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‘It was foolish of you, lass. Thank God it was Orla and no one else from Blackreach or your cause would be lost.’
‘Wolfric, what happened to your face?’
‘I brought justice to some redcoats who had abused women on Ross land.’
Her face blanched, and she brought her hand to her heart. ‘Not the one who….’
‘No. We have yet to catch up with that one. But I will. If the bastard strays too far from Fort George onto my land, I will show no mercy.’
Elva came up to him and placed a soft hand on his arm. ‘Don’t take too many risks on my account. It is not worth it.’ She gave him a gentle smile.
Wolfric squeezed her hand while removing it from his arm. ‘It is worth it for honour and justice, lass, and I will have both.’
‘And what about your wife?’
‘Do not concern yourself with Orla. I will deal with her.’
‘But she must have questions. Will you tell her? If you do, I will be shamed.’
Wolfric stared into her innocent blue eyes. Could he tell Orla everything? He sorely wanted to, but then he might lose any chance of her ever trusting in him again. He had committed a terrible sin that was beyond forgiveness, and he could not face telling her.
‘I must go,’ he said.
‘Can you not stay, for I crave company.’ Elva’s eyes filled with tears, and guilt stabbed at Wolfric, but he had a sudden urge to be far away.
‘I will come again soon, Elva. But you must stay hidden. Promise me.’
She nodded, and Wolfric sped away without meeting her eye.
***
Orla let her mount meander its way home as she had no desire to reach Blackreach any time soon. Behind her lay Inverness and Wolfric’s anger, and before her lay loneliness and the empty home he no longer seemed to want to be in.
How dare he be angry. It was Wolfric who was lying and disappearing. She had a quick stab of guilt over Nash and their shared confidences, but what Wolfric was doing was much worse. He had most certainly indulged in more than conversation with Elva. The lass was with child, for goodness sake, and judging by his anger when pressed upon it, he must be the father.
Orla pulled at the bodice of her borrowed dress, trying to stuff her ample bosoms back inside it, but they seemed eager to escape with every bob of Brutus. Thank goodness for a Mrs Rudge, who had rushed to help her from the horse trough. She had offered her a change of clothes and hurried her inside a shabby establishment close by, which unfortunately had turned out to be a whorehouse, albeit a discreet one.
Orla put her hand to her face and laughed inwardly at the absurdity of Mrs Rudge and her whorehouse. She had never been in such an establishment, and it had been quite the revelation.
‘If your husband has forsaken you, there’s ample coin to be made on your back. You would do well, a comely lass such as yourself,’ the good lady had said. ‘There’s many a gentleman who would pay a good deal for such charming company, to be sure.’
The very notion! The worst of that life might be the horrid clothes the ladies of Mrs Rudge’s were forced to wear. The borrowed dress was so low cut as to be almost down to the navel, its bodice, bright orange, and it was too small to lace up properly at the front, leaving bits of her belly exposed and shivering in the cold. The woollen stockings were faded and scratchy and held up with garish scarlet ribbons, which thankfully were well hidden by the thin skirt, but her boots were still wet and uncomfortable in the stirrups.
Orla reached the top of the glen and stared back at smoke rising from Inverness’s hundreds of chimneys. A rider emerged from the trees just down below – a dark-haired man. She had not spotted him before, for she had been so lost in a fog of confusion and misery. But he was speeding closer, and suddenly she realised who it was. Wolfric!
At that point, Brutus reared up and whinnied, the sound echoing down the valley. Wolfric’s head snapped up, and he mouthed her name, but it was lost in the wind.
Well, she was damned if she would ride home with him and his anger. She spurred Brutus onwards, but the cursed beast seemed intent on dawdling. No matter how hard she kicked, he would not go faster. Orla rode into the woods to shake Wolfric off, but he ate up the ground between them, and in no time, she heard him call out behind her.
‘Orla, stop, lass.’
Brutus must have heard Wolfric’s voice, and suddenly he skidded to a halt, sending Orla sailing over his head to land in mucky puddles and piles of fallen leaves.
She was a little dazed when a strong arm wrenched her upwards, and she was confronted with Wolfric’s concerned face. He held his horse’s reins in one hand and her in the other. That was the second soaking she’d had in a day, and she was in no mood to put up with him.
‘Get off. Take your hands off me,’ said Orla, shaking herself free and drying her muddy hands on her dress. A pound of hooves and crashing behind her signalled Brutus running off through the woods.
‘Is anything hurt other than your dignity?’ said Wolfric.
