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Orla took a hasty step back from the black water’s edge.
As Wolfric pulled hard on the oars, Orla stopped shouting after him and fell silent. He could feel her eyes on him all the way back to the opposite bank, and a twinge of conscience almost made him turn and row back to her. But, instead, he stalked off into the twilight, forcing himself not to look back.
Orla was stranded but safe from his anger, with just the rustle and cheep of birds roosting for the night in the trees and the lap of water on the shore for company. An owl hooted, and he saw Orla rush inside.
Hopefully, she had gone in search of the flint, for if she didn’t get that damned fire lit, he would have to row back out and do it for her. ‘Leave her to stew in the dark,’ his father would have said, but he could not do the lass such an injury, despite his rage and jealousy and the pain which tightened his chest at the thought of her kissing Nash. It was folly to show such softness over a lass and a deceitful one at that, but Wolfric was helpless in the grip of the affection he had begun to nurture for Orla.
So, he watched from the trees, shivering as the sun died, until he saw a glow from a fire lighting up within the tower. He continued to watch, but she did not come outside again.
The blind rage that had consumed him had not yet died down. Thank God he had separated himself from Orla, for he had barely been able to contain it. He dreaded going back inside Blackreach to stew in his father’s bitterness. Nor did he want to go to bed, where he would only spend a fruitless night skewered with humiliation at Orla’s betrayal.
So Wolfric sat with his knees up and his head down on them, trying to figure out a way to forgive his wife. He had to. Already he missed her presence and pitied her for having to suffer his cruelty. But had she ever liked him? Had she ever wanted him in her bed, or was it all pretence? Was he simply unloveable?
Wolfric had to steel himself not to get back in the boat and row out to her. Every time he almost rose to do it, he conjured a picture of her with Nash, and his anger and jealousy would flare anew.
‘Locked together at Wildwood, kissing,’ Robbie had said, spewing his hatred in front of everyone.
Hours passed, and when the icy moon was high in the sky, Wolfric finally went inside and settled himself by the fire in the hall, his dogs at his feet, and holding out little hope of sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Banish the lass back to Machrief. Dunbar can deal with the ungrateful little bitch,’ sniffed Rufus, his mouth turned down at the corners in a sulk. He swept a dribble of porridge off his chin with the back of his hand and wiped it on his kilt.
Wolfric regarded his father with boiling frustration. He wanted peace to order his thoughts, but his father would not give it to him.
‘Well, how about it? Will you do it?’ barked Rufus.
‘No, and besides, her father will not take her.’
‘Aye, he was relieved to be rid of her and with good reason, as it turns out.’
‘Leave it be. This is my dilemma to deal with.’
‘Lock her up then, son. Leave her on Sorrow’s Point to rot, as generations of Munros have done to their enemies.’
‘No. Orla is not my enemy. She is my wife, and I don’t intend to keep her there for long.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I want her back home.’
‘Home! She’s never thought of Blackreach as home, and she never will. Want her back indeed. For what purpose? Get an heir on her and be done with the lass.’ Rufus continued shovelling porridge into his mouth as he talked. ‘You are too soft. Sell that damned horse of hers so she can’t ride out to meet her lovers. It will fetch a pretty price and will be some recompense for the injury you have suffered.’
‘I am not sure my injury was as grievous as you make out.’
‘What, consorting with the English? Do not be a fool and believe it was nothing more than talk. I did not bring you up to be that gullible, lad.’
Wolfric put his elbows on the table and rubbed his temples. He had an ache in his chest, and he did not know if it was for Orla or sadness for himself. All he really wanted was for Orla to say she was sorry. But even if she did, how could they ever repair the breach between them? So he was as miserable as he could be, yet his father insisted on picking at him.
‘Maybe it was better in the old days.’
‘The old days?’ said Wolfric rolling his eyes.
‘Aye. We burned witches at the stake or sent them to the bottom of a pond on a ducking stool.’
‘Enough, I beg you.’
‘A scold’s bridle would do. She’ll not be able to wag her tongue at English officers with that contraption on.’
