Page 23 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance

Esme resorted to her usual response. “As you say, my lord.”

He took a step toward her. “I mean it, Esme. Those women are clever with their words and use what they hear to their advantage. You risk more than you understand.”

“They were kind,” she said.

His eyes darkened. “Women like that are never kind, Esme. They use what they learn to survive, gain favor, and provide information for coins. They are not to be trusted.”

“Yet you keep them here.”

“Out of necessity and for now.” He took another step forward, his body brushing hers. “For your safety you will speak to no one else about me—about us. Not the women, not the healer, not anyone. I will have your word on it.”

She was shocked seeing the depth of concern in his eyes and her response came easily. “Aye, my lord, you have my word.”

“Leave me now,” he ordered, dismissing her with a wave of his hand as he turned away from her, then quickly turned back. “Do whatever wifely thing you do to keep yourself busy and cause no more trouble.”

Esme nodded and left the room.

Torrance wanted to roar out his anger but instead he clenched his hands and growled low in his chest. Esme’s unexpected meddling could foil the whole plan. He might have no choice but to tell her the truth. But how much of the truth could he admit to her, dare admit to her. He knew this would not be easy, but he also knew it was a risk worth taking and that was all because of Esme. Though he never expected to face the problem she had presented him with, too embarrassed to go into detail. No man wanted to admit when his manhood failed him. And while Esme couldn’t bring herself to say it, she made the problem known. This dilemma was definitely going to get worse if he didn’t do something about it soon.

CHAPTER 7

The 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 discoverthe 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.

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