Page 1 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance (Highland Revenge Trilogy #3)
A soft knock sounded at the door before it opened.
“Lord Torrance approaches, my lady.”
Esme leaned against the bedpost for support, her legs turning weak. She acknowledged the message with a bob of her head and the servant hurried off.
She feared her heart would pound out of her chest it beat so wildly. It had been so peaceful here without his presence, without the roar of his anger, or the pounding of his fists on a table, or the fear that he would demand her presence in his bedchamber and…
She pushed herself off the bedpost, warning herself that she had to remain strong, that she had no choice. He was her husband and nothing would change that, not even prayer, and she had prayed, but it had been a sinful and selfish prayer.
She had prayed for his death.
Dreadful fear robbed her legs of any strength left in them and she sunk down on the edge of the bed tears threatening her eyes.
Her husband had exceptionally fine features. At first glance, his handsome features captivated. His height stood a good head or two above others, and his fine body was sculpted to perfection. But it was only when one looked past all that that his true nature was revealed—evil.
She had seen it in the way his eyes would narrow, and his lips would curl ever so slightly in pleasure when he issued a punishment.
He got enjoyment out of seeing someone suffer and even more pleasure in inflicting the suffering himself.
Then there were his subtle threats dropped here and there or his hand that would strike fast for barely a reason.
Memory had her cringing, as if she could feel his hand grab a handful of her hair and yank it hard, stinging her scalp and for what?
Because she hadn’t responded to him quickly enough or because she dared to take a step ahead of him, or she spoke too much or not enough.
Any reason was good enough to raise his wrath and leave her trembling in fear.
When she received news that her husband would not return right after a victorious battle, she almost wept with relief.
She could walk through the village, enjoying the last days of autumn that had already turned cold, speak with whoever she wished without seeking permission from her husband to do so.
Smile. Laugh. Sleep. All without an ounce of fear.
She had even worn what garments she pleased, plain and comfortable, not the elaborate ones her husband insisted she wear and that she now wore to please him. Always to please him so as not to give him any reason to lash out at her.
Stay strong , a warning that had become like a prayer to her.
Her mum had told her that a woman’s lot in life was to remain strong no matter what fate dealt her since women had little say in decisions made for them.
Not so the peasants, Esme would argue with her.
Her mum would tell her that their lot was no better. Whether noble or peasant, life was difficult when little choice was left to you.
Esme didn’t want to believe that. She had entered the marriage with hope, believing kindness could make a difference. She learned fast that evil took pleasure in toying and tormenting kindness until it finally retreated and hid in the shadows.
The one thing she wished her mum had been more forthcoming about was the marriage bed.
All she had told her was to submit to her husband.
To lie there and let him have his way and it would be over soon enough.
But that didn’t happen, and she didn’t know what she had done wrong.
She closed her eyes, recalling the fearful moment.
Her husband had grown so angry at her, she feared he might beat her to death.
But it was his tongue that cut as sharp as a knife, and she felt its every slash.
His warning, “Fail me again and you would suffer greatly for it.”
A horn sounded and she spang off the bed. The sound was close, which meant her husband would arrive at any moment and he would bring fear and darkness with him.
She brushed at the few wrinkles on her heavily embroidered tunic, silently reprimanding herself for having sat.
Torrance would notice and admonish her for being unkempt.
She hurried her hand to her hair to make sure that not a single blonde strand had escaped her neatly plaited hair.
She refused to even give thought to her features.
Many thought her beautiful, while her husband believed he had gotten stuck with an ugly wife.
He insisted that her eyes were too big and the color too blue.
He reminded her repeatedly that her mouth was too small, that she barely had any lips, and her nose was too wide.
She lowered her hand to rest on her stomach where by now her husband had expected a bairn to be growing, but it wasn’t.
Though she had gained some weight, her fault.
She had been able to enjoy her meals since he hadn’t been there to comment on everything she put in her mouth.
He would notice and no doubt remark on it and see that she got less food.
She sighed feeling helpless, trapped, and fearful. Always fearful.
The horn sounded again—close this time.
She hurried out of her bedchamber to greet her husband, the man she hated with her whole heart. She silently prayed as she made her way down the stone stairs for strength and sneaked in a prayer that had no hope of being fulfilled— please, please, let me be free of him.
The wind stirred the hem of Esme’s cloak as she stood atop the stone steps of the keep, her hands knotted tight at her sides.
The village that spread wide before the castle was lined with clan members—men, women, even bairns clutching their mothers’ skirts—all summoned at the sound of the horn.
Not for celebration. Not for joy. But for duty touched with fear.
Esme watched as silence settled over the village and a chill swept through the crowd like a shadow passing over the sun as hoofbeats rang out, sharp and steady.
She forced her glance up the slope where the road cut through the last of the pines. A black horse crested the ridge, a brute of an animal, its mane flying like a war banner. Upon it sat a man clad in a dark plaid and furs, his cloak billowing behind him as if the very wind feared to touch him.
Lord Torrance… her husband.
Her stomach twisted and she turned her eyes away for a moment.
She hadn’t seen him in months, not since he’d ridden off to crush Clan MacLeish.
Why couldn’t her prayers have been answered?
Why couldn’t he have been struck down in battle, freeing her?
It had been wrong of her to offer such a prayer, or was it? Shouldn’t evil be struck down?
She turned her eyes on him again, his face coming into view, hard as granite cliffs and his green eyes, even from a distance, icy and calculating. Her skin crawled, knowing what was to come.
The crowd broke into a forced cheer as he rode through the gates. They knew if they didn’t welcome him as a victorious leader they would be made to suffer for it. Not one of them avoided his gaze, knowing his warriors watched for anyone who didn’t greet him enthusiastically.
Esme remained still, her chin lifted though her heart thundered. He spotted her as he drew near, and she felt it like a threatening blade to her throat. He reined in before the keep, the horse snorting clouds into the cold air.
His gaze swept the crowd once before dismounting. Then he turned his eyes on hers and they never left hers as he climbed the stairs with deliberate slowness. There was no warmth in them, no smile, not a single nod. Not a sign of affection, only possession.
Esme stood unmoving at the top, her spine rigid though every instinct screamed for her to retreat. Run! Get out of here! But she had no place to go.
His boots thudded against the stone, measured, unhurried, ominous.
He mounted the final step and stopped before her, tall and broad. His face was as handsome as ever but evil often disguised itself in fine features. Whereas the battlefield softened some and hardened others, Torrance took pleasure in it, and it showed in his bold green eyes.
“Wife,” he said, holding her gaze.
Her throat had turned as dry as dust, knowing he was assessing her and finding fault. It took her a moment to say, “Congratulations on your victory, my lord.”
He appeared hesitant for a moment, then his strong voice rolled over her like thunder.
“There had better be food waiting for me and my men.”
She hurried to say, “Aye, my lord, there is food, ale, and wine aplenty.”
She didn’t need to remind the cook. The woman had been prepared, knowing the severe consequences she would suffer for such a mistake.
He looked past her, at the heavy doors of the keep, then back. His gaze did not warm. If anything, it turned heavier, like a weight pressing down.
Esme’s stomach knotted.
He looked at his warriors, gathered near, waiting in anticipation and shouted, “We celebrate!”
A cheer rang out as he grabbed her by the arm and propelled her into the keep, his words falling on her like shackles. “You will remain by my side until I say otherwise.”
When they reached the dais in the Great Hall, he pulled out a chair and ordered, Sit.”
Esme stared at him, a bit bewildered.
He lowered his face to hers. “Did you not hear me, wife?”
“Aye, my lord. Aye,” she said confused and sat.
Why hadn’t he shoved her down on the chair? He had done so many times when she had not moved quickly enough for him. Why not do so now? And how was it he seemed a bit taller, his chest a bit wider?
She cast a hasty glance his way.
He scowled at her in warning, and she quickly looked away.
The tables were ladened with food and drink and soon chatter and laughter filled the room.
Tales were told about the victorious battle and how Lord Torrance would soon rule over much of the area.
He had even managed to save his half-sister, Autumn, threatened by a Northern tribe and befriend another tribe’s leader, promising to send him a wife.
A chill ran through her, hearing that. What poor lass would be sacrificed for his promise?
She was startled when his face was suddenly next to hers. If she turned, she was sure her lips would brush his. The thought roiled her stomach. His kisses had felt more like punishments, his lips pressed so hard against hers that she could barely breathe.
“Look at me, wife,” he ordered, his voice low and touched with menace.
She turned slowly, trying to avoid their lips from touching, but he was too close, and her lips grazed his like a feather faintly brushing across them. She was surprised by the startled look in his eyes that quickly turned to annoyance.
“Why aren’t you eating?” he snapped.
Esme struggled to find an accuse that would appease him.
“Have you been ill?” he demanded.
“Nay. Nay, my lord.”
“Then eat,” he ordered. “You are too thin.”
She was glad he turned away and didn’t see the shock on her face that she failed to hide. She had expected him to admonish her for just the opposite. She hurried to turn her head so as not to be caught staring dumbfounded at him. Did he not see the fullness in her face?
A servant had, Gwen, she had remarked about it one day, keeping her voice to a whisper so no one could hear her and repeat her words to Lord Torrance.
It was barely a few words she murmured but Esme heard the warning in them.
“You have rosy, full cheeks, my lady.”
Later, when in her bedchamber, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and felt the fullness and taking full stock of herself, she realized she was not as slender as when she wed Torrance, six moon cycles ago. She had feared what he would say, and yet, he had just accused her of being too thin.
The night wore on and with it grew more outrageous tales of the victorious battle, many laughing about the cowardly actions of the Clan MacLeish. They claimed that Chieftain Ryland had been carried off the battlefield half dead and now laid near death in his bed at home.
Esme cringed, knowing that her husband would wait to see if Chieftain Ryland survived and if he did, he would take great pleasure in executing him in front of his clan.
She had seen Chieftain Ryland the few times he came to speak with Torrance to try and settle their disagreements and avoid a battle.
She had even spoken with him and had suffered abuse from her husband for it.
She was amazed at how much Ryland resembled Torrance.
They could be twins and though they looked alike, they were vastly different.
Both were powerful men and skillful with a sword.
But Ryland had a calmer nature unless pushed.
She had learned that on Ryland’s last visit.
His discussion with Torrance had nearly erupted into an altercation.
Oddly enough, Esme believed that Torrance would have lost if a fight had ensued and she wondered if he believed the same since he told Ryland it would be the battlefield that settled their dispute.
A sudden yawn had her covering her mouth with her hand.
She wished she could retire to her bedchamber, but it wasn’t her choice when to take her leave.
It would be a long evening of revelry for her husband and his warriors, so she settled in to make the most of her situation and tried hard to keep herself from falling asleep.
She jumped at the sudden burst of laughter.
“Wife!”
Esme eyes flashed open, and she sprang forward in her chair and had just enough time to turn her head and brush her husband’s cheek with hers to avoid their lips from meeting.
“You embarrass me,” Torrance scolded. “You fall asleep while courageous tales are told about my victory.”
“Please forgive me, my lord,” she said, tired of endlessly asking for his forgiveness.
“Go. Take your leave. Retire to your bedchamber,” he ordered. “We will speak tomorrow.”
“As you say, my lord,” Esme hurried to say, relieved to be spared the remainder of the evening, but mostly because her husband did not order her to his bedchamber.
Grateful for the reprieve, she wondered, as she climbed the stone stairs, why after being absent from home for nearly two moon cycles that he didn’t demand her presence in his bedchamber?