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)
That was not Torrance.
A sudden push of the door startled her, and she shot up from her chair, one hand pressing to her chest.
He filled the doorway like a storm rolling in from the hills… tall, brooding, intimidating.
“We leave tomorrow,” he said without preamble, stepping into the room. “Chieftain Stuart’s eldest son is betrothed, and we’re expected to attend the celebration. You’ll dress accordingly and keep your tongue well-mannered.”
His boots thudded lightly on the rug she’d woven herself, and her breath caught. Torrance had never once stepped foot into her solar. Never.
He dropped into the chair beside hers with a grunt, his limbs folding heavily like they no longer had the strength to carry him. His head leaned back, and in the flickering firelight she saw the faint lines of wear around his eyes.
“You look weary,” she said, unsure why she whispered it as she dropped down on her chair.
He yawned, wide. “I haven’t sleep well.”
She took advantage of the moment and asked, cautiously, “Are you not feeling well? You didn’t touch the fish stew.”
His eyes stayed closed, his voice sluggish. “Smelled off to me.”
“But it was—” she stopped herself. She would watch and see if he continued to refuse the fish stew. Another piece that would help her confirm her suspicions.
His breathing had slowed, his hands resting loosely on the arms of the chair.
She stared at him, mouth slightly parted. He was asleep.
Torrance. In her solar. Asleep.
Not something she ever expected to see.
For a moment, all she could do was sit, frozen by the impossible quiet of the moment. She had never known him to be anything but alert, guarded, and coldly composed. And now… now he slumbered in the chair beside her, beneath the same hearth light that had warmed only her solitude.
She watched him, eyes tracing the flicker of flame across his jaw, the faint tension in his brow even in sleep. And the question returned, sharper now, more insistent.
Who are you really?
Esme sat still for a long while, the crackle of the fire the only sound daring to move between them.
He slept so deeply, so unexpectedly. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight parting of his lips, the faint furrow in his brow, none of it spoke of the Torrance she had known. That man never let his guard down. Not for an instant. Not with anyone.
A thought came to her. Should she do it? Was it wise of her? It could help her determine her suspicions, secure a piece of the puzzle.
Carefully, silently, and apprehensively she rose from her chair.
Her bare feet barely whispered across the carpet as she crept toward him. Each step measured, her breath shallow. She felt foolish like a child sneaking toward a sleeping wolf, but curiosity pressed her forward. This might be the only chance she had to truly see him… see if there was a difference.
She crouched slightly beside the chair, her gaze sweeping over his face.
He looked like Torrance. The same chiseled jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the strong, defined mouth that had once sneered when he’d said, “‘a wife is a burden no man should shoulder.’” His dark auburn hair curled slightly at the edges, just as she remembered. But…
Her eyes narrowed and she looked closer.
There. Just beneath his right eye, a faint line, not more than a whisper of a scar, nearly invisible in the firelight.
She had never noticed it before.
Torrance had once boasted about the day he’d bloodied Ryland’s face when they were young. Left a mark to remember me by, he’d told her, proud of it.
Could that be it?
Her gaze drifted lower, taking in the smoothness of his skin. He looked younger somehow. Still striking, but with fewer lines than she recalled. Less wear. Less… cruelty.
And she realized something else. She had never been this close to him before, not like this when he slept. Their few kisses had been cold, forced, his mouth harsh against hers. She had kept her eyes tightly shut, counting heartbeats until it ended, and wishing she could rush away as soon as it did. Not so his kisses of late.
But now… now she looked.
And the more she looked, the more she wondered—
His eyes snapped open.
She gasped.
Before she could retreat, his hand shot up, curling behind her neck. His grip was firm but not cruel, and in the space of a breath, he pulled her down, his face lifting to meet hers.
Their lips met… he made sure of it.
The kiss was nothing like before, nothing like the frigid, punishing pecks she had endured. His lips moved against hers with purpose, with something raw and sudden. Heat surged up her spine, her hands braced against the arm of the chair, her breath caught between disbelief and something far more dangerous.
She realized once again how much she enjoyed the way he kissed her.