Page 11 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

A s voices carried down the hall, Archer pressed his back against the cold stone of the passageway. He listened carefully, trying to catch snippets of conversation as the man he had followed walked into the castle’s expansive kitchen. Elijah stood next to him, his frame frozen in place.

“Get out of here, Grant,” a rough female voice barked, impossible not to hear.

“Come on, Jan. Just a taste.”

“Ye’ll have your fill with everyone else,” she told him. “After dinner’s been sent up to the hall.”

They had followed the servant out of Lennox’s chambers, keeping their distance so the man wouldn’t know he was being tailed.

Elijah had seen the man whispering to other servants on multiple occasions, and they were following his suspicion that the man might be spreading rumors through Dougal Castle, causing unrest.

“This is useless,” Archer grumbled. He felt ridiculous, sneaking around his house like a child hoping for a cookie. He felt his annoyance grow as he thought about the image he and Elijah made here. What would people think if they saw their Laird eavesdropping on the kitchen staff?

“Just wait,” Elijah urged.

“Why do they always eat first?” A new voice asked, pitched high with the whine of a child. The woman in the room quickly shushed the girl, but Lennox’s man, Grant, gave a low chuckle.

“Because they were born under a lucky star,” he announced. Archer heard a crunch that sounded like the bite of an apple. “They came into this world rich, and they’ll leave it that way. While the rest of us pick out their clothes and clean their boots.”

“It’s an honest living, Sylvie,” Jan, the cook, said. “Daenae let him put silly thoughts in your head.”

“Silly thoughts? She must ken the way of things early. Best to know now this is all she’s got. Nothin’ else to look forward to but a life bent over the same pot for fifty years.”

“You see?” Elijah whispered. “He’s stirring up trouble.”

Archer rolled his eyes, able to discern the regular grumbling of staff and villagers when he heard it.

He had been aware of these conversations since he was a boy.

Ayla and Archer spent hours down here when they were children, playing with the sons of the stablehands and the daughters of the maids.

The adults hadn’t been shy about talking in front of them.

“Daenae listen, Sylvie.” Jan said. “Life is long, and we cannae ken what adventures wait for us. Maybe ye’ll even catch the eye of a wealthy man.”

“Or a Laird,” Sylvie said with the awe of a dreamer. Grant let out a howl, mocking the poor child.

“Do ye think it’s so easy?” he asked, but Jan slammed something hard on the wooden table, the sound echoing into the hallway.

“It has happened,” she said firmly. “That lass from the McKenzie clan. She was nobody—just a village girl out for a stroll. She caught the eye of her Laird.”

Archer’s body stiffened as he heard mention of Feya’s sister, but he didn’t say a word. He had told no one of where Feya came from, not even his best friend. Elijah had asked him about her, but Archer wouldn’t reveal anything about her origins. It was the best way to keep her safe.

“She married him?” The child asked.

“Aye,” Grant responded. “And then look what happened. Her Laird was murdered. Do ye ken what people say now? That it serves him right. That’s what he gets for marryin’ below his station.”

Archer shoved away from the wall, unable to bear the conversation any longer.

The news of Laird McKenzie’s death had reached his castle a few days ago.

He had been forced to sit stoically in front of the messenger, nodding as the man gave him information he already knew.

And then he discussed the event with his council, putting on a good show of acting like this was new information, as if he were thinking about it for the first time.

“I told ye he was trouble,” Elijah said, following Archer down the hallway, taking two steps for every one of Archer’s long strides.

“It’s nothing but the regular gossip of the workers,” he grumbled. He couldn’t shake the feeling Elijah had wasted his time.

“Ye told me to find the rat,” he said, and now it was Elijah who sounded annoyed. “If Lennox is complaining about ye to his man, who else is he complaining to? It’s an obvious sign of disrespect.”

“I daenae care about disrespect,” Archer said, his voice rising louder than it should. “I care about treason. Daenae waste me time again.”

He veered to the right, taking a staircase up and away from the servants’ quarters. Tension was building in his jaw, and Archer rubbed it as he took the steps two at a time.

If only Malcolm were here.

Archer knew it wasn’t fair to Elijah to compare him to his younger brother, especially when that brother had been killed in battle.

But with tensions rising in the castle, Archer longed for Malcolm’s wisdom.

His former man-at-arms would never have dragged Archer down the basement to eavesdrop on some low-level valet.

The flash of Malcolm’s black horse racing next to him, white foam at her mouth made Archer reach for the wall. He squeezed his eyes closed as he pressed his hand against the stone to steady himself.

“Nay,” he said through gritted teeth. He pushed the image aside and turned his mind to Feya in the healing chamber, her legs around him, that soft gasp as his mouth found her neck. He pictured the smooth skin of her inner thigh, the arch of her back as she asked him for more.

The images of war disappeared, and Archer stormed up the steps, suddenly feeling pressure in a new part of his body.

He had been imagining that kiss with Feya ever since it happened two days ago.

He had replayed the event dozens of times, even letting himself imagine what might have happened if he hadn’t stopped things.

She’s going home. The second she cures you, she’s leaving.

He shoved into the hallway and veered toward his study, feeling the dark cloud of irritation overwhelm him.

It was always this way. Flashes of war, then imagining Feya in his arms, and finally his own gloomy realization that this cure he had stumbled upon was no cure at all.

What good was an antidote if you were about to lose it?

“My Laird.”

He looked up to Feya in front of him, the sight of her so surprising that he wondered for a moment if she had come from his imagination. Sunlight streamed through a tall window, particles of dust making her look otherworldly, like the sprite from the woods he had imagined when he first saw her.

She’s leaving.

He was constantly reminding himself of this. It had become a mantra of sorts, something he told himself when she was with him, when his thoughts veered out of reality and into the “what ifs”. Now he scowled at her, taking in the concoction she held in her hand.

“I daenae want your drinks, lass,” he said. He pushed through his study door, surprised and pleased when Feya followed him in.

“But we’re close,” she told him. Archer busied himself with papers on his desk, trying to avoid her gaze. Lately, he found himself staring at the curves of her body, remembering the feel of her round breast as his finger dipped below the fabric.

“I daenae have a headache,” he said.

He needed to get her out of here. The longer Feya stood in front of him, the more he thought about shoving all these papers aside and laying her down on this desk.

“For tonight then,” she said, and she smiled at him gently, clearly unaffected by Archer’s stormy mood.

“Take it away, lass,” he ordered.

He dropped into a chair and grabbed for his pen, eager to busy himself with something. He had correspondence to answer, and he shuffled through his letters, waiting for Feya to leave. But even as he kept his eyes locked on the papers in front of him, he felt her walk forward.

She set the murky drink in front of him, the condensation on the mug getting wet droplets on his paper.

“Feya,” he chastised, standing up as he looked at her, but she stared back with fire in her eyes.

“Ye have brought me here to heal ye,” she cried, and Archer heard the mix of anger and tears in her voice. “How can I do that if ye avoid me? I cannae help someone who doesnae want to be healed.”

He stood stunned, constantly surprised by how bold this woman was, how easily she stood defiantly in front of him, speaking her mind.

“I amnae avoiding ye,” he told her, but Feya only squeezed her mouth together in anger, likely holding back something even more biting. Even Feya knew there were limits to what she could say to a Laird.

She turned on her heel and left, leaving Archer with the sweet-smelling drink still in front of him.

Did Feya really think he was avoiding her?

Their time in the healing chamber had been two days ago, but they had shared meals together since then, Ayla chattering away to fill the silence.

And Feya had delivered different remedies, sometimes sending them with his man into his bedchamber, other times bringing them here to his study.

Of course, they hadn’t spoken of their kiss.

And Archer certainly hadn’t allowed them to be alone together.

He thought they both understood that something like that could never happen again.

Besides, the woman should know he was busy with clan business.

If he didn’t catch Lennox and any treasonous acts, it could mean trouble for him and his clan.

“We had a deal,” Feya said, turning back as she got to the doorway. “I heal ye and ye bring me home. If ye arenae willing to hold up your side of this bargain, then ye should send me home.”

There was anger in her eyes, but he saw something else there as she glared at him.

He couldn’t mistake the unspoken need he saw in her expression, a need that Archer was desperate to satisfy.

He had to suppress the urge to storm across the room, to press her against that doorframe and push his mouth against hers.

Instead, to suppress the desire, he lifted the glass in front of him, making sure she saw.

He drank the concoction down in two huge gulps.

Then he slammed the drink down like a young soldier who had just finished his first drink.

She held her scowl for a moment, but then Feya smirked at him, and Archer knew things were right between them again.

She walked away, letting her fingers linger on the doorframe, the last thing to disappear.