
As his father limped off, making much of his gouty foot, he muttered, ‘To think you gave her your mother’s chamber, God rest her soul. She was the loveliest of women and true to me all her life. Nothing like this one you’ve dragged home.’
‘Aye, but I dragged Orla home at your insistence, remember,’ Wolfric shouted after him. ‘So if I have to make the best of it, so do you.’
‘Start by showing who’s master, Wolfric. You are a Munro and have your savage name to live up to. I trust you will do so this night.’
With that, his father left him to the flames, the whisky and his gloomy thoughts, and there Wolfric stayed for hours until an angry resolve took hold, and he set off for Orla’s chamber.
Chapter Twelve
Orla had not expected to be able to sleep in a strange chamber, in a house full of enemies, but at some time during the night, she must have dozed off. She woke to the sound of a key being twisted in a lock.
Were they shutting her in like a prisoner? She sat upright just as the curtains were swept back, and there stood Wolfric, holding a candle and wearing nothing but a shirt and a severe expression.
‘Best we get this thing done, lass, as quickly and painlessly as possible,’ he said gently.
Her mind was fuzzy with sleep, so she struggled to catch up. ‘You don’t mean to have me?’ she said, glancing at his long, pale legs in horror.
‘Aye. And before we begin, we’d both better bolster our courage. Here, take some brandy,’ he said, holding out a bottle.
‘I…I can’t. I do not want to.’
‘Lying together secures this union, lass, and it has to happen sooner or later. So drink it - the whole bottle if you need to. Trust me, the hard liquor is a kindness on my part, and I already know you like it. It will take the sting out of this thing we must do.’ Wolfric looked away as he said, ‘I am not accustomed to being gentle, lass, but I will try for your sake.’
Whatever could he mean? Was he going to beat her if she did not comply? There was nowhere to run and no way out of her obligations as a bride. If she fought, she would lose, and Wolfric might be rough with her. Perhaps the best thing was to comply and hope the ordeal ended quickly.
Heart thumping, dazed, and unable to think straight, Orla grabbed the bottle and gulped down some brandy. It was rough stuff and made her cough. Wolfric took it from her and threw back the rest of its contents. He flung the bottle down, and it rolled away, and before Orla could protest or gather her wits, Wolfric dropped the curtain, plunging them into darkness. The mattress bounced as he got into bed. For a moment, there was a horrible silence between them, and Orla started to say, ‘Surely we don’t really have to. We can pretend to….’
A strong hand came about her waist and cut off her words of protest as she was pulled up against Wolfric’s hot, hard bulk, as if she weighed nothing at all. Goodness, he was strong and so big - overwhelming, in fact. He eased on top of her, and then everything became a blur.
Hot, heavy warmth pressed to her, and a manly smell - musky, heady, a clean, soapy aroma. His hair brushed her face, and she caught the scent of heather. Orla bit her lip and imagined a wide, purple carpet of it and Wolfric lying there, staring up at the sun. Rough stubble scoured her face, and she snapped back to reality. Wolfric’s hands were on her skin. They were firm but gentle - not forcing, not bruising, easing her legs apart, his mouth on her neck, hot breath. He took hold of her thighs and spread them wide.
Then Wolfric’s fingers found her down below as his full weight crushed her. Though her senses were somewhat dulled by the liquor, his touch was so intense that Orla could not find her breath. She gasped as his fingers made contact with her soft, pink, secret place, where she had sometimes touched herself, bringing shame and delight in equal measure.
When Wolfric touched her, it was like being tickled by a flame, and she almost forgot where she was. A shudder of lust ripped through her, buoyed by the brandy taking effect. Her loins seemed to turn to liquid, and the feeling was not entirely unpleasant – humiliating, yes, - too intimate, too raw, too exposing - but building to a throbbing peak which Orla suddenly wanted to climb.
Something hard and hot prodded at her, and then Wolfric was inside her, stretching, pushing, stinging her like a cat’s scratch. Orla yelped, and Wolfric lifted his weight off her a little. His hand went into her hair. The other gripped her buttock and pulled her up to meet his inward thrusts.
It was painful but short-lived, for Wolfric seemed to be in a fearsome rush, and before long, he stiffened on top of Orla’s rigid body, and his manhood pulsed inside her. She had the strangest urge to laugh and cry at the same time, and then Wolfric did the strangest thing. His mouth came down on hers, and he moaned his release into it as though he were in pain.
Orla tasted brandy-sweetness on his lips, distracting her from her discomfort. Wolfric kissed her gently in the darkness, in a way that made her want to cry, and then he rolled away. Orla lay rigid as his sweat cooled on her skin, not knowing what to say or do.
She wanted to curl up under the blankets and die of shame. There was something sticky and warm between her legs, and her skin was burning all over as if she had been scalded. Never had she been more thankful for darkness. At least within the curtains, she could not see the revulsion on Wolfric’s face when he forced himself to take her virginity.
‘I did not have a mind to your pleasure.’ Wolfric’s words crashed into the silence between them. ‘I thought you would prefer me to touch you as little as possible,’ he continued. ‘But in future, if you have a mind, I can make it easier for you, more pleasurable.’
‘That is not possible,’ she whispered.
‘Tis, if only you would let me.’
‘No. Do what you must, and what the law dictates I must suffer, and let us be done with it. Let us not pretend affection and consideration we do not feel.’
‘Alright, lass. It is your choice.’
