Page 7 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance

The villagers sagged in relief. A beating had been expected. A maiming, even.

As his mum said, this was mercy.

Without a word, Torrance turned to Esme and once more took hold of her hand, grasping it tightly, a warning that she had displeased him.

It didn’t matter to her. The lad had been spared a harsh punishment and that was all that mattered.

His hand eased his grip after only a few steps, and they continued their walk through the village whispers following them. While she couldn’t hear what they said, she knew.

Mercy.

They all wondered as did she… why Lord Torrance had shown the lad mercy when he had never shown anyone mercy.

The silence grew heavy as they continued walking. Torrance was far too engaged in surveying the village than having any desire to speak with her. She didn’t mind. Silence was safer for her.

Torrance halted when they reached the smithy.

He was a burly man with arms thick as tree trunks. At the sight of Torrance, the smithy quickly set down his work and wiped his hands, bowing his head in greeting.

Her husband released her hand and Esme lingered a few steps behind, grateful to slip into the background away from the smell of hot metal and thick smoke. From beneath the smithy's bench, a familiar cat emerged, a scrappy thing with a crooked ear and a bold spirit.

The cat hesitated, then darted toward her with a friendly meow—only to freeze mid-step, hackles rising as her wide eyes darted to Torrance. Recognizing him, the cat slunk back, tail low, the memory of past cruelties clear in her retreat.

Esme's heart twisted. The poor creature remembered.

Without thinking, Esme knelt and stretched her hand toward the cat, a small, coaxing smile on her lips. But her foot caught a loose stone. She stumbled, reaching out instinctively to stop herself from falling, her palm landed against a piece of hot iron. The pain was immediate, searing up her arm. She gasped and snatched her hand back, falling to one knee.

Torrance turned at the sound, his expression…

Esme thought she had caught concern in his eyes or perhaps it was what she wished to see, but it was annoyance she actually saw.

He strode toward her, his voice sharp and strong, carrying out across the village. “You clumsy fool.”

He caught her elbow to lift her, his grip firm, though his touch was not rough enough to bruise. His gaze went to her hand, now red and already beginning to blister. Something flickered briefly in his eyes.

Concern?

But it vanished too quickly for Esme to be sure.

With a cold command, he raised his voice again. “Fetch the healer to the keep. NOW!”

A young boy bolted away at the order.

Esme lowered her head, her injured hand cradled against her chest, willing the tears back.

The next thing she knew she was swept off her feet and into his powerful arms. She stared at him, shocked, her mouth hanging open.

“Not a word, wife. Not a word,” he warned and marched through the village with her cradled in his arms.

CHAPTER 3

By the time they reached the keep, Esme’s hand throbbed with every heartbeat. She expected Torrance to leave her at the door, to pass her off to a servant without a second glance. Instead, he carried her to a table by the hearth and sat her down on a bench. Then he slipped her cloak off her shoulders and tossed it on a nearby table.

“Let me see your hand,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Esme knew better than to deny him, so she offered her hand to him.

He cradled it gently in his and cringed, seeing the blister. “You need to be more careful.”

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