Page 31 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

S he couldn’t sit still. Anytime Feya sat down, she would jolt to her feet, her muscles tense.

Her mind kept flying toward McKenzie Castle, re-tracing the steps she had taken so long ago when she fled the Laird’s bedroom, terror coursing through her body.

Now Archer was the one taking that path, heading back to the scene of the gruesome crime.

Her stomach grumbled with hunger, but she wouldn’t go down to the dining room. She had promised Archer to stay in this room, and she worried that if she broke her promise, he could somehow break his.

Be careful.

She said the words over and over again, even whispering them to the night air that blew through the open window. She pictured him arriving at the castle, pictured the moment when someone recognized him. What if the younger Laird McKenzie was angry? What if Archer found himself in danger?

She squeezed her fingernails into her palms and tried to push the negative thoughts away.

He’ll be alright. He has to be.

A sound in the hall jolted her to attention, and she held her breath, her eyes locked on the handle of the door. Footsteps moved swiftly across the wooden floor, squeaking across the loose boards. But the steps continued past her room, and she knew it wasn’t him.

It had grown dark outside long ago. Feya kept checking the sky, where she could follow the path of the moon as it rose higher and higher.

She was certain it was the middle of the night, hours past the time for a wedding party to be over.

What if something had happened to him? What if Archer was locked in a cell?

Or worse, injured on the side of the road, cast out by McKenzie’s men?

The door clicked, and Feya jumped, taken aback by the noise. She grabbed for the stool that sat at the desk and held it over her head, her heart pounding as her eyes locked on the door. It pushed open with a groan, and suddenly Archer’s frame filled the doorway.

“I ken I’m late, but ye daenae need to hurt me, lass.”

She dropped the stool and rushed to him just as he closed the door. She walked him against it and began checking his limbs for injuries, moving aside the loose fabric of his tartan and shirt to check for blood.

“Are ye alright?” Feya gasped, and she heard him laugh, though he didn’t push her hands away.

“Just fine,” he assured her. When she was satisfied, Feya dropped against his chest, the stress of the past few hours finally receding into exhaustion.

“I thought ye were dead,” she said, her mouth pressed against his tunic as her arms wrapped around his waist. She knew she shouldn’t hold him like this.

He had pushed her hand away when he kissed her, disengaging from anything beyond that chaste touch of the lips.

But she couldn’t help it. Besides, in a few short hours, they would never see each other again.

“I’m very well alive,” he assured her. Archer walked her to the bed and set her down, taking in her gown and the boots she still wore on her feet. “Ye should have gone to bed, lass. It’s far too late to still be up.”

“Ye think I could sleep?” she asked. Archer chuckled and sat at the bottom of the bed, where Feya saw how calm he seemed. He smiled down at her as he reached for her foot and began unlacing her boot. “It went alright, then?” she asked.

“Aye,” he nodded. He dropped her shoe to the ground and reached for the other one. “I met your sister. She looks well. Happy even. Though we had a tense moment when they realized who I was and where I came from.”

“She’s well, then?”

Relief flooded through her body, but it wasn’t enough to know Morgana’s fate. What of her other siblings?

“I asked about your brothers and sisters,” he said, reading her thoughts.“They’re fine. Morgana has made sure they’re safe.”

“And what of Cohen?” Feya asked. She should have been wide awake when she asked the question, but with her head pressed against the pillow and Archer’s comforting presence at her feet, she felt the pull of sleep.

“He’s still in the Castle,” Archer warned her. “They daenae ken he was responsible, and I didn’t dare tell them what I knew. Not in such a public setting. But we’ll go there tomorrow. Ye will tell your sister what ye ken. But we must take precautions. We’ll hide ye until we ken Cohen is captured.”

Archer unlaced his own boots and began to undress.

He stood up from the bed and crossed to the other side, dropping his tartan and his kilt as he did so.

She tried to follow him with her eyes, eager to see the flash of his strong thighs beneath his tunic, the flex of his muscles as he reached up to untie his long hair.

But even the thrill of Archer’s body couldn’t keep her awake.

Her eyes dropped closed, and all Feya felt was the dip of the bed as Archer sat down on it.

Her breathing lengthened, and her body felt heavy against the mattress. The last thing she felt was a gentle brush of Archer’s fingers along her cheek. He caressed her face, guiding her gently into sleep.

They approached the castle cautiously, with Feya’s head covered with Archer’s cloak.

She fought him about it, but Archer told her he wouldn’t allow her out of the inn if she didn’t hide herself.

He couldn’t risk the wrong person seeing her and warning Cohen before they had a chance to tell what they knew.

As they approached Castle McKenzie, Archer scanned the grounds, wondering which unsuspecting servant could be strong-armed into bringing them to Ryder. But before he had narrowed in on a target, Feya gripped his arm.

“Me braither,” she gasped. “Ronnie.” She nodded to a young man, his head down as he walked with purpose toward the castle’s entrance. Archer took his chance and stepped forward.

“Ronnie,” he called, and the boy looked over, startled to hear his name.

“Keep your face covered,” Archer whispered. “Until we’re safely inside Laird McKenzie’s chambers.”

He rushed toward Feya’s brother, amused by the panic and confusion he read on his face as the boy clearly tried to work out how Archer knew his name.

“I have news,” Archer said, clasping Ronnie’s hand in greeting. “For your Laird. I need ye to bring me to him.”

Ronnie glanced at the hooded figure who stood behind Archer, waiting for an explanation, but Archer didn’t acknowledge it. He only pushed forward, feeling his muscles tense with nerves the longer they stood here, out in the open.

“It’s urgent,” he insisted. “Bring me to Laird McKenzie.”

He expected the boy to fold under pressure, but instead, he squared his shoulders, standing taller to face off against the formidable man in front of him.

“And who are ye?” Ronnie asked. “Ye cannae just demand a meeting with Laird McKenzie and expect to be given one.”

The boy’s insolence sent a surge of annoyance through Archer’s chest. Apparently, stubbornness ran in Feya’s family.

“If ye must ken, I’m Archer Brown, perhaps better known to ye as Laird Dougal. I have news of your sister. So would ye like to stand here making introductions or would ye like to bring me to your Laird?”

Whether it was Archer’s reputation or the mention of Feya, Ronnie suddenly jumped into action.

He gave a small nod, acknowledging Archer’s status, and then invited them to follow him.

Archer appreciated the boy’s urgency as he guided them through the castle hallways, moving without a word until they were suddenly at the door of Ryder McKenzie.

With shaking hands, Ronnie pushed open the door, poking his head into the room.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he started. “But we have company?—”

Archer wouldn’t wait any longer. The more time they spent on formalities the more time Cohen had to get away. Instead, he pushed past the boy, pulling Feya into the room behind him.

“Where is Laird McKenzie?”

At first, Laird McKenzie didn’t believe her.

She saw his surprise, even his disbelief, when she told him that Cohen had murdered his father.

But the more Feya spoke, the more Ryder McKenzie listened to her.

She saw the man’s panic rise with each new detail, and when Feya told him that Cohen had killed the old Laird to have Morgana for himself, there was no mistaking the horror written on the man’s face.

They had sent for Morgana, and the castle had erupted into chaos as they realized the Lady of the Castle was nowhere to be found. Morgana was missing. And the last person the servants saw her with was Cohen Hughes.

“They’ll find her,” Archer said, placing a hand on Feya’s shoulder as she stared out the window, eyes cast in the direction Ronnie, Ryder, and his men had ridden. She shrugged off Archer’s touch, her stomach churning with worry for her sister.

“Ye shouldnae make promises ye cannae keep,” she spit back, but even as she said it, Feya knew she was being unfair.

Archer had done everything he could to keep her safe.

She couldn’t punish him for Morgana’s capture.

And yet there was something lurking at the back of her mind, a question that wouldn’t stop haunting her.

What if ye had been here last night? What if ye could have gotten to Morgana before it was too late?

“At least they ken the truth,” Archer reasoned, still doing his best to comfort her. “They ken Morgana didnae kill the Laird. They ken who is truly responsible.”

“Why arenae ye out there?” Feya asked, spinning around to glared in Archer’s direction. Tears pooled in her eyes and she let them fall down her cheeks, panic overwhelming her. “Ye should have gone with them. Ye should have run until ye could plunge your sword into Cohen’s chest.”

Suddenly, the room felt tight, the walls closing in on her.

Morgana was in danger, and Feya was standing here, hoping someone else would save her.

For weeks, Feya had stayed away, protecting herself instead of fighting for her family.

She had carried the guilt of that choice the entire time she was at Castle Dougal.

And what if something happens to Morgana now? How long will that haunt ye?

Feya launched herself toward the door, reaching with both hands for the doorknob. But Archer was too fast. He scooped her up and pulled her backward, lifting her feet off the ground.

“Let me go,” she cried. She squirmed in his arms, but Archer held her tight.

“Ye cannae leave,” he told her. “Ye will only make things worse. If Cohen or his men see ye, we’ll have more than one lass to save. Ye must trust her husband—he’ll find her.”

She turned in his arms and pushed her hands against his chest. Of course, he didn’t budge, no matter how hard Feya pushed against him. Tears continued to run down her face as she hit him, fighting against her captivity and the helplessness she felt to see her sister wasn’t safe.

Archer gripped her arms and pulled her body into him, wrapping his arms tight around her back.

Feya’s face pressed into his chest, and she breathed in the scent of leather and pine that seemed to cling to Archer’s skin.

It comforted her, and she suddenly collapsed against him, releasing into sobs.

She cried in his arms, letting out all of her fears and worries for her family, her sense of responsibility.

“It’s alright, lass,” he whispered. Archer brought his hand to the back of her head and stroked her hair. “It’s alright.”