Free To Avenge Her Highland Warrior (Highland Fae Chronicles Book 3) by Samantha Holt Page A

hard time explaining it to the laird.
    While Gordon counted out the taxes and they completed the ledger, Lorna spoke with one of the men and Logan realised he’d have to warn them not to send word to her family or they’d be in grave trouble with the laird.
    “I’ll be sending men to collect the grain within a sennight,” he told the chief who nodded wearily and rolled up the ledger. Logan turned to Lorna and extended an arm. “My lady.”
    To his surprise, she took his arm—an instinctive reaction mayhap.
    “I hope ye were no’ asking them to aid ye. Ye could put them in grave danger.”
    “I am no’ that selfish,” she declared. “I was inquiring after some of the families and speaking on other matters. Like that of yer lost memory,” she said pointedly.
    “And why should ye wish to speak on that matter?”
    “Because I thought it strange none had thought to avail ye as to the lies ye had been told but none knew of these. It seems a broken heart was blamed for yer change in character.”
    “I have never heard of such a tale.”
    “That is because they are afeared of ye.”
    He smirked. “I dinnae fear the opinions of others and let me assure ye, my lady, there is little truth behind my broken heart.”
    “Aye, it seems ye no longer have one.”
    He led her across the muddy ground, shoving a hen aside with his boot. “Mayhap they havenae spoke on these matters because ye tell falsehoods.”
    Lorna paused, forcing him to stop and turned on him. “Ye have changed so much, Logan. ‘Tis hard to believe ye are the same man. Yet ye are. If ye let yerself believe it, ye would see. We were once good friends and ye were once the best example of a man. Ye loved me and...” She glanced down.
    “And ye loved me?” he asked, grinning but with bitterness behind his tone.
    “I—”
    “A lowly peasant isnae good enough for yer noble blood, is that it?”
    “I never saw ye as such.”
    Before her wide blue eyes tugged at his heart any more, he turned away and stalked across the mud. He heard her hurry to catch up, saw the swish of her skirts out of the corner of his eye.
    “Why will ye no’ accept I speak the truth?”
    “Because I know lasses like ye, my lady. With yer fine looks and elegant gowns. Ye manipulate the truth to gain advantage as easily as ye breathe,” he said over his shoulder.
    He saw her posture soften as she came to his side, the slight slump of her shoulders telling her he had finally quelled her arguments.
    “I once thought ye saw me as more than a pretty face and expensive gowns, just as I always saw ye as more than a peasant.”
    “As I dinnae recall meeting ye before, I could not say what I used to see ye as; I can only say what I see now.”
    “Ye take pleasure in wounding with words, Logan?”
    “I take little pleasure in conversing with ye at the present.”
    They reached the edge of the village and the widow’s ramshackle hut. Thank the Lord. He looked forward to silencing her tongue for a while. He did, indeed, taking little pleasure in conversing with her, not when every word forced him to question himself, his past, his current existence. He had been perfectly satisfied until she had arrived at Kilcree.
    He knocked on the door and grimaced when it nearly fell from its support. A wee child, no older than six summers, he reckoned, dragged open the door and his dark eyes grew wide. He said nothing.
    “Is yer mamaidh home?”
    The child nodded and thrust a finger toward the inside of the hut. Logan ducked in to see the woman abed, huddled under thin blankets.
    She scrambled to sitting as she spied them. Several children huddled around her. He knew the widow had many offspring but he hadn’t realised it was this many.
    “Forgive me, sir, I didnae know ye were here.”
    The woman, her features disguised beneath a film of dirt and her dark hair mostly tucked under a coif, bundled the children into her as if he were some raging beast they needed protection from. He let his lips