Page 49 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

F eya woke up to a ceiling she didn’t recognize, a pounding behind her eyes making her squint. Her mouth was dry, and her feet throbbed, as did the muscles of her legs, feeling overworked and strained.

Morgana.

She sat up with a jolt, the events from earlier flooding back to her all at once. But as she did so, she saw the broad expanse of a man’s back across the room, bare and toned with muscles.

He sat at a small desk, looking far too big for the flimsy stool. The beauty of him stunned her for a moment, and she gulped, knowing she should be terrified, but feeling anything but.

This was the man she had found in the woods, the one she had begged for help. She remembered the kindness in his eyes and the skill with which he swung a sword.

He had protected her.

He sucked in a sharp breath as he struggled to touch a shallow cut between his shoulder blades.

“Ye’re hurt,” she said.

He looked over his shoulder to catch her eye.

“Ye’re awake,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, stoic and cautious.

“Let me help.”

She pushed the covers aside, only to see that she was wearing nothing but her nightgown. Her face flushed scarlet as she realized she was locked in a room with a man, both of them half-dressed.

“‘It’s only a scratch,” he said.

To her relief, he turned away from her, seemingly unaffected by her state of undress. He grabbed the shirt he had discarded and pulled it roughly over his head. She saw the blood-stained fabric stick quickly to the cut.

“Ye must clean it,” she protested, imagining the dirt and grime on his clothes seeping into the wound, infecting it.

“Who are ye?”

The question was aggressive, full of anger and annoyance.

She quickly forgot the cut, feeling her heart rate quicken as he confronted her.

“Feya,” she said carefully. And then she swallowed, forcing herself to answer with more confidence. “Feya Webster.”

“And what were ye doin’ in McKenzie Castle? What were ye doin’, running through the woods in nothin’ but yer nightgown?”

His tone annoyed her, as did his veiled insinuations.

Did he think she had asked for this? Did he think she had somehow brought this trouble onto herself?

“Who are ye?” she asked, sitting up straighter. “And why did ye take me? Why did ye bring me to yer bed?”

The man stood up, looking offended and embarrassed all at once.

“I’m the man who saved yer life,” he replied, his voice echoing through the small bedchamber. “Archer Brown. Though me clan kens me as Laird Dougal.”

She stared at him, her mouth dropping open in shock.

“ Laird Dougal? ” she echoed, her limbs shaking.

She had heard stories about him, legends of a fearsome warrior who didn’t know the word ‘mercy’. He was known as a cruel and heartless soldier, a man the children of her village were taught to fear.

So why had he saved her life?

“Aye,” he uttered. “And I didnae take ye to me bed. I brought ye to an inn after ye collapsed in me arms. So, I’ll thank ye to stop accusin’ me of things I didnae do.”

There was a threat in his voice that made Feya’s heart beat faster.

Reality crashed down around her as she realized she was locked in a room with a man people called a devil. She bit her tongue, telling herself to be careful, before her outspoken nature got her into even more trouble than she was already in.

“I fainted?” she asked quietly.

She looked down at her hands, clasped tightly on her lap. She couldn’t remember collapsing.

Archer only grunted and turned away, busying himself with a bowl of water and a cloth on the desk, still struggling to clean his wounds.

Silence stretched between them until Feya couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I was there for a wedding,” she blurted out, and the intimidating man turned back slowly. “Me sister’s wedding. She married Laird McKenzie yesterday.”

“A bride and a widow on the same day,” Archer mused.

Feya regarded him. Was that a hint of amusement in his voice?

“Did ye really see him get killed?”

She nodded gravely. She could still see the dagger that was driven into Laird McKenzie’s stomach. If she closed her eyes, she would see the man crumple to the ground.

“And did ye see who did it?”

Again, she nodded.

Archer let out a breath.

His reaction only solidified Feya’s fears. She had witnessed the assassination of her Laird. As long as Cohen was alive, he would be looking for her, desperate to silence her.

“That isnae good, lass.” Archer ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, but the movement irritated the injury on his back. He grunted in pain.

“Ye must let me help.”

Feya climbed out of bed, forcing herself to be brave. This man had helped her, and it was her turn to show him kindness.

“I told ye, I’m fine,” he grumbled, but his voice was softer.

He watched her approach, his eyes roaming over her body as if he were taking her in for the first time. It made her flush, but she wouldn’t be deterred.

“I’m a healer,” she said.

She reached around him, grabbing the cloth as she pulled the water bowl toward her. Standing this close, she could feel the warmth of his body.

“A good one, too.”

She hadn’t meant to boast, and she felt a bit embarrassed as Archer smirked at her, clearly amused.

He held her gaze for a moment. Then, he reached down to the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one swift motion. She didn’t miss his wince as he did so, though he tried to hide it.

She had already seen him shirtless once. But she was struck by his beauty all over again. She let her eyes linger, tracing the shape of him, the smoothness of his skin, the scars on his back.

She felt a sudden urge to run her fingers over the taut muscles of his shoulders, to massage the tension at the nape of his neck.

Get a hold of yerself.

As a healer, she had seen many naked men. It was part of the job, and she had become skilled at separating bodies from faces, at looking at things clinically rather than emotionally. So, it was odd to feel so overwhelmed by his body, to find herself interested.

She soaked the cloth and dabbed it gently, forcing herself to focus on the wound.

Archer sat stiffly, a block of marble beneath her fingers, but he let her clean his wound.

Blood and dirt had caked on his skin, and Feya worked until his skin was clean, the cut a gentle pink rather than an angry red.

“I never thanked ye for saving me.”

Still, he did not move.

“It was bold of ye,” she continued. “To risk yer life for a stranger. To help me.”

Finally, Archer shifted, turning his legs so he could face her.

At the sight of his chest, Feya had to hold back a gasp. She had seen the scars on his back, but they were nothing compared to the scars on his torso. His shoulders, chest, and stomach were littered with them, crisscrossed in a pattern that was nothing short of beautiful.

“Ye thought I would leave ye?” he asked. Feya blinked, noticing the striking gray of his eyes. “Ye think me such a monster?”

He stood up quickly, breaking their stare.

Archer was used to the reputation he had garnered on the battlefield, the exaggerated stories of his ruthless nature. But something about this woman’s assumptions made him angry.

He reached for his shirt, but the feisty woman pulled it away too quickly.

“Nay. Ye willnae put this dirty thing back on after I’ve cleaned ye.” She held his shirt up in the air, and even he could see how disgusting the garment was, stained with dirt and blood. “This shirt is only fit for the fireplace.”

He scowled at her and turned away, noticing that the cut on his back did not sting as much as it had before.

Not that he would tell her so. He felt trapped, confined to a tiny room with nowhere to go, suddenly saddled with a woman he had no idea what to do with.

Earlier, he had been anxious for her to wake up from her fainting spell. Now, he could only wish this troublesome lass had slept through the night.

“‘It’s late,” he grumbled. “We should sleep.”

He dropped onto the edge of the bed, still turned away from her. His eyes landed on the tiny window, catching the glow of the moon.

“Have yer healer look at it when ye go back,” she advised. “In the morning, ye can ask the innkeeper for a strip of cloth, so ye can wrap it.”

There was a finality to her voice that confused him.

He turned to look at her. She was standing by the door, her hand on the handle.

“Thank ye again for saving me.” She gave him a curt nod. “I willnae forget it.”

With that, she opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, wearing nothing but her nightgown.

Archer would have laughed if he weren’t so shocked. He was on his feet instantly, closing the gap between them.

“Why must ye always make me chase ye?” he huffed. “Get back inside.”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room, practically lifting her. The little squeal of protest she gave made his body flush with desire, and he quickly released her.

He stood in front of the door, a more solid barrier than any piece of wood.

“What are ye doin’? I must get back.”

“To the castle where yer Laird was murdered? Where the man who did it is likely waitin’ for ye?”

“It doesnae matter,” she insisted. “I cannae leave me family. If he doesnae find me, he will take it out on them. I ken he will.”

She rushed forward and tried to move him, her small hands pressing against the solid expanse of his chest. He smirked at her as she did her best to move him, though he hardly had to do anything to hold still.

“Move,” she demanded.

There was desperation in her voice. It was the same panic he had heard out in the woods, the same desperation that told him just how guilty she felt for running away.

“It’s a fool’s mission,” he reasoned. “Ye will only get yerself killed.”

Her small hands curled into fists and began to pound on his chest.

Archer grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away, frustrated by her stubbornness.

“Do ye think I will let ye out there? Of course, the man will be waiting for ye. Nae to say anythin’ of the way ye’re dressed. Ye wouldnae make it to the castle before some man found ye and had his way with ye.”

She blushed crimson at his words. Suddenly, they both grew aware of how close they stood to each other.

Feya pulled away, and Archer released her, watching her pace back and forth in the cramped room, her eyes on the floor. He watched her, somehow understanding that she was plotting something.

“I willnae die,” she declared, planting her feet on the floor as she stared at him. “I promise I willnae die without repaying ye for yer kindness. I give ye me word. If ye let me leave, I will come to yer castle. I will thank ye for what ye have done.”

“With what?” he asked, laughing at her, though that only made her more furious. “What is it ye can give a laird that he doesnae already have?”

“Anythin’,” she burst out, desperation written all over her face.

A tug of desire shocked him, pulling him closer to her. His body moved of its own accord, drawn to her and the challenge in her eyes. He stepped slowly, a hunter stalking his prey.

“Be careful what ye promise, lass. Someone might call yer bluff.”

When he was this close to her, he saw how small she was. The top of her head reached just below his chin, and she had to look up at him.

Archer didn’t try to hide the hunger coursing through his body as he stared down at her. He saw her recognize it, saw the slight opening of her mouth that told him she might even appreciate it.

He was about to reach for her waist when she stepped back, the curiosity in her gaze turning into defiance.

“Ye cannae keep me here—” she started.

“If ye are determined to die, ye can do it tomorrow. It’s the middle of the night, and ye dinnae have a horse. Hell, ye dinnae even have shoes.”

She looked down at her bare feet, and at that moment, she conceded defeat.

“At least wait for daylight,” he suggested, keeping his tone gentle. “Get a few hours of sleep to recover yer strength.”

“I leave tomorrow,” she said.

But it was clear he had convinced her. He could already see exhaustion setting in, the events of the day catching up with her.

“As ye wish.” He nodded.

Though Archer had no intention of sending the lass to her death. Still, better to let her rest with dreams of home, with the hope she could go back there.

“Rest now.”

She did as he told her, climbing back beneath the blanket. Archer kicked his heavy boots off his feet and crossed to the other side of the bed.

“What are ye doin’?” she asked with alarm.

“Sleeping,” he grumbled.

He threw aside the blanket and dropped onto the mattress, making it shake.

“Here?” Feya asked.

Archer was delighted by her shock, and he couldn’t help smirking at her.

“Aye, lass. There is but one bed.” He lay down, turning his back to her before muttering, “Dinnae worry, I dinnae bite.”