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‘Fine and handsome young man from a good family,’ offered her mother, giving Dunbar a dirty look. ‘What is it you find so objectionable, Orla?’
‘He is proud, Mother, and always looking down his nose at everyone. He preens like a peacock, and as to his manly attributes, well, I can best him at just about everything. I am a better rider than he is, an excellent markswoman with a pistol or a bow, and I have the strongest constitution and just as much courage as any man, and….’
‘No, no, no, Orla,’ screeched Ada. ‘Those are manly attributes, and if you want to catch a husband, you had best keep them to yourself. Men have their pride, you know, and it is not a good idea to reveal you are cleverer or more skilled than they are.’
‘Aye, in the matter of marriage, a woman need only be bonnie and buxom, with round, child-bearing hips. Character does not matter too much,’ offered her father.
Her mother cast Dunbar an acid look which bounced off him as he clapped his hands together with glee. ‘Aye, we will have a race with you as the fair prize, daughter.’
‘Just because I am the fourth daughter does not mean you can just throw me away. Do you really want to be rid of me that much?’
Ada sighed. ‘You are two and twenty, Orla. You cannot remain unwed, hanging around Machrief like stale bread and just about as tempting. Eventually, you will lose your bloom and any chance of a good marriage.’
‘Oh, this is insufferable, and I shall not do it.’
‘Is that so? You will obey me in this, Orla, as a dutiful daughter should. Else, we will cast you out of this house. And that is my final word,’ said Dunbar.
‘Aye, now take yourself off and delight in your good fortune,’ said her mother. ‘I still have a bone to pick with your father.’
As she rushed away in a boiling temper, Orla flinched at the crash of a jug hitting something, which she sincerely hoped was her father’s head. Damn them both. As an example of matrimony, her parents presented a joyless picture, and now they were dooming her to the same fate. Their vast indifference to her welfare had never ceased to amaze her, but they were going too far this time.
***
Orla rushed through Machrief Castle, heading for the stables. The sky outside was an angry grey, but she barely noticed.
When she reached the stable, she saddled her favourite mount and was to gallop out when Dawes, the stable master, yelled out to her.
‘My word, you seem in a fearful rush and a fine temper too, Miss Gordon.’
Orla rolled her eyes and shook her head.
‘Is it the Laird and his good lady vexing you?’
‘When are they not vexing me, Dawes?’
His face creased in understanding, but amusement danced in his eyes. ‘There’s no reason to suffer a drenching on their account. The drizzle is thick, and I don’t like the look of that sky. ‘Tis threatening a storm. Best not go out just now. Midnight will spook and come to grief,’ he added, patting her huge, black horse.
‘He will not spook while I hold the reins, and it is I who am about to come to grief, Dawes, not this beast,’ she said, spurring the horse forward into the darkening afternoon.
Orla rode at full pelt through the misty drizzle, which engulfed the distant mountains in a soft blanket of grey. The fields were sodden, and mud spattered her skirt and petticoats but went unheeded in her turmoil. She was fit to explode with anger and could not calm the pounding of her heart and the thud of blood in her ears.
When she reached higher ground, she looked down on Machrief Castle - her home, birthright, and curse. In many ways, she was fortunate. Her home was grand - a hulking stronghold of soaring stone walls and certainty. Clan Gordon owned swathes of rich, fertile farmland, vast herds of cattle and woods groaning with timber, pouring coin into her father's coffers, squeezed from his resentful tenants. In the shifting world of clan politics, Dunbar Gordon held his ground, through alliances, subterfuge and by wedding his children to the wealthy and powerful.
His was a fruitful marriage, if not a calm one, and, like a proud cockerel, he had produced a clutch of five legitimate offspring and, no doubt, quite a few illegitimate ones.
Was this really going to happen? Must she leave Machrief and be married off like her three older sisters? The very thought made her fists clench, and her stomach turn with revulsion. Orla spat on the ground in absolute fury and headed uphill.
She reached the sanctuary of a tumble-down cottage just as the first rumble of thunder split the silence, followed quickly by a flash brightening the sky. Midnight reared up, hooves clawing the air, but she easily brought the stallion under control. It was all a matter of showing who was in charge, and when it came to horses, it was always her. She dismounted and led him inside. The door and shutters were missing from the cottage, and its roof had fallen in on one side, but it was a shelter of sorts. Orla stared out, leaning against the door jamb in utter misery, dwelling on her shortcomings, as the rain hissed down.
She was a late child, born unexpectedly into the twilight of her parents’ conjugal activities, and she was a disappointing one, having been born lacking the necessary attributes – a pair of balls. Orla had long been overlooked in their noisy, chaotic household of four daughters and one son. Of course, her brother, Hew, had long since departed for London to ‘sow his wild oats before settling down,’ as her father said fondly, and to follow a life of ease and indolence too, no doubt. Yet he was still the favoured child in receipt of a large allowance.
But she had no particular beauty or accomplishments and preferred to be outdoors as often as possible, being unable to sit still for her many exasperated tutors as she grew up. Everyone in Orla’s family remarked on her quick temper, defiance and inability to act in anything approaching a ladylike manner. She had no patience for small talk or rib-breakingly tight stays, or spending hours fussing over her hair and painting her face. She was a terrible dancer and could never hold her steps, and she had a fiercely competitive spirit which, in her mother’s opinion, was indicative of an ungenerous and prideful character. And compared to her stunning flaxen-haired sisters, she was woefully lacking in delicacy. While they were pert and petite, she was tall and curvaceous. This last shortcoming had been a camouflage of sorts. Her parents had let her run wild, but now they were turning their beady eyes on her, sensing an advantage.
‘Damn that wretch of a McTaggart lad and that snivelling Erskine lass for marrying,’ she muttered to herself. ‘They have doomed me to just as awful a fate,’ Midnight.’ The horse gave her a blank brown stare in return. ‘And you are no help.’ Orla sighed. ‘So I must rely on my own devices to get out of this union.’
She squinted when she caught movement off in the distance. Two dark bulks were approaching through the rain – mounted men, coming towards the cottage. They could be villains, soldiers from Fort George, or worse. Orla reached down and fingered the dirk she kept strapped to her leg for such an emergency. It was there, snug against her calf.
As they came closer, Orla saw that the men had plaids pulled over their heads for protection from the elements. It was impossible to tell if they were friend or foe, but they were Scots at least.
