Page 29 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance

One of the mercenaries turned, his glance hurrying over the area. His eyes met hers and he grinned and ran toward her, his sword raised.

She stumbled backward, calling out instinctively, “TORRANCE!”

Her feet tangled in her rush and her cloak caught on a barrel, losing her precious time to get away from him.

The sword arced toward her as she yanked her cloak, ripping it off the rain barrel.

Torrance slammed into her, knocking her clear, his sword intercepting the blow with a shower of sparks. She hit the ground hard and came up dazed just in time to see Torrance drive his blade through the attacker.

Another came from behind.

“TORRANCE!” she cried out once again.

He turned and caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted, and used the man’s own momentum to bring him down. Torrance finished him with ruthless efficiency, then whirled around, scanning for more.

His warriors had seen to the other two. It was over.

Breathing hard, Torrance lowered his blade.

Esme stood frozen, her hands trembling violently.

Torrance turned to her, eyes wild, face shadowed by damp strands of hair. “Are you hurt?”

She couldn’t speak, fear holding her words captive.

In two strides he was before her, his hands gripping her arms. “Esme!”

His sharp, demanding voice broke her silence. “Nay... I’m not hurt,” she whispered, though her voice shook. “You—he almost?—”

“But I didn’t,” he said roughly, and then without another word he pulled her into his arms.

She didn’t resist. Her body curled instinctively into his, clinging to his warmth, to the steady beat of his heart, to his confident strength. She felt him bury his face in her hair, his grip tightening around her.

“You should not have been here,” he murmured, but it wasn’t anger in his voice… it was fear. Fierce and raw.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

Because whatever name he wore—Torrance or Ryland—he had just risked his life to save hers. And he held her now, his arms tight around her, like he would never let her go.

The snow fell a bit more heavily now, settling on thatched roofs and sticking to cloaks and hair. Esme remained pressed against Torrance, her breath shallow, her heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, his arms shielding her as if danger still lingered or might return with the next breath.

But then she heard the tread of rushing boots. Others were approaching, villagers returning in cautious steps, whispering, peering from behind barrels and shutters. And among them, striding with purpose and wariness, came Brack.

He came to a halt beside the nearest dead body and crouched, muttering something under his breath as he pushed the hood fully back from the dead man’s face.

“Damn it,” Brack spat and stood, snow dusting his dark hair. He looked at Torrance. “I know this one.”

Torrance’s arms slowly loosened around Esme, one falling away the other remaining around her. “From where?” he demanded.

Brack’s eyes never left the corpse. “North. Clan Fenrick’s territory. A mercenary by the name of Osric. He fought for coins and not much else. He hired on for missions most wouldn’t and connected with those foolish enough to do the same.” He shook his head. “Not many would be foolish enough to enter your village, attempt to kill you, and expect to live.”

“Or thought themselves skilled enough to do so,” Torrance said. “But it wasn’t me who drew that one’s attention… it was my wife.”

A chill rippled down Esme’s spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

Brack’s eyes shifted to her, his brow knitting with concern. “She was the target?”

“Why else would he have raised a sword to her?” Torrance asked, trying to make sense of it.

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