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)
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.
Because whatever name he wore—Torrance or Ryland—he had just risked his life to save hers. And he held her now, his arms tight around her, like he would never let her go.
The snow fell a bit more heavily now, settling on thatched roofs and sticking to cloaks and hair. Esme remained pressed against Torrance, her breath shallow, her heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, his arms shielding her as if danger still lingered or might return with the next breath.
But then she heard the tread of rushing boots. Others were approaching, villagers returning in cautious steps, whispering, peering from behind barrels and shutters. And among them, striding with purpose and wariness, came Brack.
He came to a halt beside the nearest dead body and crouched, muttering something under his breath as he pushed the hood fully back from the dead man’s face.
“Damn it,” Brack spat and stood, snow dusting his dark hair. He looked at Torrance. “I know this one.”
Torrance’s arms slowly loosened around Esme, one falling away the other remaining around her. “From where?” he demanded.
Brack’s eyes never left the corpse. “North. Clan Fenrick’s territory. A mercenary by the name of Osric. He fought for coins and not much else. He hired on for missions most wouldn’t and connected with those foolish enough to do the same.” He shook his head. “Not many would be foolish enough to enter your village, attempt to kill you, and expect to live.”
“Or thought themselves skilled enough to do so,” Torrance said. “But it wasn’t me who drew that one’s attention… it was my wife.”
A chill rippled down Esme’s spine that had nothing to do with the weather.
Brack’s eyes shifted to her, his brow knitting with concern. “She was the target?”
“Why else would he have raised a sword to her?” Torrance asked, trying to make sense of it.
Brack glanced down at the dead man. “So, the others were a deterrent while he was here to see to a specific task. Why though? She is of no importance.”
Esme saw the pull at her husband’s brow that narrowed his eyes as he looked upon Brack, though Brack didn’t see it, his focus on the dead man. Something he said had disturbed Torrance and gave him a moment of pause but only a moment.
“See the bodies burned before the day is out,” Torrance ordered. “And put eyes on every road in and out of here. Change the sentinels more frequently so they remain sharp and don’t miss anything. They failed, so they will try again.”
“Aye, my lord,” Brack said and moved away, barking orders to those still lingering nearby.
Torrance’s arm tightened around his wife’s waist. “You will go nowhere without my permission, and my warriors will keep watch over you.”
“It makes no sense. I am of no importance,” she said, repeating what Brack had uttered.
A storm suddenly swirled in his green eyes. “You are important—” He paused abruptly. “You are my wife and that is important enough.”
Spoken like Torrance, his only consideration, himself. And yet… Torrance would have never slipped his arm around her and offer her any comfort. He would berate her for being a coward. Yet, his arm still lingered at her waist as though reluctant to let her go. So, whose arm held her?
He pulled her hood up on her head to ward off the falling snow, a caring gesture. One not familiar to Torrance.
More and more she wondered and questioned who the man was who returned to her from the battlefield.
CHAPTER 9
The warmth of the hearth soothed Esme the next—thankfully uneventful— day as she sat curled in one of the two high-backed chairs that faced the flames. Her solar was her sanctuary, a modest chamber tucked away from prying eyes. She kept it as she liked it, cluttered with quiet comforts. Baskets brimmed with embroidery, some finished, some forever waiting, tucked beside the chairs or resting on the low wooden table that held her stitching tools and usually a tankard of hot cider and, like now in the evening, wine.
Here, the world fell away. No guards. No curious glances. No harsh voice demanding obedience. Only the soft pop of wood splitting in the hearth and the occasional creak of stone settling into silence.
She cherished the solitude.
Especially now, with Torrance—or the man claiming to be Torrance—keeping his distance from her. Since the moment in his bedchamber, when he ordered her to leave, he had not sought her out nor had he summoned her to his bedchamber. There was some comfort in the space he placed between them and worry as well, depending on whether he was Torrance or Ryland.
And tonight, the suspicion gnawed sharper. At supper, he had turned his head away with a scrunched nose from the fish stew. Fish stew. The very dish he once demanded thrice in a week. She’d seen him grin over it like a child offered honeyed oatcakes. And now? He barely tolerated the smell, let alone touched his spoon to it.