Page 2 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance (Highland Revenge Trilogy #3)

“ S omething is disturbing you. I can see it,” Brack said and shook his head. “Didn’t your wife have good news for you?”

“I had little chance to speak with her yesterday,” Torrance said, glancing around his solar at the many weapons hanging on the walls.

“Are you still considering looking for another wife?”

Torrance landed his glance on Brack. “Not yet.”

Brack reached for his tankard of ale. “You taught her well to be an obedient and dutiful wife.”

“It is my duty as her husband to see that she obeys my word.”

“But if she cannot produce an heir, she is worthless to you.” Brack took a generous swallow of ale.

“Are you saying I should not waste my time with her?”

“Nay, I am saying you should not waste a moment in filling her belly with a bairn.”

Torrance scowled.

Brack raised one hand as if fending off his glare, his other hand still clamped on his tankard. “The servants talk about Lady Esme spending all last night in her bedchamber… alone. They know the importance of an heir to a clan. Do you?”

“Remember your place, Brack,” Torrance warned, glaring at the man who had stood beside him no matter what, and he bore the signs of such loyalty.

Minor scars peppered his face though distracted little from his fair features. A few old scars could also be seen on his thick, muscled arms, but years of training and battle had turned him into an exceptional warrior and scars became a thing of the past.

“Always, my lord,” Brack said, raising his tankard before he took another drink.

“You need a wife, Brack.”

Brack’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched. “I have no want of a nagging wife, and you know it, sir. There are willing women plenty enough to keep me satisfied. But enough about women. There are many matters that need your attention. Clan MacLeish being one of them.”

“Quint, the infamous Monk, is overseeing Clan MacLeish until Ryland, their chieftain, is well enough to resume his command. Once that happens, I will deal with the fate of both Ryland and the clan.”

“You spoke often of wanting to see Ryland dead,” Brack reminded.

“Aye, and that still may be so, but Clan MacLeish, at least at the moment, is not my most pressing problem.” Torrance continued, silencing Brack before he could broach another issue. “My sister Autumn will remain wed to Knox, and he will continue to oversee Clan MacFadin for me.”

“A wise decision,” Brack praised. “Unlike most mercenaries, Knox is a man of his word and can be trusted.”

“And he will be loyal and serve me well when needed since I can take his wife from him at any time and without cause.”

Brack grinned. “A good reason for him to remain loyal.” His grin faded. “What about the Northman, Hakon, the one you promised a wife in return for his allegiance to you?”

“He’s an evil one. See if you can find a woman just as evil,” Torrance ordered. “The other Northern tribes fear him and if I can keep him in my good graces than the other tribes may fall in line as well and I can secure their allegiance.”

“And become more powerful than the king himself.”

“Without it being known or the king will see my empire destroyed before I create it, and rule a good portion of the north,” Torrance cautioned. “Since I have been absent from the clan longer than planned, alert the clan that tomorrow I will hear and settle grievances.”

“There may not be many, if any at all, since they fear to speak their complaints.”

He leaned forward, a glimmer of annoyance in his green eyes. “Are you suggesting I am too hard on those who speak up?”

“As it should be, my lord,” Brack said quickly. “As you often say… both parties have a share in the complaint so both should be punished.”

“Let it be known that there better be a good showing of grievances tomorrow or I will walk through the village myself and find them.”

Brack nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

“Now find my wife and send her to me,” Torrance ordered.

“Aye, my lord,” Brack said once again as he got to his feet.

“Make haste about it,” Torrance snapped.

Brack hurried out of the room, nodding.

Torrance pushed himself away from the table in his solar and stood to walk around the room.

He glanced again at the weapons hanging on the walls, some rusted, some barely used, as he walked over to the narrow table braced against a wall.

An iron candelabra, its four candles providing good light sat at one end.

He studied the crude map drawings, on the reverse side of several pelts. His empire was growing.

A rap at the door had him turning and calling out, “Enter, wife.”

Esme entered the room. She kept her hands linked tightly in front of her to keep them from trembling.

“Sit,” he ordered, his glance directing her to the table in the middle of the room with benches on either side.

She hurried and took a seat, grateful to hide her trembling hands beneath the table.

Torrance walked slowly around the room to come to a stop behind her. He leaned down, his face close to hers, his arm brushing her shoulder as he rested one hand on the table.

Esme could feel his warm breath on her cheek, and she silently warned herself to remain strong.

“Did you miss me, wife,” Torrance whispered in her ear.

She couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through her, and she quickly said, “Aye, my lord.”

“Do you tremble with passion for me, wife?”

“Of course, my lord,” she said, and her stomach turned at the lie.

“Then why are you not with child?” he demanded and pounded his fist on the table.

Esme’s whole body cringed. “I don’t know what I do wrong, my lord.”

Her body remained tense even though he left her side and walked around the table to sit opposite her. She knew he wasn’t finished with her, and she waited anxiously for what would come next.

“It is not a difficult task to lie there and submit to your husband,” he reprimanded.

Esme didn’t know how to respond to him. Did he forget what happened each time she had done just that?

He pounded the table again. “Answer me, wife?”

She swallowed back her fear and did her best to place the blame on herself. “I don’t know what more to do, my lord. I am ignorant of the intimate ways between a husband and wife.”

His puzzled look baffled her, and he appeared ready to speak then stopped for a moment.

“You will come to my bed prepared to get with child when I summon you,” he ordered.

“Aye, my lord,” she said fear curling in her stomach of when that time would come.

“Fetch a cloak,” he snapped. “You will be accompanying me through the village this morning.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Hurry!” he ordered when she didn’t move.

In her rush to leave him, she stumbled, though righted herself.

“Good, Lord, woman, don’t tell me I have a clumsy wife,” he called out. “Watch how you walk.”

“Aye, my lord,” she said, wishing she never had to say those words again yet facing years ahead with those words spilling endlessly from her lips.

“You will not leave my side,” Torrance ordered, after stepping outside, a cold wind circling them.

Esme nodded. “As you say, my lord.” Another never-ending response.

Torrance took her hand to walk down the stairs, startling her. He would grab her by the arm often enough, but never had he taken her hand in his.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“The cold, my lord,” she lied.

He let go of her hand to grip the edge of her cloak. “Go and have a servant fetch your fur-lined cloak now. I will wait here for you.”

She nodded and hurried into the keep and spotting Gwen, the one servant who didn’t fear to speak to her, asked, “Gwen, please fetch my fur-lined cloak.”

“Aye, my lady,” she said and hurried off.

Esme shook her head. Something didn’t seem right.

Her husband had never cared if she was cold.

He would tell her it was her own fault for not dressing properly and leave her to suffer a chill.

And taking her hand? She could not get over that he held her hand and that he had not done so roughly.

He had closed his hand around hers, as if with care, and held it firmly.

Gwen returned and Esme slipped off her cloak and replaced it with the fur-lined one, then rushed off not wanting to keep Torrance waiting.

He stood where she had left him, his head turning as he took stock of his surroundings.

“It took you long enough,” he said when she reached his side.

“My apologies, my lord,” she said, more words she often said to him.

He took her hand again and she wished she could enjoy the feel of its warmth and strength, but she didn’t. His touch caused her skin to prickle with fear since she had felt pain from that same hand when it struck her. But what possibly could cause him to hold her hand now when he never did before?

The village path, still soft from the morning's rain, clung to Esme’s boots as she matched steps beside Lord Torrance. The villagers bowed as they passed, a forest of bent heads, a hush of held breath. No one wished to draw the lord’s gaze.

They continued walking in silence, Torrance casting a wide glance around as if he listened, intending to catch any chatter or whispers being said. The whole time he never let go of her hand and Esme saw people’s eyes going wide at the unusual sight.

They were deep into the village when suddenly there came a sharp, wet splat.

Esme jerked to a stop in surprise, looking down to find a thick glob of mud staining the hem of her cloak. A heartbeat of stunned silence followed, and then the air tightened, turned brittle.

All eyes shifted, not to Esme, but to Torrance.

Across the way, a lad no older than six years stood frozen, another mudball drooping from his small hand. His mother gripped him fiercely, terror etched deep into her face.

Lord Torrance turned, his movements deliberate, his expression carved from stone. He stared at the lad with a weight that could crush bone.

The lad's lips moved, trembling around whispered apologies too soft to hear.

Esme’s heart ached. She shifted ever so slightly toward Torrance, her voice low and urgent as she gently squeezed his hand. "My lord, Daniel is but a child. It was a mistake... not a slight."

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Torrance’s eyes as if he might consider her words, but it vanished as fast as it had appeared.

He turned his gaze onto Esme, not cruel, but sharp, warning her without saying a word.

Should she hold her tongue as she usually did? Would her interference only make things worse for them both? She couldn’t see the lad suffer. She knew how cruel Torrance could be.

“Please, my lord, do not harm him,” she whispered.

He glared at her with such annoyance that his green eyes appeared bolder in color and Esme knew to say any more could be harmful to the lad. She held her tongue.

Torrance turned slowly, like a storm gathering force. His eyes, sharp as a drawn blade, fixed on the lad. He let go of his wife’s hand and took one step toward Daniel, then another.

Daniel’s mum shoved her son to his knees, begging, “Forgive him, my lord! It was an accident! He meant no disrespect!”

Torrance shifted his attention to Daniel and barked a single command, sharp as a whip crack. “Stand.”

His mum had to help him to his feet, his body trembled so badly.

Torrance’s voice was cold and strong enough for all to hear. “You dare hit Lady Esme with a mud ball? An insult, even if born of foolishness, must be answered.”

Torrance let the moment stretch unbearably long, letting fear root deep in the villagers' hearts. Then he announced his judgment.

“You will clean the horses’ shelter until there is no stink left to it," he commanded, his powerful voice slicing the stillness. "Fail, and I will see you regret it."

Daniel bobbed his head furiously. “Aye, my lord. Aye.”

Tears streamed down his mum’s cheeks. “We are grateful, my lord. Grateful for your mercy.”

The villagers sagged in relief. A beating had been expected. A maiming, even.

As his mum said, this was mercy.

Without a word, Torrance turned to Esme and once more took hold of her hand, grasping it tightly, a warning that she had displeased him.

It didn’t matter to her. The lad had been spared a harsh punishment and that was all that mattered.

His hand eased his grip after only a few steps, and they continued their walk through the village whispers following them. While she couldn’t hear what they said, she knew.

Mercy.

They all wondered as did she… why Lord Torrance had shown the lad mercy when he had never shown anyone mercy.

The silence grew heavy as they continued walking. Torrance was far too engaged in surveying the village than having any desire to speak with her. She didn’t mind. Silence was safer for her.

Torrance halted when they reached the smithy.

He was a burly man with arms thick as tree trunks. At the sight of Torrance, the smithy quickly set down his work and wiped his hands, bowing his head in greeting.

Her husband released her hand and Esme lingered a few steps behind, grateful to slip into the background away from the smell of hot metal and thick smoke. From beneath the smithy's bench, a familiar cat emerged, a scrappy thing with a crooked ear and a bold spirit.

The cat hesitated, then darted toward her with a friendly meow—only to freeze mid-step, hackles rising as her wide eyes darted to Torrance. Recognizing him, the cat slunk back, tail low, the memory of past cruelties clear in her retreat.

Esme's heart twisted. The poor creature remembered.

Without thinking, Esme knelt and stretched her hand toward the cat, a small, coaxing smile on her lips.

But her foot caught a loose stone. She stumbled, reaching out instinctively to stop herself from falling, her palm landed against a piece of hot iron.

The pain was immediate, searing up her arm.

She gasped and snatched her hand back, falling to one knee.

Torrance turned at the sound, his expression…

Esme thought she had caught concern in his eyes or perhaps it was what she wished to see, but it was annoyance she actually saw.

He strode toward her, his voice sharp and strong, carrying out across the village. “You clumsy fool.”

He caught her elbow to lift her, his grip firm, though his touch was not rough enough to bruise. His gaze went to her hand, now red and already beginning to blister. Something flickered briefly in his eyes.

Concern?

But it vanished too quickly for Esme to be sure.

With a cold command, he raised his voice again. “Fetch the healer to the keep. NOW!”

A young boy bolted away at the order.

Esme lowered her head, her injured hand cradled against her chest, willing the tears back.

The next thing she knew she was swept off her feet and into his powerful arms. She stared at him, shocked, her mouth hanging open.

“Not a word, wife. Not a word,” he warned and marched through the village with her cradled in his arms.