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

B y the time they reached the keep, Esme’s hand throbbed with every heartbeat.

She expected Torrance to leave her at the door, to pass her off to a servant without a second glance.

Instead, he carried her to a table by the hearth and sat her down on a bench.

Then he slipped her cloak off her shoulders and tossed it on a nearby table.

“Let me see your hand,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Esme knew better than to deny him, so she offered her hand to him.

He cradled it gently in his and cringed, seeing the blister. “You need to be more careful.”

She stared at him. He sounded as if he cared that she had suffered an injury.

“I am here, my lord,” the healer, called out, breathless and pale, as she hurried toward him.

“It is nothing more than a careless burn, Brenna,” Esme said, not wishing to worry the healer, Torrance always threatening her if she should fail to heal.

“Careless, aye, but a burn nonetheless,” Torrance said with a sharp sneer at his wife.

Brenna clutched the handle of her healing basket tightly as she dropped into a quick bow before Torrance. Then she placed the basket on the table.

"See to her hand. If it leaves a scar, you will answer for it."

Esme flinched, at the threat that was inevitable, but when she dared a glance at him, she found him watching the healer’s every move with a fierceness that, for once, did not seem born of anger.

It was something else entirely. What it was she didn’t know since the various look in his eyes today confused her.

One moment he appeared to show concern, another annoyance, and another she did not understand at all.

Her husband had returned to her a complex man and she wondered over the change in him.

Torrance stood over them, arms crossed, his gaze intense as the woman carefully examined Esme’s hand.

“She will heal, my lord,” Brenna said in a low, respectful voice. “There may be some scarring, but if tended well, it will be minimal.”

Torrance’s jaw tightened. He said nothing at first, his silence weighing on the room. Then he spoke, his warning clear. “See that she does well.”

He lingered, something Esme hadn’t expected, and his gaze turned frequently to her cradled hand, then to her face. She was grateful when Brack entered the Great Hall and called out to him.

“My lord, you are needed.” Brack’s eyes darted to Brenna. “People wait at your cottage.”

Torrance turned, annoyed. “They will wait until she finishes with my wife.”

“Aye, my lord, I just wanted Brenna to know she is to go there as soon as she is done here,” Brack said with a lingering glance on Brenna.

“I will see to it, Brack,” she said.

Esme thought she caught a touch of a smile to Brenna’s lips, but she dismissed it since she was seeing things with Torrance that were out of place as well.

Without another word, Torrance walked to the door and Brack followed.

The tension in the room eased the moment Torrance was gone.

“I appreciate your help, Brenna,” Esme said, seeing the tremble leave the healer’s slim hands.

She felt sorry for Brenna. She had been sent to Clan Glencairn, against her will, after her clan lost a battle to Torrance and was forced to be the clan’s healer.

She was pretty with soft blonde hair. She had a gentle touch, a soft voice, and cautious brown eyes.

And Esme thought her to be a few years older than Torrance.

“I am here to help you, my lady, whenever you need me,” Brenna said, her voice as gentle as usual.

Brenna had been there for her numerous times, sneaking behind Torrance’s back to tend to the few bruises he had left on Esme after a fit of anger, and after denying her request to see the healer.

It was why Esme was surprised when he summoned Brenna right away when he had denied her request for the healer many other times.

Brenna worked carefully, applying a thick coating of honey to heal the wound and help ease the pain.

Esme winced but said nothing, her mind on something else entirely and wondering if she should take a chance and speak with Brenna about it.

The healer’s hands paused. “What troubles you, my lady?”

Esme managed a small, tight smile. “You are perceptive.”

“Most healers need to be since many who seek our help find it difficult to tell us what truly troubles them. And we cannot help anyone if we do not know what really wounds them.”

“It is nothing” Esme said, recalling her husband’s threats if she breathed a word to anyone about it.

“I understand, but if you get a chance to visit me at my cottage, then perhaps we can find a solution to the problem without going into too much detail.”

Her suggestion sounded promising, but the consequence of her husband discovering her betrayal was enough to hold her tongue.

“That is kind of you, but truly, it is nothing,” she lied.

“As you say, my lady,” Brenna said, sympathy deepening the lines around her eyes. She did not press further, only finished bandaging Esme’s hand with deft, gentle movements.

Esme wished she had someone to confide in. Someone she could trust. Someone who could help with her problem.

“There,” Brenna said, tying the bandage off neatly. “You’ll need to keep it clean and dry. I’ll leave a small crock of honey you can use to reapply when necessary.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Esme said, and remained seated after the healer left.

The room felt larger in Torrance’s absence, and much warmer too. His demanding presence overpowered, and his cruel nature was cold and calculating.

She flexed her fingers carefully, feeling the throb deep in her palm. A small wound, compared to others she carried… invisible wounds.

She turned around on the bench and stretched her legs out toward the hearth and let herself, for the first time since Torrance’s return, simply sit still and breathe.

For a moment, she allowed herself to remember a time when she had dreamed of something different. A time when she had believed she could be happy here. Unfortunately, dreams often did not prove true.

“There is talk,” Brack said once they stepped outside the keep. “Your contact with the northern clans worries those who have pledged their allegiance to you. They believe you intend to conquer them, not befriend them. They are concerned over your intentions.”

“They worry I will be more generous to the Northern clans than to them. Greed is their major concern,” Torrance said with disgust. “With Callan’s death, his tribe is rudderless. There is no one to steer them, leaving them vulnerable, ripe for attack.”

Brack smiled. “Hakon. You left him unharmed for just such a purpose and offered to get him a wife so he would side with you.”

“Hakon is the type of man who sides with no one but if I can make him beholden to me then I can control him.”

“You think a wife is sufficient to do that?”

Torrance shook his head. “It’s a start. A trade deal will follow and the wealth he earns from that will settle it.

In the meantime, I will make sure other clans pledge their allegiance to me and grow in strength so we can protect ourselves from the north, should Hakon gets any foolish ideas, and grow in influence and power. ”

“Then you better not delay any further in planting your seed in your wife and have her deliver you heir after heir, sons and daughters. Sons to keep the clan strong and daughters to wed to those who will benefit the clan,” Brack advised.

Torrance scowled. “I do not need you to remind me.”

“Obviously you do when your warriors whisper about their leader who fails to bed his wife on the night of his return.”

“Who dares to?—”

Brack didn’t let him finish. “Men who have no doubts as to the strength and courage of their leader.”

“Speak to me no more about it,” Torrance said, his face twisting in an angry sneer.

“Aye, my lord,” Brack said, wisely saying no more.

“Tell me there are many grievances for me to hear tomorrow.”

“Aye. I have made it known that you expect a large turnout.”

“Spread the word that there will be ale and food for those who speak,” Torrance said.

Brack scrunched his brow. “You reward them for doing their duty?”

Torrance half-turned. “I look for lies and truths. Now go and do as I say.”

“Aye, my lord,” Brack said and hurried off.

Torrance remained where he was, on the top step of the keep, looking out over the village below.

It was peaceful. A dog barked playfully with a laughing bairn.

A mother’s voice called out with great care for her daughter.

Life resumed its rhythm around him, as if nothing had changed upon his return.

However, he knew better.

His boots struck a slow rhythm as he descended the stairs and walked along the worn path that circled the stronghold. He had much on his mind, decisions that needed to be made, changes that needed implementation, but mostly a future that had two paths and he wasn’t sure which path to travel.

His heavy thoughts caused him to pause in his tracks.

A servant passed nearby, offered a quick bow, and hurried on. The lad didn’t speak… few did unless summoned to do so. He preferred it that way. Words held too much danger.

His gaze shifted to the keep, its silhouette sharp against the gray sky. Decisions couldn’t be made quickly, there was too much at stake, too many lives that could be shattered. Time was needed but he didn’t have much of that either, so he had no business wasting it.

He resumed his path, steps slow but steady, each one a measured effort to keep thoughts locked tight within him. As he neared the side of the keep, the scents changed, roasted meat, onions, fresh bread, kitchen smells thick in the chilly air.

He pressed on, his head lowered as his thoughts remained chaotic.

Cold water suddenly hit his boots with a heavy slap, soaking the leather and spattering his cloak. He stopped abruptly.

At the kitchen door stood a tall lass, a bucket still in hand, her wild red hair escaping a poor excuse for a braid. Her green eyes narrowed when she realized whom she’d just doused.

“You should watch where you walk, my lord,” she said boldly, lifting her chin, her voice laced with a Highland burr as sharp as the chill in the air.

Before Torrance could speak, Brack appeared from around the corner.

“You reckless fool, Una!” Brack barked, storming toward her. “How dare you speak to Lord Torrance that way.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that I threw water out the door, and he walked right into it,” Una said, unflinching.

Brack’s hand clenched. “You will suffer for this.”

Torrance raised his own hand to halt him. His expression never shifted. He remained calm, but there was a flare in his eyes, not anger… calculation.

He studied the lass in silence.

Una held her ground, shoulders squared. There was fire in her, the kind born of loss and stubborn pride. “I may be a prisoner of a lost battle, but I’m no broken woman.”

“Not yet,” Brack threatened. “It’s two days in the stocks for you.”

“Nay!” Torrance ordered sharply. “Her punishment will wait.”

Brack looked about to argue.

“It will wait,” Torrance said with a slight nod to Brack. Then he turned, the wet squelch of his boots following along with him.

Brack gave Una a last scowl and stalked after him, muttering curses under his breath.

Una stood a moment longer, bucket dangling from her hand, watching the two men enter the keep and thinking that waiting to learn her punishment might be worse than the stocks.

They walked in silence, entered the keep, and headed to the narrow corridor that led to the solar. Brack kept pace just behind Torrance.

When they reached the wooden door, Torrance paused, his hand resting on the iron handle.

“Una… tell me about her,” he said without turning.

Brack stiffened. “Don’t you remember?”

“Am I to recall every prisoner we keep?” Torrance said tersely as he entered his solar, whipped off his cloak to toss on a chest, and went to the table to fill a tankard with ale. He nodded for Brack to join him in a drink.

Brack was only too glad to fill a tankard as he spoke. “She’s been here a few moon cycles now. Stubborn as a mule. She was tending to the wounded when we took Crosswell village. Could’ve run, but she didn’t.”

“And yet she speaks as if she regrets that choice.”

Brack gave a humorless grunt. “She regrets everything. Hasn’t stopped reminding us she wants to leave since the day she was brought here.”

Torrance finished a swallow of ale before saying, “If her tongue grows tiresome, I’ll cut it out myself.”

Brack didn’t laugh. He knew better than to assume jest where there was none.

“She was a healer’s apprentice,” Brack said. “Brenna says she knows her way with wounds and roots. But she was put in the kitchen to work, scrubbing and cleaning, since she can’t be trusted to use such knowledge against us. She’s no fool. She watches everything. Have you decided her punishment?”

“Not yet and I am not in a hurry to do so.”

Brack’s eyes suddenly went wide. “I know what we can do with her.”

“Tell me,” Torrance said.

Brack grinned as if proud of his solution. “Give her as a bride to Hakon.”

Torrance tilted his head in thought. “I will consider it. Now walk with me. There is something you should hear.”

Brack followed him into the Great Hall.

Servants bowed their heads as he passed through, and Esme hurried to her feet.

Torrance stopped at the table where his wife stood on the opposite side. “How is your hand? And I will have the truth, wife.”

“It stings,” she said.

“A reminder and punishment of your clumsiness,” Torrance said.

“Aye, my lord,” Esme said out of habit.

Torrance raised his voice for all to hear. “It is time you did your duty and give me an heir. You will remain in my bed each night until you do.”

Esme’s legs turned weak, but she managed to remain standing until Torrance walked out the door with Brack, then she collapsed onto the bench. She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face in her hands.

How would she ever survive night after night in her husband’s bed?