Page 1 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance

CHAPTER 1

Asoft knock sounded at the door before it opened.

“Lord Torrance approaches, my lady.”

Esme leaned against the bedpost for support, her legs turning weak. She acknowledged the message with a bob of her head and the servant hurried off.

She feared her heart would pound out of her chest it beat so wildly. It had been so peaceful here without his presence, without the roar of his anger, or the pounding of his fists on a table, or the fear that he would demand her presence in his bedchamber and…

She pushed herself off the bedpost, warning herself that she had to remain strong, that she had no choice. He was her husband and nothing would change that, not even prayer, and she had prayed, but it had been a sinful and selfish prayer.

She had prayed for his death.

Dreadful fear robbed her legs of any strength left in them and she sunk down on the edge of the bed tears threatening her eyes.

Her husband had exceptionally fine features. At first glance, his handsome features captivated. His height stood a good head or two above others, and his fine body was sculpted toperfection. But it was only when one looked past all that that his true nature was revealed—evil.

She had seen it in the way his eyes would narrow, and his lips would curl ever so slightly in pleasure when he issued a punishment. He got enjoyment out of seeing someone suffer and even more pleasure in inflicting the suffering himself. Then there were his subtle threats dropped here and there or his hand that would strike fast for barely a reason.

Memory had her cringing, as if she could feel his hand grab a handful of her hair and yank it hard, stinging her scalp and for what? Because she hadn’t responded to him quickly enough or because she dared to take a step ahead of him, or she spoke too much or not enough. Any reason was good enough to raise his wrath and leave her trembling in fear.

When she received news that her husband would not return right after a victorious battle, she almost wept with relief. She could walk through the village, enjoying the last days of autumn that had already turned cold, speak with whoever she wished without seeking permission from her husband to do so. Smile. Laugh. Sleep. All without an ounce of fear.

She had even worn what garments she pleased, plain and comfortable, not the elaborate ones her husband insisted she wear and that she now wore to please him. Always to please him so as not to give him any reason to lash out at her.

Stay strong, a warning that had become like a prayer to her.

Her mum had told her that a woman’s lot in life was to remain strong no matter what fate dealt her since women had little say in decisions made for them.

Not so the peasants, Esme would argue with her.

Her mum would tell her that their lot was no better. Whether noble or peasant, life was difficult when little choice was left to you.

Esme didn’t want to believe that. She had entered the marriage with hope, believing kindness could make a difference. She learned fast that evil took pleasure in toying and tormenting kindness until it finally retreated and hid in the shadows.

The one thing she wished her mum had been more forthcoming about was the marriage bed. All she had told her was to submit to her husband. To lie there and let him have his way and it would be over soon enough. But that didn’t happen, and she didn’t know what she had done wrong. She closed her eyes, recalling the fearful moment. Her husband had grown so angry at her, she feared he might beat her to death. But it was his tongue that cut as sharp as a knife, and she felt its every slash.

His warning, “Fail me again and you would suffer greatly for it.”

A horn sounded and she spang off the bed. The sound was close, which meant her husband would arrive at any moment and he would bring fear and darkness with him.

She brushed at the few wrinkles on her heavily embroidered tunic, silently reprimanding herself for having sat. Torrance would notice and admonish her for being unkempt. She hurried her hand to her hair to make sure that not a single blonde strand had escaped her neatly plaited hair. She refused to even give thought to her features. Many thought her beautiful, while her husband believed he had gotten stuck with an ugly wife. He insisted that her eyes were too big and the color too blue. He reminded her repeatedly that her mouth was too small, that she barely had any lips, and her nose was too wide.

She lowered her hand to rest on her stomach where by now her husband had expected a bairn to be growing, but it wasn’t. Though she had gained some weight, her fault. She had been able to enjoy her meals since he hadn’t been there to comment on everything she put in her mouth. He would notice and no doubt remark on it and see that she got less food.

She sighed feeling helpless, trapped, and fearful. Always fearful.

The horn sounded again—close this time.

She hurried out of her bedchamber to greet her husband, the man she hated with her whole heart. She silently prayed as she made her way down the stone stairs for strength and sneaked in a prayer that had no hope of being fulfilled—please, please, let me be free of him.

The wind stirredthe hem of Esme’s cloak as she stood atop the stone steps of the keep, her hands knotted tight at her sides. The village that spread wide before the castle was lined with clan members—men, women, even bairns clutching their mothers’ skirts—all summoned at the sound of the horn. Not for celebration. Not for joy. But for duty touched with fear.

Esme watched as silence settled over the village and a chill swept through the crowd like a shadow passing over the sun as hoofbeats rang out, sharp and steady.

She forced her glance up the slope where the road cut through the last of the pines. A black horse crested the ridge, a brute of an animal, its mane flying like a war banner. Upon it sat a man clad in a dark plaid and furs, his cloak billowing behind him as if the very wind feared to touch him.

Lord Torrance… her husband.

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