Page 12 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance (Highland Revenge Trilogy #3)

So, she followed him, doing her best to make it seem she was doing nothing more than wandering through the village.

She knew warriors kept an eye on her, her husband’s orders after yesterday’s attack on him.

She paused behind a row of baskets outside the weaver’s cottage while the woman turned to speak with a neighbor.

The cold wind tugged at her cloak. A few villagers noticed her loitering and she quickly knelt, pretending to examine a tear in her hem.

She rose just in time to see Torrance stiffen, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.

Four figures had appeared at the far end of the path. They walked with heads bowed, robes loose, and hoods drawn deep.

Monks.

At least, that’s what they appeared to be. But Esme knew this village, and monks rarely passed through. They preferred more welcoming grounds—abbeys or well-traveled towns, not a remote village ruled by a man like Torrance.

She glanced at her husband.

He stood still, studying them. And in that moment, she saw it… the subtle shift in his stance, the narrowing of his eyes.

Suspicion.

She slipped closer, standing near the side of a hut. Her breath hitched as Torrance took a step forward and raised his voice.

“You there,” he called out, his voice powerful, carrying through the village. “What business have you here?”

The four halted. For a moment, all was still. Then one figure raised his head.

It was no monk’s face that stared back. It was brutally scarred and grinning.

The man threw off his hood and from beneath his robe drew a sword and let out a roar.

The other three drew weapons from beneath their robes. Villagers screamed, scattering. One of the mercenaries shouted something guttural and charged straight at Torrance.

Torrance didn’t hesitate, he met the rush with steel and fury, blades clashing as snow began to fall lightly.

Esme ducked instinctively, backing toward the side of a hut, heart pounding as Torrance’s warriors rushed toward him with swords drawn.

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.

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.