Page 28 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance

Sparks had certainly flamed his desire tonight. His manhood was swollen, ready for matting and no women had been there to entice him. So, what had sparked his passion?

She had met Ryland a few times when he visited Torrance. It had been odd seeing someone who resembled her husband so much and it was even odder that he was cordial and thoughtful. She recalled during one of his visits how her shawl had slipped off her shoulders and he snatched it up and handed it to her with a smile that sent a flutter to her heart. Torrance had quickly admonished her for being so clumsy and sent her to her bedchamber and ordered supper held from her as punishment for embarrassing him.

She later learned that Ryland had had the courage to speak up to him in her defense and it had ignited an argument for which she was further made to suffer. Two days in her bedchamber with nothing more than bread and water. She was lucky Gwen had taken pity on her and snuck food to her.

Her husband had certain traits, likes, and dislikes but she hadn’t paid them mind lately. She needed to pay more attention to him to see if she could spot any differences that may suggest her idea held merit.

His kiss was certainly different. She enjoyed his kisses, to her surprise and dismay. But now, there could be a reasonable explanation for it.

It hadn’t been her husband who kissed her, but Ryland.

She had to be careful. Very careful. If she were wrong, and there was a good chance she was, it could prove disastrous for her. She had to make sure, completely sure about her suspicions and even then, would it be wise of her to confront him? And what of his plans for her?

Fear trickled over her that she might be in even more danger if she was right.

She needed to take it slowly and approach her suspicions with caution. That was what she had to do to find out what was going on. Had Torrance returned home to her or had Ryland taken his place?

A question she intended to find out.

Dull gray cloudshung heavily over the village and the cold air clung to everything it touched, promising more snow the next day. Esme pulled her hood low and walked with careful steps, keeping to the edges of the path, pausing often to peer at anything that may have looked to cause her interest, or she paused briefly to speak a few idle words to those she passed. But her gaze never strayed far from the tall figure ahead.

Torrance moved with purpose, cutting through the village like a fine blade, nodding to some, ignoring others. He was a man used to being watched, obeyed, feared. Esme had once feared him too. But now... she wasn’t certain who she followed.

He looked like Torrance, bore himself like Torrance, and yet... questions from last night still haunted her. Could it be Ryland, Torrance’s half-brother? The resemblance between them had always been reason for wagging tongues, too much, perhaps, to be coincidence alone. But if it was true, then why?What had become of Torrance? And why would Ryland risk taking his place?

She needed answers. Answers that only he could give.

So, she followed him, doing her best to make it seem she was doing nothing more than wandering through the village. She knew warriors kept an eye on her, her husband’s orders after yesterday’s attack on him. She paused behind a row of baskets outside the weaver’s cottage while the woman turned to speak with a neighbor. The cold wind tugged at her cloak. A few villagers noticed her loitering and she quickly knelt, pretending to examine a tear in her hem.

She rose just in time to see Torrance stiffen, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.

Four figures had appeared at the far end of the path. They walked with heads bowed, robes loose, and hoods drawn deep.

Monks.

At least, that’s what they appeared to be. But Esme knew this village, and monks rarely passed through. They preferred more welcoming grounds—abbeys or well-traveled towns, not a remote village ruled by a man like Torrance.

She glanced at her husband.

He stood still, studying them. And in that moment, she saw it… the subtle shift in his stance, the narrowing of his eyes.

Suspicion.

She slipped closer, standing near the side of a hut. Her breath hitched as Torrance took a step forward and raised his voice.

“You there,” he called out, his voice powerful, carrying through the village. “What business have you here?”

The four halted. For a moment, all was still. Then one figure raised his head.

It was no monk’s face that stared back. It was brutally scarred and grinning.

The man threw off his hood and from beneath his robe drew a sword and let out a roar.

The other three drew weapons from beneath their robes. Villagers screamed, scattering. One of the mercenaries shouted something guttural and charged straight at Torrance.

Torrance didn’t hesitate, he met the rush with steel and fury, blades clashing as snow began to fall lightly.

Esme ducked instinctively, backing toward the side of a hut, heart pounding as Torrance’s warriors rushed toward him with swords drawn.

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