Page 18 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

H er voice soothed him more than any herbs or smells ever could.

For the first time in weeks, he felt all the tension leave his body.

His muscles relaxed into the warm water, and he closed his eyes, able to let down his guard.

He wasn’t thinking of ghosts or even of Lennox trying to disrupt his clan.

There was only this room, the soothing sensations of the bath, and Feya’s voice.

It ended far too quickly, though his fingers were wrinkled from his time in the water.

Feya’s voice was growing tired, telling him that they had stayed like this for a long time even though it felt like minutes.

Slowly, her voice trailed off, and Archer was left only with the memory of her voice and the calm sensation she had elicited.

Feya sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tight around the post. He tried to imagine her face, wondering what she was thinking about.

Her song had sounded like family, like comfortable nights by a fireplace, like fantastical bedtime stories.

Was she thinking of her home? Was she longing for her family?

This thought brought Archer back to reality. Feya’s departure was always there, looming in his mind. For the hundredth time he reminded himself that finding peace with Feya at his side was really no peace at all. She would leave, and then where would Archer be?

He stood up quickly, as if throwing off the water and all the comfort the bath had brought him.

A towel was laid out for him, and he grabbed it, stomping down onto the wet floor.

He dried himself off with the fabric, running it over his wet hair and down his arms before securing it tightly around his waist.

“Ye can turn around now, lass,” he said, amused by her sense of propriety. He saw her back stiffen, but then she slowly peered over her shoulder, as if she didn’t quite trust him. Archer smirked at her as she saw he was indeed covered up.

“How do ye feel?” she asked.

The question confused him for a moment. He wasn’t used to discussing his feelings or even taking stock of them in his own being.

But instead of scoffing at the question, he felt an impulse to answer it.

Almost a thank you to Feya for the time she had spent with him and all the effort she was putting into healing him.

“Here,” he said.

The word surprised both of them, and she gave him a curious look, waiting for more.

“I’m here in this room. I’m not thinking about the work waiting for me outside. I’m not thinking about things that have happened…”

“Not thinking about the war,” she said, completing his thought. Archer stared at her, unwilling to confirm that this was exactly what he had been thinking. It was only in moments like this that he realized how often those memories were with him. A constant reminder of his failures.

“Would ye tell me about it?” she asked gently. She stood from the bed and turned her head, as if she were approaching a scared animal. The very suggestion made something slam closed in Archer’s chest.

“Nay, lass,” he said. “It’s too much for a woman’s ears.”

She was suddenly angry at this, stepping forward to confront him.

“Ye must talk about it,” she insisted. “It’s the only way to push those memories away. Ye must say them out loud so other people can carry them.”

“I won’t do that,” he told her. “I won’t make ye carry the burden of me own mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” Feya asked, appalled by the word. “Ye were a hero in the war. Ye saved your clan from being taken.”

“Enough,” Archer exploded, unable to keep himself under control. “We willnae talk about this.”

His outburst silenced her, and Feya dropped her eyes to the floor.

He quickly regretted raising his voice, all too aware it was another sign he couldn’t control himself.

Just like he couldn’t control the haunting memories of the past that came for him unbidden.

But at least they weren’t here now. Feya’s presence seemed a sort of talisman to keep the nightmares at bay.

“If ye willnae speak of yourself,” she said quietly, gaining confidence with each word. “Will ye let me ask another question? About your household?”

She met his gaze, her expression an open challenge.

“Ask it,” he said.

“Why must ye marry Ayla off? Do ye think so little of healers that ye willnae let her become one?”

“Nay, lass,” he said immediately, sensing the hurt in Feya’s voice. “It isnae that.”

“Then what is it?”

He felt far too exposed, and it wasn’t just because he wore nothing but a towel.

Still, he fought the instinct to brush off the question.

It was clear that Feya had taken things personally.

Archer’s insistence that Feya wouldn’t be a healer had hurt Feya in a way he never intended.

It was the least he could do to set this right.

“Ever since I came back from…”

“The war,” she finished for him. Why couldn’t Archer say those words?

“Aye,” he nodded. “When I came back, Ayla was the first one who knew about the nightmares. When they grew frequent, I needed to tell someone. But as soon as she knew…Ayla made it her mission to fix me. She set her sights on finding a cure.”

“Of course she did,” Feya said. “She saw her brother in pain, and she wanted to ease it.”

“But she cannae sacrifice her own life for mine,” he said.

Archer began to pace, unable to look Feya in the eye.

“All of this interest in healing, it only started when she kenned something was wrong with me. I won’t let her throw her own life away for a monster.

A coward who should be able to save himself. ”

“Daenae say that,” Feya cried, but he barely heard her. All of Archer’s fears for Ayla’s life were tumbling out of him. All of his guilt over his sister’s life since he came back from the war.

“She should be courting and enjoying her life,” he cried. “Not trying to heal a broken man. A coward who doesn’t deserve all this attention. I shouldnae even be here.”

His father’s face rushed into his mind, and Archer grabbed for the closest thing he could find: a pitcher by the washbasin. He lifted it and tossed it into the fireplace, relieved as the plaster shattered against the brick.

“It should have been me,” he screamed, unable to control the words pouring out of his mouth. “Me faither should have survived. Me men should still be here. But I’m the one who lived. I’m the one who’s here, standing on a mountain of corpses, all of them better men than me.”

“Enough,” Feya cried. She rushed forward as Archer grabbed for a boot brush, ready to launch it across the room. She grabbed for his forearm, gripping it hard as she forced him to come back to himself, to come down from this fit of rage.

Archer yanked his arm away from her, but the gesture made him pause. He blinked at her and then slowly lowered the brush. She watched the anger seep out of him and saw his chest rise as he breathed deeply, intent on calming himself.

“Ye cannae speak about yourself like that,” she said. “And I ken it isnae how Ayla sees ye.”

He gave a snort of derision and walked away from her, going over to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Ye should leave,” he said, but Feya wouldn’t do that. She remembered Ayla and Holly telling her she needed to force Archer to speak. They told her it was the only way to get him out of these moods.

“Nay,” she said, and the jerk of his shoulders told her she had surprised him. “I willnae go until ye admit that ye arenae a monster. Ye must see there is no reason when it comes to war. Men die and it isnae your fault. Just as it isnae your fault that ye survived.”

He didn’t speak. Only crossed his arms across his chest and kept his gaze firmly fixed away from her.

“This is what ye think of me then?” she asked, trying a different tact. “Ye think of me as a coward?”

He turned over his shoulder, a deep line still evident between his eyebrows.

“What are ye talking about?”

“I ran away from me family,” Feya said. She had meant to use the words to wake Archer up, to shake some sense into him.

She hadn’t anticipated the truth of them would cut into her, would send a pang of her own guilt slicing into her heart.

“I am here, living comfortably in your castle, with no idea if me siblings are safe. They could be starving in a dungeon somewhere, accused of treason. They could be…”

She faltered, unwilling to voice her darkest fears. Even at the moments she felt the most alone, she wouldn’t let herself think they could be dead. It was too much to handle.

“It’s not the same,” he said.

“It’s exactly the same. I am alive, just as ye are. So ye must think me weak. Ye must see me as a monster who abandoned her family, just as ye left your men.”

“I have never thought of ye as weak,” he said. He stood up and shook his head, walking toward her. “I would never think that of ye.”

“But ye think it of yourself,” she accused. “I could have stayed with them. I could have tried to save them.”

Wind blew through the window, billowing the curtains into the room. It brought her right back to that night when Cohen brutally murdered his Laird. She saw the pool of blood beneath the man’s body and the sneer of hatred as Cohen glared at her.

“Ye would have been killed, Feya.” Archer’s voice sounded far away. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as if she were back in that castle. She could feel the panic as she turned to run, the knowledge that if she didn’t move fast enough, Cohen would kill her.

“Feya.”

Archer’s hand rested on her shoulder, turning her toward him. She looked up into his eyes, reminding herself that she was here in Castle Dougal. Right now, she was safe. Archer had made sure of that.

“If ye had gone back, ye would have been killed.” Archer ran his hand up her shoulder and onto her neck, cupping it in his palm. His thumb brushed gently against her jaw, trying to comfort her. “And then what good would ye be to your family? What good are ye if you're dead?”

She leaned into his hand, finding her breath as the panic of that night receded. She listened to the truth of Archer’s words and allowed them to bring her comfort, let them push away her darkest fears.

“You’re right,” she said. She met his gaze, suddenly aware of how close he was. She could smell the herbs and the flowers of the bath she had drawn for him, clinging to his skin. “It’s the same for ye. Ye are no good to anyone if you’re dead.”

“Feya…” he began, but she shook her head.

“Nay,” she interrupted. “We are alive for a reason. We must believe that. It isnae an accident that ye are still here.”