Page 15 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

T hey rode back quietly, the sound of crickets growing louder as night approached.

Archer was anxious to get back, aware they had stayed out too long and had no lanterns to guide them home.

Luckily, his horses had walked these paths frequently, and they carried them in the right direction without being asked.

At times, Feya’s horse stepped forward to join his, and Archer would look over, catching Feya’s eye.

He was rewarded with a smile or a look of mischief that told him precisely what Feya was thinking of.

Those looks sent heat directly to his core, and he had to remind himself that his sister was behind them, likely watching their every move.

“Welcome back, my Laird,” the stable master said as they walked the horses into the barn. A few sleepy groomsmen jumped to attention to take the ladies’ horses and help them down from the mares.

“Thank ye,” Archer said.

“There was a messenger while ye were gone,” the man said, and Archer heard hesitation in his voice, as if he weren’t sure if it was his place to share this news.

But Archer was instantly alert, since he wasn’t expecting anyone.

After receiving the messenger from Castle McKenzie, he didn’t think another would visit so quickly.

“From Clan Scott, if I’m not mistaken, sir. I recognize the insignia.”

“When?” Archer asked. Laird Scott was his closest neighbor to the East, a man he respected but didn’t trust. Clan Scott had been hot and cold during the war with Archer’s enemies to the West, always promising help but often sending soldiers who were less than adequate.

But Archer couldn’t afford to make an enemy of Scott, a wealthy man with good connections.

“An hour ago, my Laird.”

“Thank ye,” he said. “I’ll visit Scott meself tomorrow. Find out what he wants. Have a horse ready at first light.”

He turned to go, suddenly upset with himself for leaving the castle.

He knew Scott could take offense at his absence when his messenger returned to say Archer couldn’t see him.

And his own council would likely be furious, left to make excuses for their Laird who had once again left without telling them where he was going.

“He’s still here, my Laird,” the man said. Archer stopped and turned back, and the man elaborated. “The messenger hasnae left. He’s in with your council now.”

A wave of anger flushed from his head down to his toes and Archer spun on his heel, storming back to the castle.

Behind him he thought he heard a woman’s voice calling to him, but he ignored it.

He pressed his fingernails into the palm of his hand as he balled his fists, ready to strangle whatever council members were currently in the chamber, holding meetings without him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Archer asked, throwing open the council door. Three sets of eyes blinked at him, taking in his loose hair and the dirt on his boots.

“My Laird.” Lennox stood first, followed by Elijah. They were alone in the chamber with the man dressed in Scott colors. The messenger sat in front of them, a glass of ale on the table at his side. “We were just welcoming our friend from the East.”

“And who told ye to welcome him without your Laird?”

He could already imagine Scott laughing at him.

The second the messenger returned with stories of Archer’s absence and the news that his council had taken the meeting without him, Scott would consider Archer weak.

He would know he didn’t have control over his men, that there was disruption in his clan.

“We thought it best to hear the man out,” Lennox said. He glanced at the messenger with a look of apology, but it only made Archer more furious. A rush of noise like fast-moving water overwhelmed his ears.

“Then ye think wrong, Lennox. Ye are here to serve your Laird, not handle matters of state on your own.”

He heard the distant cry of a man in pain, and saw an image of steel meeting steel, sun shining off the blade.

A shot of pain hit his temple, and Archer pushed his fingers into his forehead.

He could feel the vision coming on, rising as quickly as his anger.

He could also feel that he would have no power to stop it.

“Please, my Laird,” Elijah said. Archer could just make out the man’s image through the visions of war closing in on him. Elijah’s face was filled with concern as he stood up, one arm outstretched.

“Ye should leave us,” Archer said, but he had to grip the back of a chair to hold himself upright.

His father called to him from far ahead, and he felt the rumble of approaching horses beneath his feet.

Archer focused on the tiles on the floor, trying to count the swirls of the geometric design.

But when he looked up, Malcolm’s face floated in front of his.

“Where are ye?” Malcolm asked. “Why dinnae ye come?”

Archer stepped forward and felt pain in his side. He looked down to see his hand pressed against his ribs, and when he pulled it away, his fingers were sticky with blood.

“I’m hit,” he said, but suddenly Malcolm was gone and suddenly, Archer found himself in an abandoned field, no movement except for the steam coming off the blood-stained river.

All around him, soldiers lay dead. He saw their open, lifeless eyes, all of which stared at him.

Accusing him of stealing life when they had lost it.

“Archer!”

The voice came from far away, from a world somewhere beyond this battlefield. It sounded sweet and kind, the voice of someone who wanted him back home.

He turned toward the voice and suddenly fell, recognizing the cold tile beneath his cheek before he lost all consciousness.

“Help him,” Feya said, rushing through the door. She and Ayla were at Archer’s side quickly, grabbing for his arms as they tried to rouse him.

“It’s alright,” a man at Feya’s side said, and she looked up to see armed guards, the same men who stood at the castle entrance at all hours of the night.

He nodded, and with the help of another man, they managed to get Archer to his feet.

Feya heard the Laird grunt, sending instant relief to her tight chest.

“We’ll get him to his chamber,” the man said, and Feya was surprised to see he spoke to her rather than Ayla.

“Thank ye,” they both said, watching Archer’s eyes open slowly, confusion across his face.

“Apologies,” Elijah said, and Feya’s attention was suddenly back in the room, taking in the stranger in another clan’s colors and the two men she recognized as part of Archer’s council. “As ye can see, the Laird hasnae been well.”

Something about his tone made Feya angry, as if Elijah were apologizing for the man, or labeling him as weak.

She shared a look with Ayla, who looked equally concerned.

The women didn’t know much about politics, but they knew a member of Archer’s council shouldn’t be revealing any of his Laird’s shortcomings.

“It’s only exhaustion,” Feya said, and all three men looked at her, clearly shocked she had spoken up. “He’s been in the villages all day, tending to the sick and the injured.”

“Of course,” Elijah said, but there was skepticism in his voice. It was evident from the dismissive tone that he was ready to discount Feya’s words, that he didn’t respect what she had to say.

“He’s gone without food or water to serve his people,” Ayla said.

She stepped forward, lifting her chin so she stood at her full height.

Feya had seen the woman command attention before, and she did so now, regarding the men with the confidence of someone who didn’t need to remind anyone of her status in this castle.

She stepped forward and reached for the messenger’s hand, standing him up.

“Laird Dougal is a selfless leader, sir.” The messenger stared at her, completely transfixed.

“That is what ye should tell your Laird when he asks ye about me brother. And now, while my brother gets the sustenance he needs, perhaps you and I can talk. You can be sure my brother will receive whatever message your Laird sends.”

With Ayla taking control of the council chambers, Feya turned her attention to Archer.

She had seen the pallor of his face when he dropped to the floor.

This episode had been a severe one, one of the worst Feya had seen.

As she rushed toward Archer’s chambers, she felt her stomach knot in fear.

All of her ministrations, and he wasn’t getting better—he was only getting worse.

His door was ajar, and Feya peered in to see the men settling Archer onto his bed. The kind guard who had spoken to her in the chamber stepped back as soon as he saw her and nodded to the guard.

“My Lady,” he said in greeting.

“It’s alright,” she said to them. “I’ll see to him.”

She still had her healing bag at her side, the same one she had brought to the village.

She took it from her shoulder and rushed to the bed, laying it down so she could find what she needed.

She had taken to always keeping small vials of her concoctions on her, hoping she could slip them to Archer before an episode overtook him.

“Feya?”

His voice was groggy, as if he were coming out of a deep sleep. She put a hand on his forehead, feeling for any sign of fever. Instead, he felt cold, and she had a sudden urge to cover him with the heavy blankets on the end of the bed.

“It’s alright,” she said. “Ye’re fine now.”

She found the vial she was looking for, filled with the mixture that had seemed to help him the most.

“What happened?” Archer asked, and she saw his brow furrow as he tried to remember. She pulled the stopper from the vial and held it out to him, wondering if he could sit up long enough to take it.

“Drink this, my Laird,” she said. She brought it to his hand, but Archer scowled, and she saw darkness overcome him. He sat up quickly, knocking the mixture from her hand. The vial fell, shattering on the floor.

“What did ye do?” he bellowed. He pushed to his feet, but the quick movement made him dizzy. He had to clutch for the post of the four-poster bed as the room stopped spinning.

“Ye arenae well,” Feya said. She put a hand on his arm, but Archer shoved it away, frightening her.

“Ye took me from the chamber. Ye made a fool of me in front of that man.”

“Nay, my Laird,” she said. “It was an episode. Ye collapsed. Please, lie down.”

Feya gestured to the bed, pleading with her eyes.

She tried to be gentle, knowing that Archer was disoriented.

He had collapsed in the council chamber only to come to in his bedroom.

She had seen men react strongly like this when they came out of surgery, angry as the effects of ether wore off.

Now Archer stared at her, still fighting to find his footing in the real world after disappearing into a deeper, darker place Feya could only imagine.

“Let me help ye,” Feya said, trying again. “It’s why I’m here.”

His eyes grew hard, and something changed in his expression. She saw his gaze darken, and he suddenly became angry with her.

“Get out,” he said. He stormed forward, and for a moment, Feya thought he would strike her. She jumped backward and out of his path, but Archer wasn’t heading to her. Instead, he rushed to the door, which he pulled open, standing expectantly.

“Archer,” Feya pleaded, her voice small. She didn’t understand why he seemed so angry, why he suddenly seemed to want her as far away from his bed chamber as possible.

“Leave,” he said, and his tone was cruel. “I daenae want ye here.”

The words stung, and Feya swallowed hard, trying to remind herself that this was his sickness talking. But as she strode by him and glanced at his eyes, it was hard to believe that he felt anything but hatred toward her.

Tears pricked at Feya’s eyes as she stepped out of the room, and then she felt a rush of air at her back as Archer slammed his bedroom door.