Page 9 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance (Highland Revenge Trilogy #3)

T he snow lay thick and undisturbed in the forest, a cold, white hush blanketing the world.

Flakes drifted lazily from the gray sky above, melting into the dark folds of Torrance’s fur-lined cloak.

His stallion moved carefully, each step muffled by the snow, the beast’s breath rising in slow, heavy puffs that vanished into the chilled air.

Torrance rode alone. He wanted no eyes upon him. No questions asked. No speculations made. His hands tightened around the reins.

He had heard whispers, a name spoken by an elder with a drink-warmed tongue, a mention of an old healer who had once lived in this area of the forest. A discreet healer.

One who knew more than she should but kept such knowledge to herself.

She would have delivered bairns around the time of his birth. If she still lived… if she remembered…

He dared not finish the thought.

The snow stung his face, small cold kisses against skin that felt too tight, too alert.

Every creak of a distant branch or low groan of wind through the trees kept his shoulders taut.

He did not trust these woods. But then, he trusted little of anything these days and it was imperative that he did.

He had to discover the truth. He had to know. He needed to know or all could be lost.

The path narrowed, winding through a dense copse of trees crowded in close and where shadows clung to their trunks like secrets. And then he saw it, set back from the path, a squat cottage, its thatched roof sagging beneath the weight of years and savage weather.

He dismounted his boots leaving prints in the snow as he trudged toward it. The wind moaned low as if warning him back, but nothing would stop him. Nothing.

The door was cracked, half-hanging, its wood swollen and splintered. One firm shove, and it tore off its hinges and, with a protesting creak, fell back into the cottage. He stepped on it to enter and stood glancing around.

The air was cold, still, and heavy with abandonment.

The wattle and daub walls were crumbling in spots and the hearth had collapsed.

No tools of healing were anywhere in sight.

Just shattered crockery and pieces of what might have been chairs and a table, possibly a bed.

He moved through it slowly, as if ghosts might stir at his passing.

This was no healer’s home. It had not been occupied for a long time.

He let a heavy sigh escape. He couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed, but he wasn’t discouraged.

This wasn’t the place, which meant he had to look elsewhere.

He hadn’t expected it to be easy. It had been over twenty years since his birth.

His chances of discovering the truth might be slim, but he found that secrets had a way of surfacing even many years later.

He stepped out into the snow again, glad it was a light falling snow since it would not hamper his search. He would?—

A sound cut through his thoughts.

To his right, though he didn’t look. He listened.

The rustle of fabric, the crunch of snow beneath boots.

His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Another sound, behind him this time.

His stallion snorted, restless. The woods grew too still.

And then they came, three figures, fast and silent, emerging from behind the trees like shadows rising from the snow. No warning, no words, just swords raised, and the sudden storm of violence.

The Great Hall doors slammed open with a thunderous crack, the wind rushing in like an angry spirit, snow flurrying in its wake.

Gasps echoed as Torrance strode in, blood streaking down the side of his face, his dark cloak tattered and touched with snow.

His left arm hung stiff, blood dripping from the wound above his elbow onto the wood floor.

“Fetch the healer!” his voice roared through the hall, sharp and commanding, but beneath it… a strain. A fatigue from a hard-fought battle.

Esme was on her feet before she realized she’d moved. Her heart jolted at the sight of him—bloodied, breath ragged, and yet still upright with a storm-wrought scowl on his face. She hurried to him, her hands reaching out instinctively.

“You’re bleeding heavily,” she breathed, eyes darting over his wounds. “Let me see.”

“I said get the healer!” he barked again, though his voice faltered as Esme’s hands steadied his good arm and gently eased him toward a bench near the hearth.

A guard darted off and out the door to fetch Brenna.

“You should sit,” Esme said, grateful that a servant had wisely fetched a stack of cloths and a bucket of water and had set them on the table. She grabbed a cloth, pressing it gently to the cut on his head. He hissed under his breath but didn’t pull away.

She worked quietly, her fingers surprisingly gentle for someone who felt nothing for him but obligation. And yet… the sight of him like this—wounded, breathless, human—made something ache in her chest.

“You’re lucky,” she said softly. “The head wound isn’t deep.” Her gaze dropped to the tear in his sleeve. “But your arm…”

“Caught a blade. A minor wound,” he said through clenched teeth, steeling himself against her tender touch, her soft voice, and a look of concern in her eyes as if she truly cared what had happened to him.

She felt a strange heat rush through her. His eyes locked firmly on hers and in their depth, she thought she saw something she had never seen in her husband’s eyes before now. He looked at her as if he truly cared for her, as if he actually had a heart.

“Still,” she said, her voice softer now, “it must be painful.”

Their eyes held for a moment longer than they should have. His expression shifted, something unspoken rising between them, uncertainty, perhaps, or?—

Before either could speak, Brack stormed into the hall, face dark with fury.

“What in the devil’s name were you doing in the woods alone?” he demanded. “You could have been killed!”

Torrance’s gaze snapped to him, cold and sharp. “You dare question me?”

Brack realized his mistake and though he corrected himself, his voice remained etched with anger. “Nay, my lord, but I cannot protect you if you vanish without a word. There are enemies who would pay dearly to see you bleed.”

“I do bleed, yet the three who dared to challenge me lie dead in the forest for the animals to feast on,” Torrance said, offering no explanation for his absence.

Brack growled something under his breath, but Esme stepped between them, hands firm on Torrance’s arm again.

“There is time for talk later. He needs tending right now,” she said quietly but firmly. “Brenna is on her way.”

“My wife is right. We will talk later,” Torrance said, a clear dismissal.

Brack hesitated, jaw tight, an annoyed glance at Esme, then he turned with a muttered curse and stalked off, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor.

The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Esme quickly tended to the wound on his arm, placing a cloth around it to still any blood that flowed, then she got busy cleaning the blood off his head wound so Brenna would have a clear view of it when she arrived.

Her touch soothed and Torrance closed his eyes relishing her tenderness. He felt an ease begin to wash over him and soon he found himself free of worry and turmoil. He felt—content. How long had it been since he felt at such ease?

“You should’ve taken someone with you,” she said, not accusingly but with concern.

He kept his eyes closed as he answered her. “This task was for me alone.”

She wanted to ask what task, but he looked so content with his eyes closed that she didn’t wish to disturb him any further. She did, however, reach for his hand, her fingers brushing his, and found he didn’t pull away.

“Whoever they were… they meant to kill you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Brenna’s voice rang out. “I am here, my lord.”

Torrance almost yelled at her to leave, preferring his wife’s hands to tend to him, but he held his tongue and let the healer work. It was better this way. He couldn’t allow anything to interfere with the plan.

The warmth of the fire did little to ease the ache in Torrance’s arm as he stood near the lone window in his solar, watching as dusk settled over the snow-covered hills beyond.

A fresh bandage circled his upper arm, Brenna’s work, though it pulled as he drew the shutters on the window closed, the tapestry falling over it, keeping the cold at bay.

He barely noticed the tug to his wound. His thoughts were elsewhere—dark, tangled, and unwelcome.

Brack stood near the hearth, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him like a hawk, intense. "You should have taken someone with you. You may think yourself invincible but today proves otherwise.”

Torrance didn’t turn. “I didn’t need a guard to instruct me.”

“Nay. You needed one to keep you from getting killed.”

Torrance finally turned and looked at him, one brow raised, eyes hard. “They failed miserably in their pathetic attempt.”

“This time.” Brack stepped forward, his boots heavy on the wood floor. “But what if the next blade finds your heart? You go wandering off again without a word, and I’ll be the one telling the clan their chieftain died alone in the woods like a fool.”

“Some of them might welcome that,” Torrance scoffed.

Brack found his response odd. He expected Torrance to threaten suffering on any who would dare speak against him. It confused him and left him speechless.

A long silence settled between them. The fire crackled behind Brack, its light flickering across the worn stone walls.

Finally, Torrance said, “There are things I must do that I cannot speak of… yet.”

Brack gave a snort. “Secrets have a way of biting the man who keeps them.”

“And betrayal hides in the open just as easily as in the dark,” Torrance countered. He moved to the table and reached for the pitcher of ale, filling a tankard with a steady hand. “Which brings us to Chieftain Stuart.”