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‘God save me. It seems I have a choice between a peacock and a man tottering to the grave, neither of whom wants me. That is really no choice at all. Is my whole life cursed, Bryce?’
‘It would seem so, and I condole with you, cousin. But you’d best brace yourself, for your parents are intent on this plan, and you are caught, like a worm on a hook.’
She was no worm. There must be a way out of this dilemma. Orla scanned the hall, her lip curling at all the young men strutting about, puffed up like partridges with their precious male pride.
An idea squirmed to life. Perhaps that was it - the Achilles heel to all young men. Strike at their pride, and you struck at the very core of each of them. Aye, there was a way out of this, though it was a risk.
‘Why are you smirking, cousin?’ said Bryce.
‘Just enjoying the splendour of the evening. That is all.’
He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘No, you are up to something. Orla, I beg you, do not do anything reckless. You're not thinking of running away, are you?’
‘Not yet. But I am going to run.’
With that, Orla swept off into the crowd feeling her heart lighten for the first time in days. She was not going to be dragged meekly into the trap of matrimony. Oh, no. She was going to wriggle her way off the hook, one way or another.
Chapter Three
The wind was fierce and tore Orla’s golden hair free of its moorings to send strands flying about her face. Market day in Inverness, which was usually something to be gladly anticipated, was proving to be a tiresome affair. They had already mislaid Bronach, a dunder-headed servant who was not the brightest at the best of times. No doubt, she would have to go in search of the lass.
The whole place was stinking of livestock and deafening with the shouting from merchants as they haggled and vied to sell their wares. Heavy rain had fallen overnight, turning the market square’s cobbles slippery and treacherous to the unwary. Perhaps it would be some kind of mercy to fall and break her neck.
Orla rushed in her mother’s wake, trying to keep her footing, burdened with bolts of fabric from the dressmaker’s for her wedding dress. How she longed to fling them in the mud, sucking at her boots and soaking the first few inches of her skirts. Breeches would have been far more practical, but of course, that was unthinkable in a lady who was about to be wed, and ‘What if one of the Dunns claps eyes on you in such a state,’ her mother had declared.
They could have sent a servant to collect what they needed, but instead, her mother had insisted they come in person. Orla knew full well that her mother had come to market day to meet all the other old biddies and indulge in their favourite pastimes – spiteful gossip and a wee dram or two. It would be hours before she could tear the woman away from the tavern to which she was heading, and already her mother had sped off ahead, and Orla’s parcel of fabric was getting heavy.
As she jostled through the crowd to catch up, a scuffle broke out between two drunkards close by, and they barged into Orla, sending her flying. She landed with a howl in the muck, still clutching her fabric. She struggled to her feet and, taken with a fearsome temper, Orla swiped the nearest pugilist across the face with her parcel. He fell down on his bottom with a howl of anguish.
‘Learn some manners, you worm,’ Orla screamed down at him. The other fellow veered towards her, took one look at her seething face and, sensing similar treatment heading his way, took to his heels.
‘You nasty bitch,’ slurred the man on the ground, spurring her anger even more.
Orla swept her arm back to hit him again but lost her footing and fell down in the muck again, and this time a crowd of onlookers had begun to gather. Everyone laughed as she struggled vainly to get to her feet while holding the fabric out of the muck.
‘Give him another one, lass,’ cackled one old crone.
‘Aye, knock some sense into him, go on,’ shouted a horrid, toothless old man.
Orla could not gain her footing until a broad, dirty hand appeared before her. She grabbed it and was hauled upright, only to confront a rough scoundrel with the black look of Satan himself. He bore the thuggish bulk of a footpad, yet his face had a hawkish beauty and was undeniably striking. His clothes, too, might once have been fine indeed, were they not torn and dirty.
The man raked his black hair off his face and smirked into her eyes. ‘The bastard deserved a clout. That was well done, lass. Good day to you now,’ he said before giving her a curt nod of his head and turning back into the crowd.
Was he actually leaving her to this rabble?
‘A gentleman would offer his aid to a lady,’ Orla called after him, her temper still smouldering and in the hope of seeing his magnificent face again.
He turned, and she was rewarded with another grin from eyes dancing with laughter. ‘You don’t look like you need my aid, lass, and besides, no one ever accused me of being a gentleman, nor you a lady, I am sure.’
‘Well, I never! Come back, so I can give you some of the same, you ill-mannered lout,’ shouted Orla at his back.
‘You show him, lass,’ shouted someone in the crowd to more cheering and laughing.
‘Good God. Is that Orla Gordon?’
Orla’s heart sank. She would know that sneering voice anywhere. Orla turned to see Fenella Peyton, a raving snob and utter bitch, who was forever looking down her nose at everyone. She was currently holding a handkerchief up to it in horror.
Just then, her mother pushed through the crowd. ‘Orla, what on earth are you doing, brawling in the mud like a common slut and letting that ruffian put his hands on you. Oh my. You are covered in filth, lass. You are not fit to be seen.’
