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‘That is my shame, then.’
‘No, it is something to rejoice in, and since when did you have any shame, visiting a whorehouse and such. Look at me, Orla. I like you very much. Why can you not admit the same?'
‘Now, we’ll have none of that sentimental nonsense between us.’ She wriggled free of his grasp and walked away, hoisting up her bodice, but he caught her by the tips of her fingers and pulled her up.
‘Tis not nonsense between us, Orla.’
How could she seem so unmoved by their coupling? And why was he so unsettled by it? The only tell to her discomfort was a soft blush on her cheeks and a refusal to look him in the eye, along with the bright, careless way she spoke. Orla was lying. He was not flattering himself by feeling she had enjoyed their encounter as much as he had. Her passion had more than equalled his, and she had devoured him the way he had devoured her.
Orla gave him a sad smile. ‘Let us not be gushing fools, Wolfric. You cannot be true to me, and I will not be a fool like my mother, forever sinned against, forever a martyr to my father’s appetites. I think in many ways you are a bad man, Wolfric.’
‘Am I lass?’
‘It is what people say of you.’
‘Who?’
‘Sykes, my parents, the other servants, and the townsfolk, Wolfric. They whisper behind their hands about you.’
‘Folk? Who are they to us? Let them gossip and whisper. We know the truth of it. When we lie down together, we know the truth.’
‘And what truth is that?’
‘We are equals, you and I, Orla - kindred spirits. I think you are more than a match for me. Can you not see it? Can you not see the passion between us?’ He squared his shoulders. ‘I will stand here now and admit that I feel it.’
‘Lust is what it is, not love.’
‘Affection, understanding, respect is what it is. Can that not be a foundation for love? I was not the best of men when I was younger, but I never hurt anyone weaker than myself. I never took a woman who was not free to take me in return, and aye, I do enjoy the alehouses and the occasional scrap, but what man doesn’t? I am changed now. The past is just that, lass – gone, buried, over with. It is what I am now that counts, yet you hang that past and these rumours over my head to wound me and push me away.’
‘I have no wish to wound you, Wolfric. But I do not believe you can change.’ She shrugged. ‘We enjoy each other, and God knows, I did not expect that. Lying with you gives me great joy, and for that, I am thankful. But I cannot trust you, nor any man, and I never will.
‘God, Orla, you never look at me long enough to see who I am, do you?’
‘And who are you, Wolfric – a man who keeps secrets, who will not show himself?’
‘A man who would be a good husband if you let him.’
‘You cannot be that, any more than I am a good wife.’
‘Whatever your father is, whatever bitterness you hold in your heart at being forced to wed me, you must let it go, else we shall both end in misery.’
Wolfric stared about the glade trying to find words to make her see him. He thought of the way Orla had taken to placing his boots by the fire so they would be warm when he donned them. He thought of how she organised the servants, kindly but firmly, turning Blackreach from a draughty pile of stone to a cosy, well-ordered home. And there were her many small kindnesses - to his father and his gouty complaining, to the tenants whose lives she sought to improve. There were simple things that made him need the lass, like the pool of warmth left by her body in the bed when she rose, which he would sometimes slide his hand into for comfort.
All around, dead leaves spiralled down from the trees. It would be a punishing winter soon, colder than the grave at Blackreach but not as cold as her heart which seemed to always reject his. Wolfric could not look at Orla, for then, she would see the disappointment on his face, the hurt in his soul. He wished it did not sting so.
Wolfric walked to his horse and took out a blanket he kept tied to the saddle. ‘Here, take this, lass. It will cover your blushes when we get home.’
Orla wrapped it about herself and then looked up into his eyes. She placed a hand on his arm and tiptoed to kiss his cheek.
‘What is that for?’ he said, taken aback by such tenderness.
She blinked rapidly. ‘You are not a bad husband, Wolfric. I am sorry if I am a bad wife. Now we should hasten, for I think the weather might give us a beating. It is turning to rain and clouds.’
‘Aye, rain and clouds, indeed,’ murmured Wolfric.
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun was getting low in the sky when Orla and Wolfric arrived back at Blackreach. A ruckus was going on in the yard with all the servants gathered to watch. Two of the stable boys rolled around on the ground throwing punches, with the stable master doing a terrible job of separating them. The poor man was not aided by the rest of the servants spurring them on.
