Page 48 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance (Highland Revenge Trilogy #3)

“I recently discovered that Torrance and I are twins. Why we were separated at birth, I don’t know but I intend to find out. With Torrance and I being twins… that leaves me to rule Clan Glencairn.”

Glances darted at one another, tongues wagged softly, and people stared at Ryland, some shaking their heads.

An elderly woman called out, sharp with suspicion. “A lie, is it? A test to see who speaks out and who stays loyal?”

More murmurs followed.

A voice was raised. “He plays games with us.”

An angry growl was heard. “To draw out dissent.”

Ryland raised his hand, and silence followed. “I will never rule you with fear. That ended the day Torrance drew his last breath. I want proof as well as you do, and I will find it. But know this, I didn’t come here to demand your loyalty. I came to earn it.”

Eyes widened, some with hope, some uncertain, but most still fearful.

Ryland kept his voice strong as he spoke. “You’ve lived too long in silence. You’ve lost sons to Torrance’s ambition. Dignity to the never-ending demands he made and the cruel games he played. No more. If you fight, let it be for your future. Not to please a ghost.”

He saw them falter. Hopes surfacing like fragile shoots in frostbitten soil. And yet... fear ran deep, and doubt clung hard.

Then it was like a voice calling out in the dark.

“I CAN PROVE WHO HE IS!”

Heads turned at the shout and a cloaked figure stepped through the crowd, moving with calm certainty.

Ryland watched the man approach, though a hood kept his face hidden.

The man stopped at the bottom of the stairs and drew back his hood.

Patrick.

Brack stepped forward ready to lunge at the man and while Ryland threw his arm out to stop him, it was the cry of a horn alerting the clan of attack that halted him.

“ATTACK!” several people cried out and those who didn’t have weapons ran to get them.

Women rushed their bairns and the elderly to their homes to take cover.

Brack rushed down the stairs to Brenna. “Get in the keep and stay there.”

“The wounded will need me,” she argued.

“They will be brought to the keep. Now go,” Brack ordered, shoving her toward the stairs, then ran off shouting orders to the warriors.

Patrick hurried up the stairs amid the chaos.

Ryland drew his sword and with his back to Esme, ordered, “Get in the keep and stay there.”

Esme didn’t move, waiting to see what Patrick would do.

Ryland raised his sword, ready to battle.

“I have no fight with you. I left when I did to see if I could find out who means you harm. It is the least I could do for the good son of the woman I loved with all my heart.”

Ryland had no time to respond to the shocking revelation. Esme grabbed his arm.

“Look,” she urged anxiously, pointing in the distant at the low rise.

Ryland’s eyes shot wide. A large troop of warriors were charging down the rise and they wore the colors of…

“Clan Rennoch!” Ryland roared out and behind them rode Clan Stott.

“That is what I found out. Rennoch and Stott clans work together to see you and Esme dead, and Ryland too.”

“Why? Esme asked.

“That I had no time to find out,” Patrick said. “I thought it more important you knew who meant you harm.”

Ryland searched through the chaotic crowd for Roland, but he couldn’t find him. What he did see infuriated him. Roland’s warriors were already raising their swords against his people.

“Get in the keep, Esme, and stay there,” Ryland ordered again.

This time she went but not before she kissed him and demanded, “You will survive. I will have it no other way.”

“Since you command it what other choice do I have,” Ryland said, then rushed down the stairs, Patrick at his side, straight into battle.

Esme stood rooted on the steps of the keep, the chill wind biting at her cheeks, and the sky heavy with dark clouds that threatened to split open.

She was unable to move, though Ryland had ordered her inside for her own safety.

She could not take her eyes off the battle, not while the man she loved fought heroically and not while the fate of Glencairn hung in the balance.

She stared at the village. It had become a battlefield.

Men poured into the open square, warriors of Clan Rennoch and Stott flooding the village like a tide of fury, blades drawn, faces twisted with bloodlust. She could not tell how many, but she could see there were too many.

And yet Glencairn’s people rose to meet them.

Blacksmiths, farmers, stable boys, men who had never known the feel of a blade beyond their everyday tools armed themselves with axes, pikes, swords, pitchforks, whatever was near and deadly enough.

Something in Ryland’s speech had stirred in them.

They fought not just for their land but for the clan, for the hope of a better leader, a promise of a better tomorrow.

Her glance caught on Brack. He fought near the gate like a man possessed, his sword flashing as he brought down two warriors in rapid succession. His shoulder bled, but he did not falter. He moved with brute force, sheer will driving him forward with each blow, each block, each guttural shout.

And Ryland?—

Esme’s heart pounded with every swing of his sword.

He fought at the center of it all, eyes cold with focus, movements honed and deadly.

She saw him fell one man with a clean stroke, then pivot to parry another.

Mud splattered his legs, blood streaked his cheek, and still he pressed on, never hesitating, never pausing. He was a storm in human form.

Patrick fought at his side, roaring with every swing, his axe cleaving the air and bone alike. His laughter, feral and fearless, rose even above the screaming.

Esme’s fingers gripped the edge of the stone balustrade, her knuckles white. Smoke from cottages that were torched stung her eyes, or perhaps it was tears. She did not know.

All she felt was fear. It rose sharp and unrelenting.

This could not be won. Not with so many enemies. For every man that fell on the other side, another seemed to take his place. And Glencairn’s warriors, fierce as they were, were fewer, outnumbered. Even the villagers who fought bravely were starting to fall back, retreating wherever they could.

She spotted a young boy, barely more than eleven years, swinging a broken spear and losing it in the fray. Another man, gray-bearded and limping, drove a pitchfork into the leg of a Rennoch warrior before being struck down.

There was no line. No formation. Just the raw crush of battle, steel against flesh, screams and roars and the endless, terrible sound of death.

And Ryland, her Ryland, fought on.

Esme pressed a hand to her mouth, barely stifling the sob that rose. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t let this be the day I lose you.

Then she heard it… a horn.

It echoed across the hills and every head turned, even the enemy stilled.

Over the rise, they came.

First Hakon, his long hair wild, his axe raised high, his troop of warriors behind him roaring like thunder. Fierce men with faces painted and weapons swinging ready to battle. They poured down the hill like a flood let loose from the heavens.

To the side, to her shock and relief, came Knox.

His mount tore through the grass, and his warriors thundered behind him, blades drawn, battle cries fierce. His mare reared as he shouted to his men to go faster.

Then to her even greater surprise came the third wave.

A shout rose from the left, and down from the woods rode a dark-haired man, his expression grim, with a savage band of mercenaries at his back. They charged with blades and clubs, roaring curses and war cries, descending into the village like the hounds of hell let loose.

She knew by reputation it could be only one person---The Monk, the mercenary all mercenaries feared.

The enemy broke, fear and confusion sweeping through their ranks.

Esme’s chest seized with something close to awe. Then she sobbed once, loud and sharp, full of disbelief and grateful relief. Ryland’s friends had come to help him, and she realized then that he must have sent for them, feeling they might be needed. And they were.

Ryland and Clan Glencairn would not fall today.

She turned, breathless, eyes stinging, ready to enter the keep, and froze.

Roland stood nearly on top of her, blood on his face and garments, and a dagger in his hand.