Page 2 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

F eya woke to a ceiling she didn’t recognize, a pounding behind her eyes making her squint. Her mouth was dry, and her feet throbbed, as did the muscles of her legs, feeling overworked and strained.

Morgana.

She sat up like a jolt, the events of earlier flooding back to her all at once. But as she did so, she was met with the broad expanse of a man’s back, bare and toned with muscles. The beauty of him stunned her for a moment, and she gulped, knowing she should be terrified but feeling anything but.

This was the man she had found in the woods, the one she had begged for help. She remembered the kindness in his eyes and the skill with which he waved a sword. He had protected her.

He gave a sharp intake of breath as he struggled to touch a shallow cut between his shoulder blades.

“Ye’re hurt,” she said. He looked over his shoulder to catch her eye.

“Ye’re awake,” he said, his voice free from emotion, stoic and cautious.

“Let me help.” She pushed the covers aside, only to see she was wearing nothing more than her nightgown. Feya’s face flushed scarlet as she realized she was locked in a room with a man, both of them half-dressed.

“’It’s only a scratch,” he said. To Feya’s relief, he turned away from her, seemingly unaffected by her state of dress. He grabbed the shirt he had discarded and pulled it roughly over his head. She saw the already blood-stained fabric stick quickly to the cut.

“Ye must clean it,” she protested, imagining the dirt and grime of the man’s clothing seeping into the wound, infecting it.

“Who are ye?”

The question was aggressive, full of anger and annoyance. She quickly forgot the cut, feeling her heart rate quicken as he confronted her.

“Feya,” she said carefully. And then she swallowed, forcing herself to answer with more confidence. “Feya Webster.”

“And what were ye doin’ in Laird McKenzie’s Castle? What were ye doin’ running through the woods in nothin’ but your nightclothes?”

His tone annoyed her, as did his veiled insinuations. Did she think she had asked for this? Did he think she had somehow brought this trouble onto herself?

“Who are ye?” she asked, sitting up straighter as she challenged him. “And why did ye take me? Why did ye bring me to your bed?”

The man stood up, looking offended and embarrassed all at once.

“I’m the man who saved your life,” he said, his voice booming around the small bedchamber. “Archer Brown. Though my clan know me as Laird Dougal.”

She stared at him, her mouth dropping open in shock.

“ Laird Dougal? ” she asked, shaking even as she said his name. She had heard stories of him, legends of a fearsome warrior who didn’t know the word ‘mercy’. He was known as a cruel and heartless soldier, a man the children of her village were taught to fear. So why had he saved her life?

“Aye,” he said, but he quickly returned to Feya’s earlier protest. “I didnae take ye to me bed. I brought ye to an inn. After ye collapsed in me arms. So, I’ll thank ye to stop accusin’ me of things.”

There was a threat in his voice that made Feya’s heart beat faster.

Reality crashed down around her as she realized she was locked in a room with a man people called a devil.

She bit her tongue, telling herself to be careful before her usual outspoken nature got her into even more trouble than she was already in.

“I fainted?” she asked quietly. Feya looked at her hands, clasped tightly on her lap.

She couldn’t remember collapsing. Archer only grunted and turned away, busying himself with a bowl of water and a cloth set on the desk, still struggling to clean his wounds.

Silence stretched between them until Feya couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I was there for a wedding,” she burst out, and this intimidating man turned back slowly. “Me sister’s wedding. She married Laird McKenzie yesterday.”

“A bride and a widow all in one day,” Archer mused. Feya regarded him. Was there a hint of amusement in the man’s voice? “Did ye really see him killed?”

She nodded gravely. She could still see that dagger driven into Laird McKenzie’s stomach. If she closed her eyes, she saw the man crumple to the ground.

“And did ye see who did it?”

Again, she nodded.

Archer let out a breath, and his reaction only served to solidify Feya’s fears. She had witnessed the assassination of her Laird. As long as Cohen was alive, he would be looking for her, desperate to silence her.

“That isnae good, lass.” He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, but the movement irritated the injury on his back. He grunted in pain.

“Ye must let me help.”

She climbed out of bed, forcing herself to be brave. This man had helped her, and it was her turn to return the favor.

“I told ye I’m fine,” he grumbled, but his voice was softer. He watched her approach, his eyes roaming down her body as if he were taking her in for the first time. It made her whole body flush with warmth, but Feya wouldn’t be deterred.

“I’m a healer,” she said. She reached around him, grabbing the cloth as she pulled the water to her. Standing this close, she could feel the warmth of his body in the cool room. “A good one, too.”

She hadn’t meant to boast, and she felt a bit embarrassed as Archer smirked at her, clearly amused. He held her gaze for a moment. Then he reached to the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in a single swoop. She didn’t miss his wince of pain as he did so, though he tried to hide it.

She had already seen him shirtless once.

But she was struck by his beauty all over again.

With his back to her, she let her eyes linger, seeing the shape of him, the smoothness of his skin, the scattering of scars along his back.

She had a sudden longing to run her fingers over the taut muscles of his shoulders, to massage the tension he clearly held in the base of his neck.

Get a hold of yourself.

As a healer, she had seen many naked men.

It was a part of the job, and she had become skilled at separating bodies from faces, at looking at things scientifically rather than emotionally.

So, it was an odd sensation to feel so overwhelmed by this particular body, to find herself heady with interest.

She soaked the cloth and dabbed it gently at the cut, forcing herself to focus on the wound.

Archer sat stiffly, a block of marble beneath her fingers, but he let her clean the cut.

Blood and dirt had congealed around the wound, and Feya worked until the skin was clean and raw, the injury a gentle pink rather than an angry red.

“I never thanked ye for saving me.”

Still, he did not move.

“It was bold of ye,” she continued. “To risk your life for a stranger. To help me.”

Finally, Archer shifted, turning his legs in the chair so he could face her.

At the sight of his chest, Feya had to hold back a gasp.

She had seen scars on his back, but it was nothing compared to the front of him.

His shoulders, chest, and stomach were littered with them, crisscrossed in a pattern that was nothing short of beautiful.

“Ye thought I would leave ye?” he asked as Feya blinked back, noticing the striking gray color of his eyes. “Ye think me such a monster?”

He stood up quickly, breaking her gaze. Archer was used to the reputation he had garnered on the battlefield, the exaggerated stories of his ruthless nature. But something about this woman’s assumptions made him angry. He grabbed for his shirt, but the feisty woman pulled it away too quickly.

“Nay. Ye willnae put this dirty thing back on after I’ve cleaned ye.” She held the tunic up in the air, and even Archer could see how disgusting the garment was, stained with dirt and blood. “This shirt is only fit for the fireplace.”

He scowled at her and turned away, noticing that the cut on his back did not sting as much as it had before. Not that he would tell her so. He felt trapped, confined to a tiny room with nowhere to go, suddenly saddled with a woman he had no idea what to do with.

Earlier, he had been anxious for her to wake up from her fainting spell. Now, he could only wish this troublesome lass had slept through the night.

“’It’s late,” he grumbled. “We should sleep.”

He dropped to the edge of the bed, still turned away from her. His eyes locked on the tiny window, catching the glow of the moon.

“Have your healer look at it when you’re back,” she said. “In the morning, ye can ask the innkeeper for a strip of cloth so ye can wrap it.”

There was a finality to her voice that confused him, and he turned to look at her. She stood by the door, her hand on the doorknob.

“Thank ye again for saving me.” She gave him a formal nod. “I willnae forget it.”

And with that, she opened the door, stepping out to the hallway of a busy inn wearing nothing but her nightgown. Archer would have laughed if he weren’t so shocked. He was on his feet instantly, closing the gap between them.

“Why must ye always make me chase ye?” He asked. “Get back inside.”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room, practically lifting her. The little squeal of protest she gave him made his body flush with desire for her, and he quickly let go. Archer stood in front of the door, a much more solid barrier than any piece of wood.

“What are ye doin’? I must get back.”

“To the castle where your Laird was murdered? Where the man who did it is likely waitin’ for ye?”

“It doesnae matter,” she insisted. “I cannae leave me family. If he doesnae find me, he will take it out on them. I ken he will.”

She rushed forward and tried to move him, her small hands pressing against the solid mass of his chest. He smirked at her as she did her best to move him, though Archer hardly had to do anything to stay still.

“Move,” she cried, and there was desperation in her voice. It was the same panic he had heard out in the woods, the same desperation that told him just how guilty she felt for running away.

“’It’s a fool’s mission,” he reasoned with her. “Ye will only get yourself killed.”

Her small hands turned to fists and began to pound on his chest. Archer grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away, frustrated by the girl’s stubbornness.

“Do ye think I will let ye out there? Of course the man will be waiting for ye. Not to say anythin’ of the way ye’re dressed. Ye wouldnae make it to the castle before some man found ye to have his way with ye.”

She blushed crimson at his words, and they were both suddenly aware of how close they stood to each other.

Feya pulled her arms away, and Archer released her, watching her walk a tiny path back and forth in the cramped room, her eyes on the ground.

He watched her, somehow understanding that she was plotting something.

“I willnae die,” she said, planting her feet on the ground as she stared at him. “I promise I willnae die without repaying ye for your kindness. I give ye my word. If ye let me leave, I will come to your castle. I will thank ye for what ye have done.”

“With what?” he asked, laughing at her, though he saw this only made the girl more furious. “What is it ye can give a Laird that he doesnae already have?”

“Anythin’” she burst out, desperation written all over her face. A tug of desire shocked him, pulling him closer to her. His body moved on its own, drawn to her and the challenge he read in her eyes. He stepped slowly, a hunter stalking his prey.

“Be careful what ye promise, lass. Someone might call ye on your bluff.”

When he was this close to her, he saw how small she was.

The top of her head came to just below his chin, and she had to look up at him.

Archer didn’t try to hide the hunger coursing through his body as he stared down at her.

He saw her recognize it, saw the slight opening of her mouth that told him she might even appreciate it.

He was about to reach a hand for her waist when Feya stepped back, that curious gaze turning into defiance.

“Ye cannae keep me here—” she started, but Archer interrupted her.

“If ye are determined to die, ye can do it tomorrow. It’s the middle of the night and ye have no horse. Hell, ye dinnae even have shoes.”

She looked down at her bare feet, and in that moment, she recognized defeat.

“At least wait for daylight,” he suggested, keeping his tone reasonable. “Get a few hours of sleep to get up your strength.”

“I leave tomorrow,” she said, but it was clear he had convinced her. He could already see exhaustion setting in, the weight of the day collapsing around her shoulders.

“As ye wish,” he nodded, though Archer had no intention of sending the lass to her death. Still, better to let her rest with dreams of home, with the hope she could go back there. “Rest now.”

She did as he told her, climbing back beneath the bedclothes. Archer kicked the heavy boots from his feet and crossed to the other side of the bed.

“What are ye doin’?” she asked with alarm.

“Sleeping,” he grumbled. He threw aside the blanket and dropped onto the bed, making the mattress shake.

“Here?” Feya asked. Archer was delighted by her shock, and he couldn’t help smirking at her.

“Aye, lass. There is but one bed.” He lay down, turning his back to her before muttering. “Dinnae worry, I willnae bite.”