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Silence followed, his breathing heavy in the darkness. Would he gloat over his triumph now, mock her, or even worse, pity her?
‘Shall I stay to keep you company, Orla? This is our wedding night, after all, and no matter what you think of me, I would not have you lonely.’
It was the first time that Wolfric had said her name in a kindly way, and it was intrusive and wrong, and confusingly, it made her want to cry again. ‘No,’ she said quickly before tears could strangle her voice. ‘Leave me be. I want you to go.’
Wolfric got up and pulled back the curtain. In the light from the fire’s embers, he was beautiful - all shadowy, swelling muscles and long, strong legs. He was powerful and potent - all his masculine grace on show. Had the circumstances been different, she might have found his rough beauty appealing, for she had never admired groomed dandies with painted faces, silk breeches and powdered wigs. But this man had hurt her. He had taken a prize from her, far beyond her land and freedom. And for that, her wounded pride hated him.
Wolfric dressed quickly. He sighed and hung his head. ‘Forgive me if I hurt you. You should know that I tried my best not to.’
‘Well, you did not succeed,’ she said, swallowing hard.
‘Then I’d best take my leave. My chamber is down the hall. I will sleep there, apart from the times I visit here. So I bid you goodnight, and Orla, it will get easier. I promise you that.’
Shortly afterwards, the door banged shut, and Orla was alone with soreness between her legs, tears in her eyes and confusion in her heart. What did he mean? ‘It will get easier.’ Did he intend to do that again? Surely not. But he had said he would visit. What a polite word to choose for what he had just done.
Yet somewhere in Wolfric’s fumbling and grabbing and thrusting, there had been a kernel of pleasure. The realisation made Orla a stranger to herself, for no sane woman should enjoy that, should they?
An image of him with the doxy in the marketplace slid into Orla’s mind. She was beginning to understand why that woman had clung to Wolfric and urged him on. No. It could not be. It was insupportable that she could find enjoyment in that carnal, filthy brute, Wolfric Munro. If she did, she would want him to lie with her and do all those wicked things again. Then his victory would be complete. He would have his land and her as his fool.
No. Tomorrow, she would start being as objectionable as possible - cold, nasty and shrewish. Her husband would get no encouragement to return to her bed. In fact, she would do everything in her power to repel him. Aye, that was the way forward.
Orla lay back and pulled the blankets over her head. In the darkness, she reached down and grabbed herself between the legs to ease the ache there. It helped, but it did nothing to dispel a horrible surge of lust low down in her belly, and Wolfric Munro was the cause of it. Damn his eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
Orla rose the following morning with no idea what she was supposed to do with her day. She peeked out of the curtains around the bed. The chamber was deserted, thank goodness. She had half expected Wolfric to be lurking there to punish her with his attention again.
Gentle sunlight seeped through the windows. It must be early hours, still. When she swept them back, Orla spotted some clothes draped across a chair. Someone must have left them for her.
Though Orla did not want to leave the cosy chamber for the terrors of Blackreach, her pride urged her to face the Munros, and for that, she needed to be decent. She ran to the door and locked it. As she twisted the key, she wondered if Wolfric had a key of his own so that he could enter her chamber whenever he liked. Well, her unwanted husband might enter the chamber, but he could not enter her whenever the fancy took him, which she would make quite clear this day. Orla was still confused as to why he had lain with her at all, other than to assert his dominance, as they clearly had a mutual loathing for each other.
The clothes were surprisingly fine - a simple blue plaid dress complete with a stomacher embroidered with little flowers of gold thread. There was also a soft linen shift with a froth of lace at the hem and bodice. It was far more expensive and frivolous than the clothes her parents provided and designed to titillate the palate of the most jaded of men. It would have to do.
As she struggled to fasten her stays, there came a tentative tap on the door. Orla opened it to find a skinny lass bearing a breakfast tray and a terrified expression. Her hands shook so much, that there was a terrible clinking of crockery.
‘I…I have breakfast, Lady, at my Laird’s command.’
‘Then you had best serve it,’ said Orla, sweeping back the door. Word must have circulated about her terrible character and shocking temper, for it seemed that the servants dreaded her already.
The servant scurried in and placed the tray on a small gilt table in the corner near the fire.
‘The fire has almost gone out, and the room is a little chilly. Can you bank it?’ said Orla.
‘Aye, Lady,’ whispered the lass, bobbing an awkward curtsey.
She was almost bonnie, with golden hair and a graceful manner. Yet she was so pale and thin, Orla feared she would snap in two with the lightest of touches. Her pretty eyes were wide and fearful, like a rabbit’s, and her hands shook, yet the day was not that cold. To Orla, the servant seemed a pitiful creature, so she smiled to put her at ease.
Orla took a bannock from the tray. It was delicious, still warm from the oven, and there was pale, creamy butter to smear on it. ‘What is your name?’ asked Orla, stuffing it into her mouth.
‘Elva.’
‘These are delicious. Did you bake them?’ she said.
‘Oh, no. ‘Tis cook’s work and she rises fearfully early to bake them. I do too, rise early, that is, to bank the fires and help in the kitchens and such.’
‘I see. Well, I must pay a visit to the cook and compliment her on her skills. Where is my husband?’ asked Orla.
The lass swallowed hard. ‘He rode out with his men at dawn. In a fearful temper, he was.’
