Page 13 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance (Highland Revenge Trilogy #3)

T he 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.

Not something she ever expected to see.

For a moment, all she could do was sit, frozen by the impossible quiet of the moment. She had never known him to be anything but alert, guarded, and coldly composed. And now… now he slumbered in the chair beside her, beneath the same hearth light that had warmed only her solitude.

She watched him, eyes tracing the flicker of flame across his jaw, the faint tension in his brow even in sleep. And the question returned, sharper now, more insistent.

Who are you really?

Esme sat still for a long while, the crackle of the fire the only sound daring to move between them.

He slept so deeply, so unexpectedly. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight parting of his lips, the faint furrow in his brow, none of it spoke of the Torrance she had known. That man never let his guard down. Not for an instant. Not with anyone.

A thought came to her. Should she do it? Was it wise of her? It could help her determine her suspicions, secure a piece of the puzzle.

Carefully, silently, and apprehensively she rose from her chair.

Her bare feet barely whispered across the carpet as she crept toward him. Each step measured, her breath shallow. She felt foolish like a child sneaking toward a sleeping wolf, but curiosity pressed her forward. This might be the only chance she had to truly see him… see if there was a difference.

She crouched slightly beside the chair, her gaze sweeping over his face.

He looked like Torrance. The same chiseled jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the strong, defined mouth that had once sneered when he’d said, “‘a wife is a burden no man should shoulder.’” His dark auburn hair curled slightly at the edges, just as she remembered. But…

Her eyes narrowed and she looked closer.

There. Just beneath his right eye, a faint line, not more than a whisper of a scar, nearly invisible in the firelight.

She had never noticed it before.

Torrance had once boasted about the day he’d bloodied Ryland’s face when they were young. Left a mark to remember me by, he’d told her, proud of it.

Could that be it?

Her gaze drifted lower, taking in the smoothness of his skin. He looked younger somehow. Still striking, but with fewer lines than she recalled. Less wear. Less… cruelty.

And she realized something else. She had never been this close to him before, not like this when he slept.

Their few kisses had been cold, forced, his mouth harsh against hers.

She had kept her eyes tightly shut, counting heartbeats until it ended, and wishing she could rush away as soon as it did. Not so his kisses of late.

But now… now she looked.

And the more she looked, the more she wondered?—

His eyes snapped open.

She gasped.

Before she could retreat, his hand shot up, curling behind her neck. His grip was firm but not cruel, and in the space of a breath, he pulled her down, his face lifting to meet hers.

Their lips met… he made sure of it.

The kiss was nothing like before, nothing like the frigid, punishing pecks she had endured.

His lips moved against hers with purpose, with something raw and sudden.

Heat surged up her spine, her hands braced against the arm of the chair, her breath caught between disbelief and something far more dangerous.

She realized once again how much she enjoyed the way he kissed her.

It was pleasurable, not harsh or cruel, and tempting as if he wanted her to enjoy it, find pleasure in it. And she did.

He pulled her into his lap, his hand settling at her backside and tugging her close as he continued to kiss her. His lips dominated hers in a playful way, urging her to join in and, again, she did.

She didn’t mind his hand intimately caressing her backside. It felt good and his kiss sparked her passion, and his touch brought it to life. Never did she expect to share such pleasure, know such pleasure with her husband. If only it could always be like this, if only this was real.

His warm hand found its way beneath her garment, over her backside, then his fingers urged her legs apart to slip between them.

His fingers settled in the most intimate of places and she gasped against his mouth when his finger slipped inside her.

She curled closer against him, though she spread her legs a bit more.

His lips left hers to press close to her ear and whisper, “I’m going to bring you pleasure, wife.”

His fingers moved like magic over her, causing the most remarkable sensations to run through her.

She moaned against his neck while her hand gripped his shirt.

She never knew such pleasure existed. Her mum had warned her to lie still and let her husband have his way with her, but she didn’t want to be still, she wanted to be part of it.

She gasped again when he drove his fingers deeper inside her and whatever his thumb was doing to her, she did not want it to stop.

She moaned, sighed, groaned, and felt pleasure like never before until she thought she would burst and she did, crying out as ripples of overwhelming pleasure shot through her, repeatedly.

Her breath skipped, her heart thudded, and never had she felt so satisfied.

Finally, when some sanity returned, she cast a glance up at him.

His green eyes were intense, his jaw tight. “You’re mine. Don’t ever forget it.” He closed his arms tight around her and stood, then he placed her down on her chair, walked to the door, and without turning, he said, “I sleep alone tonight.”

She stared at the closed door, unsure what to make of what had just past between them. It wasn’t until sensibility returned to her that she was able to give it more rational thought. There was only one possible conclusion to the intimacy they had just shared.

It hadn’t been her husband who brought her pleasure.

A light snowfall blanketed the hills, the white dusting soft against the green that announced winter had not officially arrived yet.

The air had turned kinder for now, cold enough to carry breath on the wind but not biting.

No new snow threatened, only the hush of the day as Torrance and Esme rode side by side toward Clan Rennoch.

Torrance sat tall upon his black stallion, the beast’s breath puffing in rhythmic clouds. Esme rode just to his left. She handled the reins with quiet confidence, her head held high, a thick fur-lined cloak falling from her shoulders in graceful folds.

Torrance hadn’t spoken much since leaving Clan Glencairn and neither had she.

What could she say to him? Could she ask him…

who was it who brought me such satisfying pleasure yesterday?

Where is my husband? Though I rather he never returns home.

Why do you play this game with me? What do you intend to do with me?

“Esme, do you not hear me?”

She shook her head, his sharp voice cutting through her musings. “I am sorry, my lord, my mind wanders.”