Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
A question she intended to find out.
Dull gray clouds hung 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.
One of the mercenaries turned, his glance hurrying over the area. His eyes met hers and he grinned and ran toward her, his sword raised.
She stumbled backward, calling out instinctively, “TORRANCE!”
Her feet tangled in her rush and her cloak caught on a barrel, losing her precious time to get away from him.
The sword arced toward her as she yanked her cloak, ripping it off the rain barrel.
Torrance slammed into her, knocking her clear, his sword intercepting the blow with a shower of sparks. She hit the ground hard and came up dazed just in time to see Torrance drive his blade through the attacker.
Another came from behind.
“TORRANCE!” she cried out once again.
He turned and caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted, and used the man’s own momentum to bring him down. Torrance finished him with ruthless efficiency, then whirled around, scanning for more.
His warriors had seen to the other two. It was over.
Breathing hard, Torrance lowered his blade.
Esme stood frozen, her hands trembling violently.
Torrance turned to her, eyes wild, face shadowed by damp strands of hair. “Are you hurt?”
She couldn’t speak, fear holding her words captive.
In two strides he was before her, his hands gripping her arms. “Esme!”
His sharp, demanding voice broke her silence. “Nay... I’m not hurt,” she whispered, though her voice shook. “You—he almost—”
“But I didn’t,” he said roughly, and then without another word he pulled her into his arms.
She didn’t resist. Her body curled instinctively into his, clinging to his warmth, to the steady beat of his heart, to his confident strength. She felt him bury his face in her hair, his grip tightening around her.
“You should not have been here,” he murmured, but it wasn’t anger in his voice… it was fear. Fierce and raw.