Page 30 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance

Brack glanced down at the dead man. “So, the others were a deterrent while he was here to see to a specific task. Why though? She is of no importance.”

Esme saw the pull at her husband’s brow that narrowed his eyes as he looked upon Brack, though Brack didn’t see it, his focus on the dead man. Something he said had disturbed Torrance and gave him a moment of pause but only a moment.

“See the bodies burned before the day is out,” Torrance ordered. “And put eyes on every road in and out of here. Change the sentinels more frequently so they remain sharp and don’t miss anything. They failed, so they will try again.”

“Aye, my lord,” Brack said and moved away, barking orders to those still lingering nearby.

Torrance’s arm tightened around his wife’s waist. “You will go nowhere without my permission, and my warriors will keep watch over you.”

“It makes no sense. I am of no importance,” she said, repeating what Brack had uttered.

A storm suddenly swirled in his green eyes. “You are important—” He paused abruptly. “You are my wife and that is important enough.”

Spoken like Torrance, his only consideration, himself. And yet… Torrance would have never slipped his arm around her and offer her any comfort. He would berate her for being a coward. Yet, his arm still lingered at her waist as though reluctant to let her go. So, whose arm held her?

He pulled her hood up on her head to ward off the falling snow, a caring gesture. One not familiar to Torrance.

More and more she wondered and questioned who the man was who returned to her from the battlefield.

CHAPTER 9

The warmth of the hearth soothed Esme the next—thankfully uneventful— day as she sat curled in one of the two high-backed chairs that faced the flames. Her solar was her sanctuary, a modest chamber tucked away from prying eyes. She kept it as she liked it, cluttered with quiet comforts. Baskets brimmed with embroidery, some finished, some forever waiting, tucked beside the chairs or resting on the low wooden table that held her stitching tools and usually a tankard of hot cider and, like now in the evening, wine.

Here, the world fell away. No guards. No curious glances. No harsh voice demanding obedience. Only the soft pop of wood splitting in the hearth and the occasional creak of stone settling into silence.

She cherished the solitude.

Especially now, with Torrance—or the man claiming to be Torrance—keeping his distance from her. Since the moment in his bedchamber, when he ordered her to leave, he had not sought her out nor had he summoned her to his bedchamber. There was some comfort in the space he placed between them and worry as well, depending on whether he was Torrance or Ryland.

And tonight, the suspicion gnawed sharper. At supper, he had turned his head away with a scrunched nose from the fish stew. Fish stew. The very dish he once demanded thrice in a week. She’d seen him grin over it like a child offered honeyed oatcakes. And now? He barely tolerated the smell, let alone touched his spoon to it.

That was not Torrance.

A sudden push of the door startled her, and she shot up from her chair, one hand pressing to her chest.

He filled the doorway like a storm rolling in from the hills… tall, brooding, intimidating.

“We leave tomorrow,” he said without preamble, stepping into the room. “Chieftain Stuart’s eldest son is betrothed, and we’re expected to attend the celebration. You’ll dress accordingly and keep your tongue well-mannered.”

His boots thudded lightly on the rug she’d woven herself, and her breath caught. Torrance had never once stepped foot into her solar. Never.

He dropped into the chair beside hers with a grunt, his limbs folding heavily like they no longer had the strength to carry him. His head leaned back, and in the flickering firelight she saw the faint lines of wear around his eyes.

“You look weary,” she said, unsure why she whispered it as she dropped down on her chair.

He yawned, wide. “I haven’t sleep well.”

She took advantage of the moment and asked, cautiously, “Are you not feeling well? You didn’t touch the fish stew.”

His eyes stayed closed, his voice sluggish. “Smelled off to me.”

“But it was—” she stopped herself. She would watch and see if he continued to refuse the fish stew. Another piece that would help her confirm her suspicions.

His breathing had slowed, his hands resting loosely on the arms of the chair.

She stared at him, mouth slightly parted. He was asleep.

Torrance. In her solar. Asleep.

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