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‘Our faults by this estimation are many and grave, and their resolution falls to the Lady of Blackreach, which is now you,’ he said in clipped tones. ‘So there you have it. Your first task as my wife. You may organise my household as you see fit. But leave the folk here be, and Orla, you will treat Elva and all my other servants gently.’
‘I have no intention of doing otherwise.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Wolfric. He turned his back on her, his shoulders heaving with some inner turmoil, and Orla took the wise course and retreated. She had pushed him too far this day. She had to be more careful. And why was he so angry at her asking about Elva? She had definitely touched a nerve there. Was he enraged that someone had uncovered his tyranny with his servants? Had she struck at his pride with her assessment of his character?
Orla rushed out into the sunshine and surveyed the yard with a thumping heart. What good did it do to dwell on that wretch, Wolfric? She had no reason to want his good opinion. But now, Orla had a purpose, which was to run Blackreach, and she was going to excel at it. Surely, she could get the servants on her side in time. That would make life more bearable. Aye, she would show her husband that a Gordon was made of far sterner stuff than a Munro.
Her turmoil had her rushing out of the gates towards the gleaming water of the loch. On its shores, she stopped dead and stared out at the water. It boasted a small island in the middle, covered in trees, and at its centre, something dark lurked. Orla squinted into the sunshine. It was a small tower, but like everything at Blackreach, it looked almost derelict. Something about it made her flesh creep, so she turned and trudged back, hardening her resolve.
She would prevail here, no matter what, and she would see Wolfric in hell before she followed his commands.
Chapter Fourteen
The whisky burnt Wolfric’s throat, fuelling his resolve to act, yet he laughed inwardly at his weakness. Since when did he need to bolster his courage to have a woman? And that woman was his wife. Orla belonged to him. He had taken on the burden of marriage for the betterment of his clan’s fortunes. Should he not get something in return? Aye, there should be no struggle with his conscience. He would provide for Orla, and in return, she must do her duty by him.
So why had he taken himself off for the last two weeks? Was it to avoid her bed and her tortured forbearance when he put his hands on her? The tavern and its sweet oblivion of ale had given him no release from thinking about his wedding night and that hurried, clumsy taking of his wife. And now, it was killing his lust for any other woman. Why did women always want him, but none of them needed him nor loved him?
Now Orla, she really hated him. She looked down on his family and his clan. She was a shrew, a scold, a haughty bitch who treated him with contempt, and if he was to be master at Blackreach, he could not have that. So he must assert his authority, and if he avoided her bed, he would be giving Orla the upper hand.
Aye, all these arguments favoured him demanding his marital rights, yet none of them made him turn and mount the stairs to her chamber, save one.
He wanted the lass.
Was it her defiant nature that stirred his loins when he looked upon her? Or was it her long-legged grace upon a horse, commanding the beast with just a flick of her hands and a squeeze of her firm thighs? There was also the danger that she might slit his throat while he slept, which added a delicious edge to the whole affair.
And how could he resist her long sweep of thick flaxen hair, wavy like the loch’s surface on a windy day? And her eyes were lovely - slanted, green, bright. Oh, and her mouth and its full pout, that was more a whore’s than a lady’s.
Wolfric had never been particular about who he shared a bed with, for he found all women beautiful in one way or another. But most neither challenged nor excited him beyond taking his pleasure and leaving. Yet his reluctant, snarling wife raised his lust along with his ire in equal measure. So Wolfric took a deep breath to calm his ardour, knocked on Orla’s chamber door and entered the lion’s den.
Orla stood at the window, looking out and brushing her hair, turned to gold by the setting sun. She looked him up and down. ‘Why do you have a bruised eye?’ she said, with not the merest hint of concern.
‘A dispute over a gambling debt turned ugly, but I came off best.’
‘It doesn’t look like it. You look like a footpad. What are you doing here?’
‘Come to see to the welfare of my wife?’
‘After two weeks?’ she exclaimed.
‘Sufficient time for you to reconcile yourself to being wed, I hope, lass, he said with a wink.’
‘A lifetime would not accomplish that.’ Orla folded her arms across her chest.
‘Have you at least become acquainted with my clansmen here at Blackreach?’ said Wolfric.
‘Aye, and they are an unwashed, rowdy bunch, but for the most part, better-mannered than their master.’
‘So, they have treated you with respect, Orla.’
‘For the most part, they avoid me. But they are respectful, aye.’
‘Good. I am glad to hear you are settling in.’
Orla went back to brushing her hair. ‘Tell me what you want, Wolfric, and begone.’
‘I have come to make my son and heir,’ he declared with a grin.
‘Are you drunk?’ she said, frowning.
