Page 35 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

F eya stood frozen on the steps, her eyes locked on Archer as Elijah rushed at him, sword overhead.

She held her breath as Archer defended himself, throwing Elijah’s blade in a different direction.

His eyes kept sweeping over to her, but he couldn’t extract himself from the fuming man in front of him.

“Get out of here,” he cried out, but Feya’s feet felt frozen to the floor. She couldn’t leave Archer like this. She couldn’t run away when he was in such danger.

“Look who it is,” Elijah sneered, laughing as he glanced in Feya’s direction. “Your little plaything.”

They moved closer to her, fighting their way to the steps that Feya stood on top of, frozen at the entrance to the room.

The smell of blood reached her nose, at once familiar and foreign.

She had always seen wounded men when the battle was over.

Now, standing in the midst of things, she saw the true horror of men killing one another, their eyes stripped of humanity as they attacked.

“Please, Feya,” Archer cried, and Elijah took the opportunity to strike. His sword caught Archer in the side, slicing through his shirt and into his skin. It made Feya cry out, and she watched Archer groan, pressing a hand into his side.

Elijah’s triumphant laugh sent her blood boiling. If only Feya had a weapon of her own. If only she could help. And then she remembered the small knife Ronnie had pressed into her palm on her departure.

“Why are ye doing this?” Archer screamed at Elijah, even as he pushed him backward. Feya reached for her boot and pulled the weapon out. It was barely five inches, but perhaps she could catch Elijah unawares. Perhaps she could get to him before Elijah hurt Archer again.

She rushed forward, running with abandon. Archer’s eyes widened when he saw it, and he called out to her to stop. But Feya ignored him, knowing that stopping now would be far too dangerous. She had one shot at this, and she needed to take it.

A figure to her right surprised her, swooping in with an angry snarl.

One hand wrapped around her shoulders, and the other gripped hard in her hair, pulling her back.

Feya screamed as her hair pulled against her scalp and the man wrested the small blade out of her palm.

She looked up to see the ruddy face of Lennox looking down at her, pleased with himself.

“Let her go,” Archer screamed. She heard the terror in his voice as Lennox pressed the tip of the knife against Feya’s throat.

She tried to control her breathing, but she was nearly hyperventilating, recognizing all at once that this could be the end.

These men could kill her without a second thought.

Elijah took in Archer’s wide eyes, his frozen panic, and a smile curled at his lips.

“Ye want us to let her go?” He asked, a knowing look on his face. “Then throw down your sword.”

“Nay,” Feya cried out, but the press of the blade against her skin cut the word off. She held her breath as she felt the prick through her skin, followed by the drip of blood down her neck.

“Keep your hands off of her,” Archer screamed, and he tossed his sword to the ground without hesitation. “Let her go.”

But the grip on Feya’s hair only tightened, and Lennox twisted her neck painfully, making it impossible for Feya to move.

Her eyes were locked on Archer and she saw the surprise on his face when Elijah rushed at him, quickly slashing his sword across Archer’s chest. His tunic was sliced open and Feya saw the streak of blood as Elijah’s blade found its target.

“No,” she screamed, and Archer grunted in pain. He stepped back to avoid Elijah’s attack, but he was unarmed and he only had his hands to defend himself. He ducked beneath the next blow and threw his shoulder into the broadsword, knocking Elijah off balance but cutting himself in the process.

“Why are ye doing this?” Archer cried out again, his teeth gritted in pain.

“Because ye daenae deserve to live. Why should ye live when me brother is dead?”

The blade caught the top of Archer’s shoulder, slicing down across his collarbone.

Feya’s heart ached as she heard Archer’s scream of torment, but even more troubling was the look she saw in his eyes.

For so long Archer had told himself that he should have been killed in that war.

He believed exactly what Elijah was telling him: Malcolm deserved to live. Archer deserved to die.

“Daenae listen,” Feya cried, but the guilt and the same were already reflected in Archer’s eyes.

“It’s true,” Archer screamed back, retreating further to avoid Elijah’s slashes. “Malcolm was a better man than me. He dinnae deserve to die. But neither do these innocent people here. Ye cannae repay death with more death.”

“Of course I can,” Elijah laughed. “I’ll kill everyone who is loyal to ye. Until there is no one left to remember your name. Until ye will only be known as the man who killed me brother.”

Elijah raised his sword over his head, intent on delivering the final blow.

Feya screamed, kicking hard against Lennox’s shin.

She shoved his arm and the knife away, rushing toward Archer, but Lennox held on to her sleeve.

With a yank, he spun her back to him, and then he backhanded her, hitting her hard along the side of the cheek.

It was the last thing Feya saw before everything went black.

As he watched Lennox strike Feya across the face, everything went red. Fury flooded his veins, more intense than any feeling he had ever had on the battlefield. Every fiber of his being told him to move, to get to her, to survive. And to kill anyone in his way.

Ye love her .

He thought it even as he lunged for the sword on the ground. Now that Lennox no longer held a knife to Feya’s neck, he could pick up his weapon without fear of them hurting her.

Ye love her.

He thought it as he gripped his weapon in his fist, ignoring the pain radiating down his right arm from Elijah’s strike to his collarbone. And as he charged, determined to make these men pay.

Ye have always loved her.

Archer shoved his elbow into Elijah’s chest, knocking the man to the ground with one hard shove. Archer’s fury was no match for the bravest of soldiers, something Elijah was decidedly not. Archer stepped forward and sneered at the man who had betrayed him.

“Do ye have anythin’ to say for yourself?” he asked. Perhaps an apology would make Archer reconsider. If Elijah showed some remorse, he wouldn’t need to kill him. But then the man narrowed his eyes at him and spit directly onto the floor.

“Ye arenae worthy to rule pigs. And neither was yer faither.”

Archer growled as he pushed his broadsword clear through the man’s chest. Then he watched the life fade from the man’s eyes as he pulled his blade from the traitor’s body.

He had mourned Elijah’s brother, Malcolm, for many years, but there would be no kind thoughts for his older brother.

Elijah was a mark on Malcolm’s good name, a smudge on the man’s heroic reputation.

He turned toward Lennox, taking in Feya’s crumpled form on the ground.

He needed to get to her. He wanted nothing more than to scoop her into his arms and bring her to safety.

But there was one more person to deal with.

He turned toward Lennox, hatred radiating in his direction, and the man cowered, backing away from Feya’s body.

In that moment, he looked far older than he was, muttering and visibly trembling.

Archer stalked toward him with no ounce of sympathy for this man who had struck the women he loved.

“M-my Laird,” Lennox stuttered. He stepped backward with his hands up, desperate for forgiveness. “I-I had to do it. Elijah forced it.”

“And did he force ye to hunt down me sister?” Archer asked, gaining ground on the man. “Did he force ye to strike a woman, to hold her captive?”

“I-I will be loyal to ye,” Lennox cried. He was now backed up to the wall, fallen soldiers on the ground around him. His eyes darted left and right, searching for an escape, but there was nowhere to go.

“Too late,” Archer said, letting the words roll off his tongue with satisfaction. And then he lifted his sword and sliced the air, running his blade across Lennox’s throat. The man gave a final gurgle of surprise before collapsing to the floor, unable to pull another breath of air into his lungs.

He dropped his blade, letting it clatter to the floor.

The weight of death began to settle around him.

The fighting in the hall had ended, and it was Archer’s men who still stood on their feet.

They looked around, dazed by the shock of this attack, some nursing broken bones and bleeding wounds.

But Archer had no time for them. Instead, he rushed to Feya, dropping to his knee by her side.

“My love,” he whispered, as he pulled her up, cradling her head in his hand. He could see an angry bruise mottling her cheek and that streak of blood still wet from the wound on her throat. “Wake up, my love.”

He brushed hair away from her face, holding her in his lap. Archer’s heart beat with worry, but then her eyes fluttered open, her eyelashes wet with tears.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. He continued to talk to her, pulling her back to this world. He spoke to her with the same gentle tones Feya used when she was pulling him from a nightmare. And then, finally, she stared up at him.

“Archer?” she asked, her voice raw and quiet. All at once, the events of the past few minutes came back to her, and her eyes opened wide. She struggled to sit up, reaching for him. “Ye are hurt. Are ye alright?”

“Shh,” he said. “It’s alright.”

Feya pressed to her knees, and suddenly she was running her hands down his arm, inspecting his chest, inspecting his wounds.

“We have to get ye to the healing chamber,” she said. “Ye must let me clean ye up.”

With his good hand, Archer cradled her face, silencing her. He stared at her for a moment, desperate to tell her that he loved her. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was that she had come back. And, if he could find the courage, he wanted to say that he could never bear it if she left again.

Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her, pressing all his love into that kiss.

He pushed aside the pain in his shoulder, the sting of fresh cuts across his chest, and he lost himself in Feya’s embrace.

How could she have such an effect on him?

How could she peel aside pain and nightmares and anger to see directly to his heart?

“Feya,” he gasped, and she stared back with clear eyes, as if she could read all his thoughts. He pressed his forehead against hers, overwhelmed by the sensation of this woman truly knowing him. No one had ever seen him as Feya could see him. She was the only one who saw the person he truly was.

“Archer,” she started, but he didn’t hear the rest of her words. He felt dizzy and cold. A sensation of falling came over him, followed by an overwhelming exhaustion. His body swayed and then, all at once, the whole world went black.