Page 5 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

H is whole castle seemed to descend on him as they rode up, as if they had been waiting for him. But Archer knew he shouldn’t be surprised. He had returned more than a day later than he intended to, and an unaccounted-for Laird would make anyone nervous.

A small group of his council stood in a line, their faces a mixture of concern, worry, and uncertainty. Lennox Galloway stepped forward, one of the most vocal and oppositional members of his council.

“We were worried about ye, my Laird.”

Archer didn’t miss the judgment in Lennox’s voice. He had been chastised by the council for running away without notice in the past. He expected they would only double down on this directive now.

“I was…delayed,” Archer said. He dismounted from the horse and reached up to help Feya down.

She had recovered from her shock over the fight in the woods, and he was pleased to see color had returned to her cheeks.

As he set her on the ground, she looked up at the castle in front of her.

Archer felt a surprising surge of pride to see her admire it.

But then he felt the council’s eyes on him, their confused looks as they regarded Feya.

“I’m home now,” he cried out. “And well. There’s no need for all this formality. Please, go back inside and get back to work.”

Some of the servants and council members who had gathered seemed reluctant to obey, but Archer was the Laird, and none of them were bold enough to defy him openly.

At least not yet.

The thought came to him unbidden, but it spoke to the unease he had been feeling in his household. There was an undercurrent of trouble he had felt for months now, though he’d had no success in tracking down its source.

“Elijah,” he said, calling out to his friend. Elijah turned back at his name, walking by a scowling Lennox as he made his way back into the castle.

“How are ye?” Elijah asked, dropping the formality he was forced to use among other council members. Elijah and Archer had been friends for a long time, ever since Archer and Elijah’s younger brother were mischievous boys roaming the castle, playing pranks on the servants.

“How has it been here?” Archer asked, ignoring his friend’s question. “Did you hear any talk while I was gone?”

Elijah was well aware of Archer’s concerns. He had been working with Archer to get to the bottom of things, to find out where the seeds of unrest were coming from.

“The council was not happy to hear you went off on your own. Some were angry, others wondered…”

His voice trailed off, but Archer could already picture the words.

“If I finally lost it?” he asked, his voice rising in frustration. “If I lost me mind and wandered into the woods?”

“Something like that,” Elijah nodded, though his smile showed Archer he didn’t put any stock in this. “They’ve seen ye have…episodes. Some of them wonder if they’re affecting your leadership.”

Archer scowled, tired of having to defend himself. He couldn’t control his flashes, or his episodes, as the council liked to call them. Lord knows he had tried, but there was no rhyme or reason to when those memories of war would flash into his mind.

The flashes used to be limited to his bedroom, nightmares he could wake from.

But lately, they had been happening during the day, even at council meetings.

Those who witnessed them said Archer seemed to disappear mid-sentence, life draining from his eyes as he was pulled into these living nightmares.

Sometimes it was a full minute before he came back from them.

“Who’s questioning me?” Archer asked. “Is it Lennox?”

Elijah regarded him with a serious expression, then nodded.

“Aye. He’s getting more vocal. Making bolder statements about whether ye are fit to lead.”

“Ahhh,” he cried in frustration. He caught Feya’s concerned look, but right now he didn’t care about frightening her.

A pounding started behind his eyes, a familiar sign of trouble.

“Me faither would never put up with such insolence,” he said, rubbing his temples.

“Me faither would never let a member of his council question him.”

“Aye,” Elijah agreed. “But your faither is not here.”

A sharp pain in his head made Archer squeeze his eyes tight, fighting the sensation. His father’s face appeared, twisted in pain. Archer saw his mouth open as he tried to speak, but no sound appeared. When he opened his eyes once more, he was on his knees, Elijah and Feya bent over him.

“My Laird,” Elijah cried. “Are ye alright?”

He put a hand on Archer’s shoulder, which he shrugged off, but it was Feya who took control of the situation. He heard her clear, confident voice from beside him, sounding much older than her years.

“Daenae touch him. He was injured on the journey. The Laird has wounds that must be attended to.”

“Who are ye?” Elijah asked, openly offended that this woman was making demands. He scowled at her, taking in the simple outfit she wore, common clothing from the innkeeper’s wife.

“Your Laird’s healer,” Feya said, her chin turned up in defiance. Archer held back a smirk as he got to his feet, amused by the girl’s fearlessness in front of one of his council members. “And I’m telling ye the Laird is injured.”

She took a gentle hold of his arm, and Archer allowed it.

He let himself be led by her, though why he was letting Feya lead, who had never set foot inside his castle, was anyone’s guess.

Perhaps it was simply how amused he was by the look of outrage on Elijah’s face as he watched them walk away from them.

“Elijah,” Archer called back. “Daenae tell me sister I was hurt.”

“Sister?” Feya asked. He looked down into her green eyes, noting how intrigued she was.

“Aye,” he nodded. “Ye arenae the only one with siblings ye care about, lass.”

As soon as they stepped into the castle, Feya realized she had no idea where to go.

“Where is your healing chamber?” she asked.

She dropped his arm, feeling strange about guiding the man like a child.

Outside her instincts had kicked in, telling her to get Archer inside and somewhere safe.

It was the first time she had witnessed him having one of his flashes during the day, and it made her more certain than ever that he needed her help.

“I’m fine, lass,” he said, his voice tinged with that familiar mix of annoyance and embarrassment she always heard when he was confronting his illness. “I’ll show ye to a chamber where ye can rest.”

“Nay,” she said, shaking her head. She wouldn’t let Archer off that easily. “We must tend to your wounds.”

“It was nothing,” he protested. “Just a headache.”

“I’m not talking about your flashes,” she assured him. “Though those need some attention too. Did ye not realize your arm is bleeding? And ye’ve opened up the wound on your back.”

Archer looked down at his left forearm, genuinely surprised to see his sleeve was red with blood.

“It must have happened in the woods,” Feya reasoned.

“Aye,” he said, confusion in his voice. Feya had no idea how someone could ignore such a cut. Was the man truly immune to such pain? But then a more somber thought hit her.

Maybe he has pain all the time. He’s gotten good at living with it.

“Take me to the healing chamber,” she said again, forcing authority into her voice. Archer let out a sigh and took a sharp turn to the left, his long legs moving quickly. Feya had to run to keep up with him, struggling in the innkeeper’s shoes that were loose on her feet.

The healing chamber was on the ground floor, down a set of stairs where the temperature dropped to a comfortable chill.

Feya could smell lilacs in the air and the earthy smell of herbs and spices.

Feya had never had a healing chamber of her own—she had to carry everything in her travel bag, carefully organizing all the items she might need as she went from house to house in her village.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the octagonal room, making it bright and welcoming.

A huge wooden table sat in the center of the room, with bottles of tinctures and powders beside mortars and pestles.

There were smaller tables in front of many of the windows, each covered with plants and herbs appreciating the sunlight.

Small pallets were tucked into quiet spots, peaceful places for the injured to heal.

“My Laird.” A woman looked up from her work, her face lined with age. “I was expecting ye.”

She wore a kerchief on her head, but Feya could see the shock of white hair that curled around her forehead, unyielding and untamable. She wore a canvas apron tied tight around her middle, her stomach straining slightly against the strings she had crossed behind her to tie in the front.

“Holly,” Archer said in greeting as the woman gave a nod of her head. “Are ye well?”

“I am old, my Laird,” she laughed. “Which is to say I’m as well as anyone can expect.”

He laughed warmly, and Feya saw how relaxed Archer seemed in her presence. It was easy to see there was love between Holly and Archer, a trust they had established over many years together. She was pleased to see it. Pleased to know Archer had someone in the castle he could be himself with.

“And who do we have here?” Holly asked, locking on Feya. Her eyes were those of a younger woman, piercingly blue and alert.

“This is Feya,” Archer said. “A healer from the North. I’ve brought her to help.”

As soon as he gestured to Feya next to him, a flash of pain crossed his face. He pulled breath through his teeth and brought his left arm closer to his body.

“Are ye alright, my Laird?”

“He’s been hurt,” Feya said. She didn’t waste time in guiding Archer to one of the cots, where she set him down. “Do ye mind if I tend to him?”

Holly nodded and gestured to her table, inviting Feya to everything she had.

Feya felt the woman’s eyes on her as she grabbed clean cloth, water, and salve.

She set the items on the bed next to Archer and then pulled at his shirt, telling him to take it off.

The piece of clothing was useless at this point, anyway.

The innkeeper’s shirt had torn at the shoulder seams, no match for Archer’s strength in battle.

Feya averted her gaze when she was met with his bare chest, even though everything in her wanted to trace her fingers down his scars, find out where one ended and the other began.

She locked her eyes on the cut on his arm and cleaned it carefully.

The water in her bowl turned red with the Laird’s blood.

“She kens what she’s doing, Archer,” Holly said, appreciation in her voice. Feya was surprised to hear the woman use her Laird’s given name, but Archer didn’t take offense. Once again, she noticed how at ease he was with her.

“Did ye think I would bring an amateur?” he laughed.

Holly grabbed a jar of something viscous and yellow from her table.

“Use this, child,” she said, as Feya finished cleaning and prepared to spread salve along the cut.

Everything Feya knew about healing came from older and wiser women around her.

She had travelled for miles to study under some of the best healers in her clan, so she was nothing but eager to learn from Holly as well.

The woman’s walk was slow and painful. Feya noted the stiff hunch to her shoulders, the way her knees seemed to stay bent even as she walked. She immediately recognized the pain of sore joints, the limp of a woman whose knees were giving out on her.

“Are ye in pain?” she asked gently. She had seen it before—healers taking care of everyone else except themselves.

“Aye,” Holly said, but there was laughter in her voice. “But no more than usual. These old knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“Ye should rest,” Feya said. She stepped forward to take the salve from Holly’s hands. “I can handle this.”

“I am fine—” Holly started, but Archer interrupted her. His gaze was kind and encouraging.

“Go, Holly,” he instructed. “Ye are long overdue for a break.”

She paused for a moment before giving him a slow nod.

Feya continued to work on Archer’s cut as she heard Holly’s footsteps across the floor.

As soon as Holly was gone, the air in the room seemed to change.

Feya couldn’t explain it, but suddenly the space between them felt smaller, his skin felt warmer.

Even though Feya’s eyes were on his wound, she could tell he was looking at her.

“Does that feel better, my Laird?” she asked, though her voice came out quiet, like she was telling him a secret.

“Aye,” he said. His voice was deep, making Feya’s stomach jump. “Ye have a gentle touch, lass.”

She looked up and got trapped in his stare. Her hands were still on his arm, holding it steady, but suddenly she felt how close she was to his thigh. Her breathing grew shallow as Archer turned his injured arm slightly, began to run his finger teasingly along the inside of her elbow.

Feya gasped, immediately overwhelmed by the sensation. How could this tiny touch spark electricity through her entire body? She stared at him, unable to look away, and suddenly Archer’s eyes dropped down to her lips.

“Archer!”

The voice echoed around the chamber, shocking Feya into backing up and dropping his arm. With wide eyes and a pounding heart, she turned to see a tall, furious woman striding toward them.