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‘It seems you do not relish the soldier’s life.’
‘I am reconciled to it and to spending my days in the company of arrogant officers barking their way up the ranks, all out for advancement at the expense of integrity. And I must own, I find many of the lower ranks scarcely rise above criminality and brutishness.’
‘I have heard of their brutality. My father says they spend their time here thieving, bullying and assaulting women.’
‘But surely you do not think I would indulge in such criminality.’ Nash’s face darkened to anger, and he went very still. ‘Yes, there are cowards in the ranks who think any common girl is fair game. But I will not tolerate such brutishness, and if I find any of my ranks acting like that, I will have them whipped until the skin is off their backs.’
Orla could not look at him. Such was the change in his countenance from sadness to anger.
‘Forgive my passion on this matter,’ he said. ‘I cannot abide the mistreatment of women. It sets off a terrible rage in me.’
Orla gave him a weak smile. ‘It is forgiven, but I really must go now.’
‘Of course. I hope you come again, for your kindness is a boon to a lonely soldier, far from home, oppressed by worries about his future. So I thank you, Orla.’
‘It is I who should thank you for helping me last time.’
Suddenly Nash took her hands prisoner in his. ‘Orla, you may think me presumptuous, but I feel you are as unhappily wed as I will be. I have enquired about your husband, and I have found out that he is a brawler, a drunkard and a womaniser - a thoroughly rough type of man who is not good enough for you.’
‘But I am a rough type of woman, Nash,’ she said, snatching her hands away. ‘How do you know this, and what right have you to spy on me?’
‘Spy? No, heavens, never. I merely wanted to find out more about you. It is my admiration that drove me to do it, and now I have offended and frightened you. I am mortified. Please do not think ill of me, Orla. And I hope to see you here again soon, should your husband allow it.’
‘I doubt our paths will cross again, Captain Nash.’
‘Oh, don’t be too certain of that. I think fate brought you here today to soothe my aching soul. I think fate will reward me again, for I understand all too well the misery of forcing two people apart and the even greater misery of forcing them together for a lifetime.’
Orla bit her lip.
‘I will bid you adieu until next time we meet, Orla. And you can be assured we will,’ he said, mounting his horse, bowing his head and riding away.
Orla watched his red jacket disappear into the trees and wrapped her arms about herself to soothe her confusion. Nash had sniffed about for information about her, and she prided herself on being no fool. He must be using her to get information on the Munros. She could hardly believe he rode to Wildwood Glen for the scenery or in the hope of meeting her. And she had long since reconciled herself to the indifference of men, for she was not bonnie like her sisters.
Now that she was wed and had been initiated into the marriage bed by Wolfric, Orla understood the strange yearnings that would assail her in the dead of night, the dreams of flesh coiled around flesh, the pounding lust between her legs that shamed and thrilled her. She understood why Nash’s admiration excited her and gave rise to a feeling of power.
But it was a fool’s power, and deep down, Orla did not trust Nash any more than she trusted Wolfric. All men were slippery liars.
Orla mounted Brutus and began to head for home when a sudden burst of impatience took hold. Why should she wait like the dutiful wife at Blackreach for her cheating wastrel of a husband to come to her? That is what her mother had always done, and it had served her ill.
Orla kicked Brutus hard and set off for Inverness.
Chapter Twenty
It was a typical raucous market day in Inverness. A man was shackled into the public stocks beneath the merchant cross, wig askew and velvet coat slimy with muck. He was being enthusiastically pelted with rotten turnips and cabbages and anything else the unwashed townsfolk could pick up. God had spared the poor soul the ignominy of rain to add to his woes, but the air was autumn-crisp, and the poor wretch was a sorry sight, though he still had the gumption to yell obscenities at his tormentors.
‘Damn you to hell, you pox-ridden, whore-born scum. May the Devil smite you all.’
Orla prayed the onlookers would only find soft missiles to hurl and that the man’s public shaming would be short-lived. She hurried on through the press of people - prosperous farmers, elegant gentry holding handkerchiefs to their noses as they passed the livestock auction, along with strumpets and beggars lurking in archways and alleys, on the hunt for easy targets.
Having visited every alehouse known to her and even the assembly rooms, Orla grew desperate and tired. When she came across a man selling peaches, she bought one and munched on it. Its fuzzy sweetness lightened her mood as she headed to Trelawney’s coffee house. She had once heard a stable boy remark that Wolfric liked the place but had dismissed it as impossible. He was more at home brawling in taverns than in a place of intellectual discourse. Nevertheless, it was worth a try.
It was a hidden place, snuggled down a cramped, narrow street, and Orla had to shoulder her way past the smell of raw meat and hold her skirts high to avoid the slop running across the cobbles from the butcher’s shop. Once she cleared the place, a few doors on, a delicious roasted smell announced that she had arrived at Trelawney’s.
A head of bright blonde hair and a bonnie face, pale as a ghost, flashed through the crowd and caught her eye. There was no mistaking the lass.
‘Elva,’ she called out.
The lass turned, and her mouth fell open in horror. She turned and ran. Orla was so shocked at her response that she was rooted to the spot for a moment. When she hurried to catch up with the lass, she could not get through the crowd of people, and Elva had disappeared.
