Page 4 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

B efore setting off for Castle Dougal, Archer paid a visit to the innkeeper.

He haggled with the man over a dress for Feya and a shirt for himself, since neither of them was in a fit state to travel.

When he returned to the room, he was grumbling about the man cheating him, but Feya was pleased to see a simple frock, stockings, and even shoes.

Archer stayed outside while she changed, guarding the door.

And even though she knew he would not come inside until she called to him, she dressed as quickly as she could.

She found that the innkeeper’s daughter was a close match to her in size.

Though a bit large in the waist, she was able to cinch the apron tight around her middle to make the dress fit nicely.

Even the shoes were a close match, only half a size too big.

Archer did not fare so well. The innkeeper wasn’t a small man, but he carried all his weight in his stomach. Archer’s broad shoulders and defined biceps strained against the shirt’s seams, making him scowl anytime he tried to move.

“It will stretch,” Feya said when she saw him, though she couldn’t hold back the smirk rising from deep within her.

“Let’s go,” the man grumbled. “We’ve stayed in one place too long already.”

Archer stormed down the steps and past the innkeeper without a word.

He was still bitter that the man had charged him so much for the clothes, recognizing Archer wasn’t in a position to say no.

Feya was the one who turned to the innkeeper and his wife with a smile and thanked them for their hospitality.

“Come, lass,” Archer said impatiently, already standing beside his horse. “Me men will think me dead and send out a search party if I am nae back soon.”

But Feya’s feet slowed as she saw the large black mare in front of her.

She had not thought this through. Panic began to rise in her throat as she realized Archer only had one horse.

That meant she would ride in front of him the whole time, that broad expanse of chest behind her, his hips tantalizingly close.

She had a flash of Archer pinning her down on the bed, his strong thighs brushing against her own.

“What is it?” he asked, pulling Feya from this memory. “Ye arenae scared of a little horse, are ye?”

He mistook her hesitation for fear and quickly went to her. He grabbed her hand and walked her to the horse, placing her palm flat against the mare’s neck, trapping Feya’s hand with his own.

“She’s the gentlest beast ye’ll ever meet,” Archer assured her, his voice calm in her ear. “And the fiercest in battle. She willnae hurt ye unless ye are a Dougal enemy.”

“Aye,” Feya said, not trusting herself to say anything else. Just the touch of his hand and his voice close to her ear were making her heady.

Ye arenae used to men .

She told herself this was all that it was.

Despite her experience as a healer, placing hands on men’s bodies and seeing them in various states of dress, she had spent very little time alone with the opposite sex.

It was a new experience to be alone with a man as healthy and strong as the one she found herself with.

Of course, she would be nervous around him.

“Good,” Archer said, seemingly satisfied.

When he dropped his hand from hers, Feya was disappointed despite herself, but it only lasted a moment.

His hands quickly wrapped around her waist and lifted her into the air, dropping her onto the horse as if she weighed nothing.

She let out a squeal of shock, grabbing Flora’s mane to steady herself.

A second later, he was up behind her and reaching around her body for the reins.

“Go on, Flora,” he called. “Time to go home.”

The horse lurched beneath her, and Feya was thrown back, knocking into his chest. She righted herself quickly, wrapping her fingers in Flora’s mane, but with each step the horse took, she slipped closer and closer to Archer.

Within minutes, her back was pressed against him, and his thighs were brushing against her own.

Feya’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and she was glad he could not see her face.

“Tell me about your symptoms,” she blurted out, desperate to distract herself from the warm, strong body behind her.

“Nay, let’s not speak of it now,” he said. “It will only ruin a beautiful morning.”

“We must,” she said firmly, knowing she would never survive this ride if she didn’t distract herself. “Ye said ye will bring me home once I have cured ye. The sooner I help ye, the sooner I can go home. Is that right?”

“Aye,” he said, though there was no joy in the word.

“Very well. Tell me about your symptoms. These flashes ye have—what do ye see?”

He was silent for a moment, so long that Feya thought he might refuse to answer. But then he let out a breath and began speaking, talking over Feya’s head as he confessed to the trees.

“I see battle. I see people die.”

“Which people?” Feya coaxed.

“What does that matter?”

His voice was angry, almost scaring her into silence.

But then she considered the question, carefully preparing her answer.

Her experience with soldier’s heart had been limited to a young man in her village who escaped from a troubled clan, who had spent years of his life trying to survive.

She had given him all of the usual tonics and herbs to help him sleep, to soothe his mind, but the thing that had helped, the thing that seemed to make the most difference, was letting the man talk about his experiences.

“It’s good to release it,” Feya answered simply. “Talking about the experiences…it can be a balm of its own.”

“Not for me,” he answered gruffly. “Ye should stick with the potions and the powders. Give me whatever it takes to root out these infected thoughts. I daenae care how brutal the treatment is. But I willnae talk about it.”

A noise from the woods startled her, and Archer’s arm was quickly around her waist. He pulled her tight against him, and she felt his lips against her ear.

“Daenae move, lass.”

The whizz of an arrow flew through the air, too fast for either of them to react. Feya watched it rush in front of her and then lodge itself with a thwack into a tree.

It was then that three men emerged from the woods.

He pulled her from the horse immediately, moving before Feya could think.

She heard the metallic drag of his sword as he unsheathed it, and then the whizz of another arrow in their direction.

Archer pulled her out of the way and reached for a dagger in his belt.

With a confident flick of his wrist, he spun it through the air.

“Who are they?” Feya cried, but Archer was pushing her behind a tree. She heard a cry and looked across to the men just in time to see the man with the bow collapse from his horse, Archer’s dagger lodged in his sternum.

“Stay here,” he ordered, and then he rushed toward the two remaining men who had dismounted, swords drawn. Feya held her breath as he swung his broadsword, brushing back both of them.

They’re here for me.

It hit her all at once: These men were looking for her. She should have known that Cohen wouldn’t stop. As soon as he learned that Archer had killed the first two men he sent, he must have responded by sending more. How stupid she had been to think he would stop, that he would let her live.

No, it was too dangerous for him to have Feya out in the world. She was the one person in the world who knew what he had done.

Archer cried out, and Feya worried he had been hurt. She looked for any signs of distress, but it was nothing more than adrenaline coursing through him, a sound meant to inspire terror in the men he was fighting.

“Give us the lass,” one of the men called, but Archer’s deep and humorless laugh echoed off the trees.

He surged forward, surprising the man into backing up where he lost his balance.

He flung his sword defensively across his body, but with a knock to his blade, Archer disarmed him.

Archer killed the man before he had a chance to beg for mercy.

Feya gasped, unable to keep her eyes from the crumpled man on the ground.

All at once, she was back in Laird McKenzie’s room, watching Cohen kill ruthlessly.

And now Archer was doing the same, swiping with his sword as he lived up to his reputation as a ruthless devil.

All the humanity she had seen in his eyes was gone, replaced with hatred.

“Yer turn,” Archer said, taunting the final man, his voice full of cruelty.

All at once, Feya feared she had gotten this wrong.

She had agreed to travel back to this man’s castle, to cure him of his soldier’s heart.

But she had never thought about the consequences.

What if she couldn’t heal him? What if he lost patience, decided she wasn’t worthy?

If Feya couldn’t uphold her part of this deal, would Archer turn this wrath towards her?

With two of his comrades dead, the final man could already see his fate.

Archer recognized the terror in his eyes, the flash of understanding that came when a man knew he would die.

The man was younger than the other, practically a boy, and his hands shook as he held his weapon in front of him, struggling to be brave.

Archer paused, letting his breath drop deeper into his lungs as he regained control of his senses. He pushed away the adrenaline that so often carried him through a battle and forced himself to take stock of the situation.

This wasn’t a fair fight, and Archer had a rule against fighting dirty.

“Stand down, boy,” Archer said, dropping the tip of his sword to the ground. “I willnae kill ye.”

Three men against one had been a challenge for him. Even when there were two coming at him, he could be at a disadvantage. But as a seasoned soldier, fighting against a scared lad would bring him no glory. It would only bring him guilt.

“Please,” the boy begged. “Please, let me go.”

“I willnae kill ye,” Archer said again, sheathing his sword. The boy still held his weapon out, frozen in place. “Put that away.”

When the boy didn’t obey, Archer lunged forward, one hand wrapping tight around the hilt of the boy’s weapon, the other gripping the fabric of his shirt. The boy cried out in fear, and Archer disarmed him with a painful twist of his hand over the boy’s own. He threw the sword to the ground.

“Take that, Feya,” he called over his shoulder, sensing the lass had emerged from her hiding spot. He was surprised by how easily he could sense her eyes on him.

“Listen to me,” Archer said, putting on his most intimidating voice. “Ye will return to your Master. Ye will bring him a message.”

“Y-yes,” he said, his voice full of hope.

“Ye will tell him that Feya Webster is dead. Ye will tell him ye saw her killed by one of his men. That everyone died in the fight. Everyone except ye.”

“Aye,” he nodded.

Archer glanced to the right, where the body of the first man he had killed lay on the ground. He dragged the boy over to it, reached out and pulled his dagger forcefully from the man’s chest. He held the weapon close to the boy’s face, then dragged the tip down his throat.

“Ye will do as I say,” Archer said. He could see the sweat dripping down the boy’s forehead. “Aye?”

“Aye,” he said, nodding his head, holding his breath as the weapon danced around his throat. “Feya Webster is dead. I saw it with me own eyes.”

“Good,” Archer said. “If I hear ye said otherwise…”

He pressed the edge of the dagger along the boy’s throat, quickly dragging it across his skin just enough to draw blood. The boy yelped as Archer released him. He collapsed to the ground, his hand pressed to the cut Archer had given him.

“So ye willnae forget,” Archer told him, holding the boy’s gaze. “Now go.”

The man didn’t need to be told twice. He scampered to his feet, grabbing for the closest horse. Archer wasn’t even sure it was the one he rode in on. He threw himself into the saddle and kicked the horse hard in the sides, quickly disappearing in the trees.

For a moment, they stood silently, listening to the song of birds in the branches overhead, the pounding of hooves receding.

“Well now,” Archer said. He spun back to Feya, who stared at him, stunned into silence. She still held the boy’s sword, and Archer saw the rise and fall of her chest that told him she was afraid. “That was exciting.”

“They were looking for me,” she gasped, and he saw that she finally understood the danger of her situation. She finally saw why she needed protection.

Archer walked to her and tossed the boy’s sword away. Then he took her hand and led her gently back to Flora, who sighed at them, as if annoyed they had interrupted her journey home.

“Daenae worry,” he said as he lifted Feya back to the horse. “No one is coming for ye anymore. Ye are safe.”

Archer launched himself behind her and pressed his heels into Flora’s sides. Feya fell backward, but she didn’t try to right herself this time. Instead, she melted into him.