Ceana sighed. “But I cannot help it.”
“I ken,” he said softly. Torcall took her hands in his and squeezed lightly before letting it go. Ceana’s hands felt empty and cold without his.
“I asked about Bridget. One of the soldiers told me she was found near Grant’s home.”
It was in Grant’s home that the feast had been held.
Feeling pain in her chest, she nodded.
Torcall nodded, wishing he could make her happy. “I am sorry,” he said to her.
“Thank ye.”
Torcall walked her to her home, and when they arrived, he gave her hand a little squeeze but released it before she could see or react.
“Yer routine, it stands tomorrow, does it nae?” he asked her simply.
Ceana nodded. “Aye, it does.” Her heart beat fast. Did he want to see her on the morrow?
However, he only nodded. “Be safe, Ceana,” he said and was gone, leaving a love-struck Ceana with stars in her eyes.
* * *
More bodies would drop. Every one of them would pay for what they had done. Every single one.
Chapter Six
Death amused him. It always had. It had been a very clean way to end things, even scores, and solve problems from a very young age. Mother withheld his favorite toy? Destroy it! Cousin took the book he wanted? Burn it! The dog barked and woke him up? Kill it when no one was looking. Death was an easy fix.
It had also been the perfect way to settle scores. It was easy to be disregarded, pitied, and even insulted because you didn’t have what everyone else had. Everyone looked down on you, and she had been no different. She deserved to die! If only they had known how terrible she was—how she had scorned him repeatedly. If only they knew, none of them would mourn her. Or they would, those bloody urchins. They wouldn’t understand even with their small and insignificant heads. They wouldn’t understand why she had to die.
They had mourned her, and he had laughed, hidden in the shadows where no one could find him, he had laughed. It was a simple thing; she had had a debt to pay, and she had paid—just like they all would.
He had plans, grand and lofty ones. They would be met—he would make sure of it. For now, no one would suspect him, no one at all. It was the art of deceit. He had learned early enough how to stay hidden, and his knowledge had served him well. It would enable him to keep his identity and deeds hidden for as long as he needed to. Nothing else was important except that justice was served.
* * *
Dirk walked into the training ground and was pleased to find Torcall there. However, he didn’t show it. He was still angry with them and deemed it too early to show pleasure in anything that they did.
“I see ye woke early this morn,” he said.
“Aye, Uncle,” Torcall said.
“‘Tis the least ye can do.”
Torcall said nothing but knew his uncle was pleased. Usually, his uncle arrived before everyone else. However, Torcall had decided to arrive earlier. As was usual, they sparred, but when it looked like he would have the upper hand, he made a slip, and his uncle won the spar.
“Anger is strength,” he said to Torcall as he offered him a hand to help him off the floor. “Ye must ken this. ‘Tis strength and ye can choose to use it however ye want. Do nae restrict yerself.”
Silently, Torcall accepted the hand, resisting the urge to tell his uncle that if it was so simple, he would have done it.
It was much easier for him to control his words than his temper. This was why he would get into a fight faster than he would get into a verbal argument. His rage hadn’t always been an issue. In fact, his mother had always commented on how hard he was to provoke.
His first fit of rage had been mere weeks after his parents had been killed. His parents’ death had been a popular topic—everyone knew what had happened, and it had taken him a while to agree to mix with the other lads his age.
It had started simple—an argument with one of the clan lads of the same age as him. The ball had been his, and he had brought it out to play, but one of the boys had been intent of taking it. He was a bully and usually intimidated other children into doing what he wanted. However, his path had never crossed Torcall’s.
“Give me the ball!” the boy had screamed, red-faced.
