Page 10 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

“ S tealth isnae your strong suit,” Archer said as he walked into the hallway. He could easily see Ayla’s shoes sticking out from beneath the tapestry she stood behind. His sister poked her head out from the fabric and beamed at him.

“It worked when we were bairns,” she laughed. “Do ye remember the hours we spent looking for each other in this old castle?”

Archer laughed. He could still remember some of his best hiding spots. Even as an adult, he couldn’t pass the kitchen pantry without thinking of that barrel of potatoes he had once sat inside for nearly two hours.

“We had good times growing up here,” he said. Ayla nodded, and he felt something soften between them. She stepped out from her hiding spot, and they walked down the hallway. Archer slipped his hands in his pockets, feeling relaxed with his sister by his side.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he told her. “I shouldnae have yelled at ye.”

“Me too,” she agreed. “I ken ye can take care of yourself. But I worry about ye. I hate when ye take risks. I daenae ken what I would do without ye.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he assured her. “Ye daenae need to worry.”

“But what about the council?” she asked. Archer glanced sideways, surprised she had picked up on this. “There’s tension there. I can see it.”

“That’s for me to worry about. I’m working to get that under control.”

“But what if they try somethin’? I’ve heard the chatter—they say ye are too young, or that your health is declining…”

“Ayla,” Archer said, a hint of warning in his voice. He felt that familiar tinge of annoyance, the one that would make him sharp with her. He tried to breathe through it, telling himself to keep his temper.

“I only want to help ye,” she said.

“Nay, ye want to fix me,” he burst out. “Ye see me as something broken ye must put back together. Daenae do that, Ayla. I’m the elder brother.

I am the one to do the protectin’. I want ye to focus on running the household, to learn what it means to be the Lady of the castle so ye are ready for marriage. ”

“Oh,” Ayla said, her voice light with excitement. “Ye daenae need to worry about that.”

His step slowed as he took in the words. Archer turned his head, unease in his stomach.

“What do ye mean?”

“I’m going to be a healer,” she said, smiling as if her brother should be excited for her. “Feya offered to train me. I ken ye think Holly is too old, so I found a new teacher. I’m to be Feya’s apprentice.”

He stopped moving, feeling his muscles tense at the news.

“Ye will not,” he said slowly, his voice deep and dangerous. “I daenae approve of it.”

“She doesn’t mind,” Ayla assured him, still oblivious to her brother’s rising rage. “She was the one who brought it up.”

“Then I will go there right now to tell Feya exactly what I’m about to tell ye: It’s time for ye to marry, Ayla. If ye daenae choose a man for yourself, then I will choose one for ye. Ye have until the end of the month.”

He left Ayla gaping at him. As he turned away, her mouth was open in shock, but the beginnings of panic were setting in. But Archer wouldn’t stay to comfort his sister. He was fuming with anger, but he knew it wasn’t Ayla he needed to confront. Instead, he rushed for the healing chamber.

This time, when he pictured Feya in his mind, he felt nothing but rage.

She was alone in the healing chamber, and her mind wandered to a future where she might have a place like this of her own.

It was a beautiful space, and Feya could imagine early mornings here, challenging herself with new medicines or researching illnesses from distant lands.

But as soon as her mind would wander, she would pull herself back, remembering that she couldn’t lose herself here. She had a family to get back to.

She focused on the mixture in front of her. Holly’s garden had sparked a new idea, and Feya wondered if flowers like chamomile, traditionally used to aid with sleep, might hold a secret. The trick would be to create a mixture that could calm Archer’s mind without putting him to bed.

She had a sudden flash of Archer beside her, shirtless in bed. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered him thrashing in his sleep, his muscles working, those scars twisting as he moved.

“Feya,” she was startled when she saw him, the very man she had been fantasizing about, suddenly striding into the room. Her blush deepened, though of course she knew he couldn’t read her mind.

“My Laird,” she said, and she greeted him with a smile, but she quickly saw his scowling face. Archer was unhappy.

“Did ye tell Ayla she could be an apprentice?”

Feya’s mind worked quickly, remembering that Archer had left the dining room to speak with his sister. Ayla must have told him about Feya’s offer to train her.

“I told her I could teach her,” she said carefully, though she felt her spine stiffening. She wouldn’t let Archer yell at her. “She wants to learn. Why shouldnae I encourage that?”

“Because I need her to marry.” Archer slammed his open palms on the wooden table, facing off across from her. “She cannae stay here playing pretend with plants and potions.”

“Pretend?” Feya challenged. She put down the pestle she held in her hand and stared at him, trying to read the truth behind his words. She already knew Archer well enough to see that something else was driving him.

“That isnae what I meant,” he grumbled. He shook his head, and Feya narrowed her eyes at him.

“She doesnae want to marry,” Feya pushed. “Would ye be so cruel as to send her away when it’s the last thing she wants?”

“And who are ye to criticize?” Archer asked. He leaned across the table further, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly, he was taking long steps down the length of the counter, turning tightly so he could reach her. “I am the Laird of this castle. It doesnae matter what me sister wants.”

“I see,” Feya said, even as Archer walked closer. She felt her heart rate increasing, but she told herself to stay put. She gripped the edge of the counter and pressed her toes into her boots. “So we are all to live based on your whims? We all must run our lives based on the wishes of our Laird?”

He slowed down, only a few feet away from her.

His eyes were locked on hers, and Feya felt the air in the room shift.

She could sense his presence: the expanse of his shoulders, his impressive height.

His dark beard was a few days overgrown, giving him an unkept look that only made him more attractive.

“I guess ye ken what your Laird wants, then?” he asked.

His voice was suddenly low, deep, and riddled with something she could only peg as desire.

Feya recognized it because her own body was awash with it.

Her mind was filling with images of Archer getting closer, of Archer pressing her body against this table as he stared down at her.

“Aye,” she said, and Feya was surprised by the deep tenor of her own voice. “I think I ken what ye want.”

He was right in front of her. Feya still gripped the edge of the table, and Archer slid his hand forward, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the whisper of his fingers.

Her breath came quickly, erratic as she tilted her chin to look up at him, losing herself in those wide gray eyes. Yes, she knew what Archer wanted.

“What is it, lass?” he asked. His head tipped sideways, and his eyes dropped to her lips. “What do I want?”

“Me.”

The surprise in his eyes was priceless. He hadn’t expected her to come out and say it, and Feya smirked that she could shock him like that. But then he gave a low chuckle, deep and arousing, which silenced her. Feya’s chest rose and fell as her mouth dropped open.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Perhaps ye ken after all.”

In a flash, he moved forward. Archer’s hand found her hip, and he pulled her in, letting their bodies crash together.

Before Feya could enjoy the solid press of his chest and his strong thighs, his mouth was on hers.

She was caught unprepared, her mouth still dropped open in shock, and she could only move by instinct.

She had never been kissed before, but it suddenly felt better than she could ever imagine. Archer’s soft lips pushed against hers, and she felt the roughness of his beard as he moved. A hand ran up her arm and squeezed her shoulder, and then the hand on her hip slipped to the small of her back.

Feya gasped as he pulled her even closer to him. Her thighs were pressed against his, and she felt the solid wall of his chest beneath her own. The gentle movement of his upper body sent sparks of arousal from her breasts deep into her stomach.

“What are ye doin’ to me, lass?” he whispered, dropping his mouth to her neck.

He kissed beneath her ear and then down her neck as Feya squeezed her eyes closed, lost in the sensation of his mouth and the slightest whisper of his tongue.

He dropped to her collarbone, laying kisses across it, teasing along the neckline of her shirt.

She wanted his lips back on hers, and she ran her hand up and across his shoulder, down to the neckline of his shirt. She gripped the fabric in her fist and pulled him up, eliciting an amused smile.

“What is it, dear one?” he whispered, and Feya’s stomach flipped at the nickname.

“Kiss me,” she said, though it came out more as a question than a demand.

Nevertheless, Archer was happy to oblige.

He dropped his mouth to hers again, and Feya moved with him, getting the hang of things.

But then Archer ran his tongue along her bottom lip, and Feya lost feeling in her knees.

Archer caught her, and she heard that low chuckle again even as he continued to kiss her.

He put both hands on her hips and then, as if she weighed nothing, he lifted her onto the table.

Feya’s legs opened on instinct, and suddenly Archer was between them, the fabric of her skirt and the canvas of his breeches between them.

Still, she felt every long inch of him as he rocked his hips against her.

“Ye feel what ye are doin’ to me?” he asked, pulling back from kissing her to look into her eyes.

Feya blushed crimson, struggling with a response.

Her own body was weak for him, pressing into him of its own accord, struggling to get closer.

She dropped her mouth to his and tried to replicate his kissing, suddenly slipping her tongue into his mouth.

Archer groaned and kissed her harder. He rested his hands on her thighs, and Feya felt them through her skirt, hot and dangerous.

His thumbs pressed on the inside of her legs.

His tongue pushed into her mouth, and then his hand was up at her neck.

She shivered as it ran lower, tracing a line to her chest.

“Archer,” she cried. His finger dipped below the neckline of her dress, and Feya held her breath as his finger found the hard nub of her breast.

“It seems I am not the only one stirred up,” he whispered into her ear. He kissed along her neck once more as his finger began to circle her nipple. It sent sparks down to Feya’s toes, and she couldn’t stop the small exhalations of pleasure he drew out of her.

Feya had never felt anything like this, and right now, with Archer tucked between her legs, she never wanted it to stop.

She wondered how her sister and her friends could keep such a secret from her, how she could go her whole life without realizing what magic a man could bring with his hands and his lips.

He kissed her again and then his fingers were at her ankle, teasing gently beneath her skirt. She pressed her mouth against his as those fingers ran up her calf and then teased along the underside of her knee.

Keep going.

The thought came unbidden, but even as she thought it, she wrapped her hands around Archer’s neck and up into her hair, feeling bolder.

“Feya,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. His hand still moved, suddenly along the bare skin of her thigh. She jumped at the touch, though her very core was calling to him, desperate for him to keep going, to explore further.

With a yell of frustration, Archer stepped back, disconnecting. His chest rose and fell in time to Feya’s. Without Archer to hold her up, she was left gripping the table, her whole body loose with longing, suddenly cold without him pressed against her.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said. He shook his head as if he were trying to shake away one of his nightmares, though perhaps this one was a dream. “I shouldnae have done that.”

“Archer,” she said, though beyond his name, she couldn’t put words to what she was feeling. She was too stunned to speak, too overcome with this new world of pleasure that had suddenly been opened to her. That he had opened to her.

“I will leave ye,” he said. He adjusted his clothing, clearly trying to regain control.

Entirely unbidden, Feya’s eyes dropped to the space between his legs.

She couldn’t breathe for the lump in her throat as she saw he was still eager for her.

She quickly looked away, glad Archer hadn’t caught her.

“My Laird…” she said, trying to elicit conversation once more, but neither of them seemed to have words.

Sense flooded back into Feya’s brain, and she suddenly felt strange perched on the table.

She jumped down, now uncertain in front of him.

How had that happened? How had an argument turned into Archer’s mouth on hers, to his fingers in dangerous places?

Archer gave her a nod of farewell that felt far too formal, and then he strode across the room, heading for the exit.

“Wait,” Feya cried. She suddenly remembered what she had been working on. The reason she asked Archer to come to the chamber. She held up the glass, tinged yellow from the chamomile. “I made this for ye. To help with your soldier’s heart.”

He smiled at her kindly from across the room.

“Not now, lass,” he smirked. “I can promise ye that in this moment, war is the last thing on me mind.”