Page 24 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

H e held the back of her neck as he pressed his mouth against hers.

His breath was still coming hard and painful to his chest after the exertion of the past few minutes, but now Feya’s breath was starting to match his own.

She opened her mouth to him and leaned into his hand.

Archer pressed his tongue into her mouth and felt Feya push back, meeting his enthusiasm.

He grabbed at her hip and pulled their bodies together, crashing ungracefully.

They laughed through their kissing, but then he felt Feya’s hands on the small of his back.

His shirt had come free of his breeches, and suddenly her eager fingers were exploring his skin.

She ran fingers up his spine and held onto his shoulders as they continued to kiss.

His body responded to the press of Feya’s body against his own. He felt a stirring between his legs and slipped his hands down her backside to pull her into him. He wanted her to feel it, to know that she was driving him crazy.

Feya gasped and looked up at him, pulling away from his mouth so she could look into his eyes. Archer smirked at her and continued to rock his hips against her own, delighting in the arousal that coursed with urgency through his body.

He let his hands ride further until they found the back of Feya’s thighs.

He lifted her, making Feya squeal in surprise as she grabbed tight to his torso to keep from falling backward.

Archer held her in the air as she straddled him, and he walked back a few steps, looking for the log he had just rested on.

As Feya dropped her mouth back to his, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth, he misjudged the landscape.

With a grunt, he fell backward, holding Feya against him as he dropped hard on his backside.

Feya laughed as Archer’s shoulders hit the ground.

She was on top of him now, her hips still wrapped around his, her elbows painful in his chest. But then Feya caught his eye, and she pushed herself up, pressing her knees into the dirt on either side of him.

With what he could only attribute to instinct, she pressed her palms into his chest and began to rock her hips back and forth.

“What—” he couldn’t get the words out. Looking up at Feya as she rocked against him was too much for him.

He grew even harder, straining against the fabric of his breeches and wishing they could feel each other without the hindrance of clothes.

Feya closed her eyes and began to lose herself to these sensations, delighting in the power she had to spark her own desire.

“Lass,” Archer groaned. He didn’t know how much of this he could take.

The pressure was building to something verging on painful, something desperate for relief.

His mind swirled with thoughts of Feya’s hands on his length, the possibility of her mouth around him, and suddenly he grabbed her hips and lifted her off him, depositing her hard onto the ground next to him.

“Hey,” she cried, surprise and outrage making her eyes spark with frustration.

“Ye cannae tease me like that, lass,” he said with laughter in his voice. “Unless ye are ready for what comes next.”

Her cheeks flushed a darker scarlet, and she looked down at the ground.

But Archer wouldn’t let her hide from him.

He put a hand on her cheek and forced her to look at him, pressing his mouth against hers in a chaste version of the kiss he had surprised her with earlier.

Feya smiled sweetly, and he pulled her toward him, letting her rest her head on his chest. She felt perfect there, fit snugly against his side as the coolness of the earth pressed through the fabric of his shirt.

“I think we need more of this treatment,” Archer mused, staring up at the gently moving leaves in the canopy above them.

“Which type?” Feya asked sleepily. “The kissing or the wood chopping?”

“Both.”

He took a strand of hair and wound it around his finger, letting the cool breeze lull him into contentment.

“It’s good to let your feelings out,” she said, but it sounded like she was working out a new argument, as if she were testing a theory. “Holding it all in is only making ye sick.”

He didn’t respond. Archer hated to talk about his illness…

if that’s even what it could be called. To him, it felt like nothing more than a weakness, something that needed to be hidden and suppressed.

And yet, Feya had been right about the wood chopping.

Throwing all his anger into that action had let him let go of it, had made him feel productive instead of helpless.

Archer ran his fingers up her spine and sighed, letting his body relax into the earth as his eyes drifted closed.

They stayed there for a long time, lost in the space between dream and waking.

The weather was perfect, warm enough that she felt comfortable in her day dress but cool enough that the warm press of Archer’s body against her own was a welcome sensation.

Feya let her mind wander to the birds in the sky and then to the small cabin that sat beside them.

What if she and Archer lived in a place like this? What if he could be free of the pressure of being Laird, if their life could consist of baking bread and chopping wood? What if they could have a small life of their own, just the two of them?

“We should get back,” he said. The sky had been darkening above them, and Feya knew people in the castle would be looking for him.

She sat up and brushed dirt from her sleeves and her skirts.

Archer stood and then reached a hand down to help her to her feet.

As they turned to walk back toward the castle, Feya sensed Archer’s contentment and felt a new sensation of peace.

This worked.

Her gamble with the wood chopping had paid off.

She smiled at herself as they found the path again, pleased to know she was making progress.

Forcing Archer to get that anger out of his body had been the key.

And now she started to wonder, what if she needed to take the same approach with his memories?

“Can I ask ye something?”

He nodded right away, but Feya still hesitated.

“Would ye tell me the names of your men?”

He furrowed his brow, uncertain what exactly she was asking, and Feya tried again.

“The men you lost in battle. What were their names?”

She kept her eyes ahead as they continued to walk, and when he didn’t respond, she assumed he wouldn’t answer.

At least ye tried.

And she resolved to keep trying. Archer needed to talk about these men and these haunted memories if he had any hope of being free of them. She understood now that it was the true path toward healing.

“Sam O’Donnell.”

Her head swiveled in his direction, shocked by his break in the silence. He caught her eye and nodded, but then his eyes floated to the tree trunks that flanked the path they walked upon.

“Ewan Spurlock, Colm Llewylln...”

He listed them one by one, watching the side of the path as if the men stood between the trees, staring back at him.

Every name was spoken with solemnity, not unlike a sermon spoken in church.

Feya listened to each name, tried to picture the men who had sacrificed their lives for the good of their clan.

But even as she paid tribute to the fallen soldiers, she listened closely to the tenor of Archer’s voice and admired the strength he showed in speaking these names out loud.

“Malcolm Adamson.”

They were at the edge of the woods now, and Archer paused as he mentioned his best friend and man-at-arms. Still, Feya knew there was one more name to voice. She waited, knowing she would let Archer have as much time as he needed.

“Me faither. Laird Dougal the elder.”

He said the name with his head held high. It was said with the respect of a son who felt the weight of carrying on his father’s legacy. Said with the gratitude of a man who knew that this man had sacrificed his own life so his son could live.

“Thank ye,” she said. Tears pricked at Feya’s eyes, but Archer was calm. He looked strengthened by this exercise, not weakened.

“Feya,” he said, and he turned to her. “Ryder McKenzie is holding a ceilidh to celebrate his marriage to your sister. And I’m going to attend.”

She blinked at him, overcome by the words. She hadn’t expected more news of her sister or her old clan so soon. But, of course, they would hold a celebration. She suddenly felt silly for not thinking of this herself.

“Ye are going to Castle McKenzie?” she repeated.

Images of that castle flooded back to her.

She saw the great hall where her sister’s wedding had taken place.

She saw the huge four-poster bed where she had slept the very night she ran away.

And she saw the old Laird McKenzie, flat on the ground, a puddle of blood beneath him.

“I promised ye I would bring ye back there safely,” he said. He chose his words carefully, watching every emotion that crossed her face. “This is me chance to do so.”

“But I promised to heal ye,” she said, though even when the words left her mouth she couldn’t believe she was saying them. Hadn’t she been dreaming of going home? Hadn’t she wanted nothing more than to see her siblings again, safe and sound?

“Ye have done more than anyone ever has, lass,” he told her. “It’s time I did the same for ye.”

He waited, and Feya couldn’t shake the feeling that he was waiting for her to say something.

Her stomach suddenly churned with nerves, a mixture of excitement and something else…

something that felt like disappointment.

Could she really leave Ayla and Holly? And yet, she couldn’t stay hidden away forever.

Her family needed her. But…what if Archer needed her too?

“It’s settled then,” he said, and all at once her opportunity to say something closed. “We’ll leave in a week.”

He smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And then he turned toward the castle and marched across the ground. Feya saw his shoulders stiffen as she ran to catch up with him, the familiar image of Archer steeling himself for whatever he might find inside.