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‘Do as you please, Orla, but you must tell someone where you are going and take a dry musket next time, and then whatever happens, on your head be it.’
Wolfric rolled over and seethed in the darkness. It was a start at building trust, this attempt at kindness, or was he simply allowing Orla to make a slave of his heart?
‘I am sorry I caused you to worry, Wolfric,’ she whispered, her voice thick with tears. ‘And thank you for looking out for me.’
It was a relief to roll over and take her in his arms, and he drifted off to sleep, exhausted by their quarrel.
Chapter Seventeen
It was crowded and unseasonably hot in the great hall at Penhallion Castle, which was a far grander affair than Blackreach. Orla longed for its draughts and chill, for her arm ached from fluttering her fan to cool down. Everyone looked splendid in their silks and satins, and some of the ladies wore wigs of dizzying heights, adorned with butterflies, jewels and all manner of nonsense. With their heavily-powdered cheeks and rouged lips, it was hard to recognise any of her old acquaintances. But few folk had so far ventured to speak to her when Wolfric was by her side, looking simultaneously fierce and bored.
He had wandered off some time ago, and Bryce had descended to interrogate her about her life at Blackreach. But, for some reason, Orla could not bring herself to tell her cousin of her difficulties handling her glowering husband. So she made light of the whole business of marriage and was currently insisting that she had more freedom at the Munro manor than at Machrief and was content with her lot.
Bryce was not convinced. He raised one eyebrow. ‘Did the savage at least compliment you on that dress. You look very fine indeed this evening, cousin.’
‘Actually, it was his gift to me.’ Orla blushed as she remembered her joy that Wolfric had surprised her with the gift of the dress. She wondered if it was his way of making up for her parents’ stinginess in not sending all her others.
The dress had been laid out on the bed for her to find. It was a delight of sumptuous pale-blue silk, embroidered with colourful birds, like little jewels, and delicate coils of ivy. Wolfric had even given in and let them take the carriage to Penhallion so that she wouldn’t spoil her finery, though he had grumbled that it was a fop’s way to travel.
When they were trundling along the road, and her sitting awkwardly in her extravagant dress and towering white wig, Orla couldn’t resist asking, ‘What do you think of me?’
Wolfric had merely snarled, ‘You’ll do.’
‘What is the matter? Do you not like it?’ she had replied like a fool.
‘Do you care if I like it?’
‘No, but I would have your opinion all the same.’
‘Then I will say you look very well in that thing, as you are well aware. It is quite the transformation. Though I prefer the wild Orla to the tamed one. And the wig. Is it necessary, as you have such lovely hair?’
‘It is the done thing,’ she said. ‘It is expected.’
‘Aye, and we must always do the expected,’ he had sighed in reply.
‘Orla, Orla, what is vexing you?’ said Bryce, interrupting her musings.
‘Oh, nothing. ‘Tis fearfully hot in here, that is all,’ she replied, squirming under his scrutiny. ‘Have you invited every single person in the whole county?’
‘Aye, my father has outdone himself this time. Do stop fidgeting, Orla, and I’d venture you have had enough brandy for one night,’ he said, taking her glass from her.
‘I am thirsty, and I am in purgatory. Everything clings and itches.’
Bryce rolled his eyes. ‘Why can you not learn to simper and pout as the other ladies do?’
‘Because I’ve no wish to, and you sound like my mother.’
‘Well, if you want to get your own way with your husband, trust me, good cousin, this is the way to do it. Flutter your fan near your bosom,’ said Bryce, snatching her fan and bringing it to his face with a soft wrist and a coy bat of his eyelashes, to Orla’s great amusement.
‘Stop it, Bryce, you fool. My stays are too tight, and I have no breath for laughter.’
‘Very well, but if you will not employ such arts and trickery, many will. See over there. That snide little baggage, Fenella, is about to get her claws into your husband.’
Orla turned to see her rival, sweeping over to Wolfric, accompanied by her friends. Her laughter carried over the throng like the tinkling of fine glasses clinking together, high and singing. When she draped her hand down Wolfric’s arm with the merest of touches, Orla’s heart sank to her toes, and she suddenly felt nauseous.
‘Is Fenella not recently wed?’ said Orla.
‘Aye, to a flabby old goat, so that won’t stop her. And I think she is ragingly jealous that you got to the altar first.’
