Page 14 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

T hey found themselves in the midst of a celebration.

A handful of men sat on barrels and crates, playing fiddles and drums. A woman with graying hair cradled an accordion on her lap, her fingers moving with the expertise of someone who was raised with the instrument’s language.

In front of them, villagers danced in the town square as children ran in and out of the couples, clutching candied apples or chicken legs.

“My Lady!” Someone cried, and heads swiveled in Ayla’s direction, the whole town suddenly alert to the strangers who had just crashed their dinnertime celebration.

“What are we celebrating?” Ayla asked, beaming at the faces beneath her.

All day Feya had been awed by Ayla’s ease with these people.

She had wrongly assumed that a girl who grew up with the riches Ayla had would find it difficult to connect with these poor villagers.

But it was entirely not the case. Feya saw with certainty that Ayla loved the people in this town and treated them like her own family. In turn, they loved her.

“Ye brought friends,” a little girl said. She stood at Ayla’s side and tugged at her skirts. Ayla nodded as she dismounted.

“Aye. Me friend,” she said, nodding toward Feya. “And me brother.”

The little girl gasped, and some of the adults who overheard looked over with surprised expressions.

“Ye have a brother?” The pigtailed child asked. Feya smiled as she dropped down from her horse and thanked the man who waited to take the reins. A tall man in a wool cap stepped forward, his eyes on Archer as he swung his legs gracefully off of his horse.

“Me Laird,” he said with a gentle bow. “It’s a great honor. We welcome ye.”

Whispers ricocheted through the crowd and eyes darted in their direction. The news even reached the musicians, who slowed their tune and then stopped playing completely. The whole town stared at them. No, not at them. At Archer.

“Thank ye,” he said, nodding at them. “But please, don’t stop the party on my account. Let’s have some music.”

A cheer went up from the crowd, and the man on the fiddle counted them all in.

Soon, the musicians were playing a lively tune, and Feya and Ayla were being pulled by young girls, guiding them into the group dance.

Feya recognized it from her own town, though it had been years since she danced it.

She held on to the hands of the villagers and let her feet move on instinct, kicking and crossing in unison with the locals.

“You’re good,” Ayla cried, raising her voice to be heard over the laughter and the music.

The circle spun, and Feya sought out Archer. He stood among the men, graciously accepting a pint of beer someone had just poured from a nearby barrel. She saw him smash his glass enthusiastically with the men’s and then he dropped his head back, taking the drink in three huge gulps.

“So he does ken how to have fun,” Feya laughed, and Ayla followed her eyes to see what she was talking about.

“Aye,” she nodded. “He used to have a lot of fun. But the war made him forget.”

A wave of sadness washed over Feya as she recognized the truthfulness of Ayla’s words.

She had a sudden longing to know Archer as he was as a young man, when hope and happiness still loomed large in his chest. She could picture the bravado that would come from his strength and confidence, that youthful belief that nothing could hurt him. She wanted to know that Archer.

“Over here, me Lady,” a woman said, and she soon pulled Ayla and Feya from the dance. “Blackberry tarts. Made from the fruit Holly planted last season.”

She pressed the tarts into their hands, each one carefully crafted with criss-crossed dough holding in luscious blackberry jam. As soon as Feya bit into it, she felt the juices flow down her chin, and she and Ayla laughed and groaned at the deliciousness.

“How wonderful,” Feya smiled, and she went back in for another bite.

Soon, all the women of the village were bringing them food, rustic and simple, but more delicious than most of the delicacies Feya had eaten in Archer’s dining room.

Nearby, the men and children broke sticks and laid them carefully in a fire pit.

They soon had a blazing fire, sending sparks of orange into the sky as dusk settled in around them.

Feya found herself lulled by the sound of the crackling blaze and the fiddle music that had slowed to something more languid and sentimental.

Ayla stood nearby, playing games with the bairns, as Feya leaned back against the picnic table, her stomach full, and watched young couples holding each other close as they danced.

“Shall we?”

She looked up to Archer, standing above her, his long hair loose around his shoulders.

He held out a hand and nodded toward the square where the men and women were dancing.

Something in his eyes looked softer than usual, as if one or two of the many worries he always carried had been set down.

Feya stood, looking at him sideways as she wondered if he was teasing her.

“Ye want to dance?” she asked. Even as she asked it she set her hand in his own, drawn to the opportunity to touch him.

“Aye,” he nodded. He leaned close, so there was no threat of someone overhearing him. “Ye said I was avoidin’ ye. Am I avoidin’ ye now?”

Goosebumps ran up Feya’s spine, though the early summer air was warm around them.

Archer’s fingers closed around hers, and he pulled her toward him for the second time that day.

This time, Feya was glad to go with him.

He slipped a hand to the small of her back and placed the other behind her shoulder blade.

It left Feya no choice but to rest her hands on his arms, snaking up close to his neck.

He felt drunk, though he hadn’t had more than two ales pressed into his hands by the villagers.

It wasn’t the alcohol, but Feya’s closeness that left him lightheaded.

He felt every point of contact between their bodies, from his hand on the soft fabric of her dress to Feya’s fingers touching tentatively along the back of his neck.

The music had slowed to a single fiddle, the notes long and languid.

The children had retreated to the fire, listening to an older man as he spun ghost stories and tales of dragons.

The older women had circled around dozens of abandoned dishes, creating an assembly-line of cleaning as they passed plates from soapy water to drying towels.

It was the young people who stayed on the dance floor.

The men and women who were pulled to one another, desperate for the sensations that came from holding each other, from looking into each other’s eyes.

Archer did that now, staring down at Feya.

She looked up at him with such trust, with an openness he found remarkable in her.

“I’m glad ye came,” she said, and Archer was surprised to realize he felt the same way.

His eyes dropped to Feya’s lips, stained slightly purple from the berries she had eaten.

He longed to run his finger along her lips, to press his mouth against hers, and see if he could catch the taste of blackberries on her tongue.

He saw Feya’s pupils go wide, felt her eagerness for him. He knew they were both thinking of their time in the healing chamber. Archer had spent far too many nights losing himself to the memory. He wondered if Feya had done the same.

She stepped closer, suddenly bumping her hips against his. He smirked at her boldness and then responded by pressing his hand harder against her back, pinning her against him. He ran a hand between her shoulder blades and then cradled the back of her neck, letting his fingers slide into her hair.

Feya gasped, and it almost undid him. He felt a jolt deep in his stomach, and he suddenly felt far too exposed here. He couldn’t stand here in the open with this woman in his arms. Not when he was so close to losing control.

Archer stepped away, and disappointment crossed Feya’s face.

But he didn’t break contact. He kept his hand on her back, walking with her tucked into his side.

He was glad for the setting sun and the darkness that was settling around them.

He hoped it would make them look like any other couple sneaking away for a moment alone.

“What are ye doing?” Feya asked, as he guided her to a quiet space between two houses. He walked Feya backwards until her back was pressed against the plaster of the cottage.

“Do ye want to go back?” Archer asked. He stepped away, pretending to leave her, but Feya reached out and grabbed his sleeve. She pulled him back.

“Nay,” she said. She shook her head, and the loose tendrils of hair bounced around her face. Archer stepped forward and ran a finger across her cheek, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. He rested his other hand on the cool plaster of the wall and settled his eyes on her lips.

“My Laird,” she said, pleading with him.

“Nay, no Laird tonight,” she said. He ran his finger across her jaw and down to her chin. Then he continued down her neck and to the fast rise and fall of Feya’s chest. “Use me name.”

Feya tipped her chin up, pressing her chest ever so slightly against the touch of his finger. He explored the gentle rise of her breasts just above the neckline of her dress.

“Archer,” she gasped, and this was too much for him.

He bent down and pressed his mouth against hers.

Feya moaned into his mouth, and then her lips moved against his, already an expert at what to do.

He pressed his tongue against hers and imagined the purple stain of her mouth.

Feya’s hands found his shoulders, and she pulled him closer, eager for more.

Archer cupped her neck, running his thumb beneath her chin as her mouth moved against his. He kissed beneath her ear, down her neck, across her collarbone. As he did this, Feya pressed her head back against the wall, her eyes squeezed closed.

“Archer,” she gasped again, and he felt like he would never tire of hearing his name in her mouth.

He brought his mouth back to hers and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace that pressed her chest against his.

Still, it wasn’t close enough. He felt desperate for her, overcome with a need to feel every inch of her.

His hands slipped down her back and held her rear, rocking her against him.

His length responded as Feya began moving her hips on her own.

She gave an adorable squeak as she felt his manhood through the fabric of her skirts.

Suddenly, he was lifting her, holding her by the thighs so he could press her back into the wall.

He held her up easily, settling himself between her legs as he unabashedly pressed his hardness against her.

Feya pulled away from their kissing to stare at him, her eyes going round at the sensation of Archer between her legs. Her fingernails pressed into his shoulders, pricking him even through his shirt.

“What are ye doin’ to me, lass?” He asked.

A burst of laughter startled them, and Archer dropped Feya’s legs, quickly stepping in front of her to shield her from any onlookers.

But it was only a flash of children as they ran by, oblivious to the quiet spot Feya and Archer had retreated to.

Still, it was enough to wake Archer up. To remind him just how reckless they were being.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped back and adjusted his clothes, wondering how he could have let things get so far.

Feya stood pressed against the wall, her chest rising and falling quickly, her mouth slightly open.

She closed her mouth and swallowed hard but then the corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk.

“This was a good day,” she said, and Archer laughed, shaking his head.

“Aye, lass. And even good days must come to an end. Time to get back before they send out a search party.”

He turned to go, and Feya surprised him by rushing forward to take his hand. She squeezed it, brief and hard, before dropping it as quickly as she had grabbed it.

“There ye are,” Ayla said. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, something Archer knew she hadn’t arrived with. Sure enough, as soon as Feya appeared, an identical one was wrapped around her shoulders by the women of the village.

“Thank ye,” Feya said. She gripped the woman’s hands in a gesture of gratitude. “This was a lovely evening.”

“Ye are welcome back anytime,” the woman said. And then she turned her eyes to Archer. “Ye too, me Laird. Daenae wait so long to visit us next time.”