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

H e strode down the hallway with clenched fists, angry with himself. He knew he shouldn’t have argued with Ayla like that. It had only left two women afraid of him.

So what? Why do ye care what she thinks of ye?

He reminded himself he had brought the woman here to heal him.

It made no difference whether he saw fear in her eyes when he closed the door on her.

He didn’t need her happy, he just needed a cure.

And yet, something pulled at him, something nagging at the back of his mind that made him desperate to throw his fist into the wall.

“There ye are,” Elijah said, and Archer fixed his jaw, holding back the curses he wanted to scream down the hallway.

“What is it?” he managed through his teeth. His head was still pounding, and the last thing he wanted was to hear about more unrest with the clan.

“The council,” Elijah said, as if the answer were obvious. “We are waiting for ye.”

He should have expected the council would want a meeting. It seemed they were desperate to meet with him more and more these days. Elijah assured him that he shouldn’t see it as a lack of confidence, but something in the back of his mind told Archer it was a bad sign.

He took a sharp turn to the right, heading for the council chambers.

“Tell a servant to bring me a shirt,” he grumbled. Elijah faltered, looking confused, but then he did as he was told, running in the opposite direction to find someone to fulfil this strange request.

“My Laird.” Bennett O’Brien was a cheerful man who seemed unable to wipe a smile from his face.

Even when the council was speaking of war, O’Brien appeared to be inwardly humming to himself, lost in his own rosy world.

Most of the time, Archer appreciated him for his outlook, but the man’s bright greeting as Archer stormed into the room made him frown.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said. The nausea he had felt earlier was returning, brought on by the pain in his skull. Archer threw himself into his chair at the head of the table and narrowed his eyes at his council. “What is it we need to discuss?”

The men looked hesitant. They had seen Archer in moods like this before, and they knew he could be biting with his responses. But their hesitation was the last thing Archer wanted. What he needed was to get this over with so he could get back to his chamber before he had another episode.

“Wheat,” Egan Stewart told him.

“Wheat?” Archer echoed. He struggled to hold back a sigh.

“It’s gone yellow.”

“Is it not meant to be yellow?” Archer asked.

“Not at this time, my Laird,” Stewart answered. “The leaves of the plant have gotten yellow pus and stripes. The farmers say it’s a sign of a bad harvest. That it will lead to a shortage.”

“And do ye have a suggestion?” Archer knew the man was knowledgeable about farming.

He had grown up poor, the son of a farmer, only to be pulled into the war.

Stewart had proven himself, rising in the ranks until he fought right alongside Archer and his father.

When the war was over, he had earned his position in Archer’s council.

“We should warn the villages,” he suggested.

“Tell them to plant more potatoes and onions. And the farmers without the yellow rot—they should plant more wheat. It’s still early enough in the season that it could make it to harvest before the frost. And we should be prepared to provide rations from the castle stores. ”

“Very good,” Archer nodded. The vice grip on his brain let up slightly, and Archer took a breath. “What else?”

Ten more minutes. Just get me through ten minutes.

“There is the matter of your proxy, my Laird.”

The whiny pitch of Lennox’s voice put Archer on edge. All hope of this headache going away left him immediately.

“Me proxy?” Archer asked. What was this man planning?

“Aye. In the event ye arenae fit to rule.”

He pressed his teeth together, working his jaw.

“And why, Lennox, do ye believe I would be unfit to rule?”

“Come, my Laird,” Lennox said, looking around the table for support. “We all ken your health is not good. We’ve seen your headaches, those moments when ye seem to disappear, seeing something none of us can see.”

“Be careful,” Archer warned, but the man continued.

“It is unwise to forego a plan,” Lennox pressed. “If ye choose a proxy, ye will have say in who rules in your absence. Ye will have control.”

“And I suppose ye think this proxy should be you?”

Elijah returned to the room then, a fresh shirt in his hand. He seemed to pick up on the tension immediately because he slowed down, walking carefully so he could hear the conversation.

“I would hope ye would consider me, my Laird,” Lennox said. “I served your family well during the war. I ran your faither’s household when he was out on the battlefield.”

“Aye,” Archer agreed, dropping his voice to something dangerous. “That is true, Lennox. Ye did stay in the castle during the war. Ye did hide behind the walls of this place while the rest of us risked our lives on the battlefield. And ye believe that is what makes a good leader?”

“We couldnae all go into battle,” Lennox protested. “As I told your faither, some men needed to stay behind to watch the homestead.”

“Aye,” Archer said. “And I’m sure he appreciated your sacrifice when he was dying on the battlefield.”

Archer stood up, scraping his chair across the floor. Spots danced across his vision as he fought dizziness.

“I think we’re done,” he told the room, barely able to see them through the white spots of pain. But he wouldn’t show them his weakness. Not after Lennox had just questioned his fitness. Archer turned and walked away, nodding to Elijah to follow him.

He grabbed the shirt in Elijah’s hand and pushed his way through the council chamber door.

“Can ye believe him?” Archer cried. He pulled the innkeeper’s shirt over his head in one swoop, feeling immense satisfaction in throwing it to the floor. “What insolence.”

“It’s only getting worse,” Elijah agreed.

“He’s looking for ways to get rid of me. It’s mutinous behavior.”

“Aye,” Elijah nodded. “But it’s only dangerous if he’s gathering support. If he’s planning to overthrow ye, he’ll need others who agree with him. He’ll need others on his side.”

“He’s getting too bold. He wouldnae speak like this if he dinnae think he had a chance. I need ye to find out who he’s speaking with. Both in the castle and out. If there’s mutiny brewing, I need to ken.”

“Too bad we don’t have Malcolm here.”

The mention of Elijah’s younger brother stopped Archer in his tracks. It was rare for them to speak of him. The man had been Archer’s best friend and man-at-arms. Until he was killed at war, just like Archer’s father.

“He was smart,” Elijah continued. “He would ken how to help ye.”

“Aye,” Archer agreed. He had a sudden flash of Malcolm’s face in his mind, but he pushed it aside. He was so close to his bedchamber now. So close to getting through this day without disappearing into the nightmares.

“I only hope I can help ye. And make Malcolm proud.” Elijah said. “I’ll do me best, my Laird.”

“Ye have done more than enough,” Archer assured him. “Ye are a good friend to me, Elijah.”

He shook Elijah’s hand, grasping his forearm in a gesture of gratitude.

“Just find out who Lennox is speaking to,” he said as they approached his bedchamber. “But do it quietly. The last thing we want is for Lennox to find out.”

The men said their goodbyes, and Archer pushed into his room. As soon as he was inside, he collapsed to his knees, the throbbing pain in his head making it impossible to stand. Horses’ hooves echoed in his ears, and the smell of blood and burning flesh touched his nose.

Archer told himself to feel the cold floor beneath his hands, to feel the cement pressing into his knees.

By focusing on where he was, he managed to crawl forward, caught somewhere between reality and fantasy.

After what felt like years, he reached the bed.

He gripped the bedclothes and used them to pull himself back to his feet.

A man screamed behind him and Archer swung around, looking for the soldier, only to see that he was in his bedroom, alone.

Still, the sounds of war surrounded him.

He heard his father’s voice in the distance, telling his men to push forward, though they were broken and bruised.

Archer pulled himself into the bed and finally collapsed onto the pillow.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that sleep would come to him rather than nightmares.

He wanted the sweet oblivion of nothingness, the ability to rest. And then, just as he expected to see the agonized face of Malcolm in his arms, something else emerged.

A woman’s face, her chin tipped up in defiance, her eyes filled with fire.

A flash of desire coursed through him as he pictured Feya standing beside his bed, remembered her fingers in his hair.

He was surprised by the thought, but as he felt the tension behind his eyes slip away, he allowed his mind to wander.

Anything to release these nightmares. Perhaps a bit of pleasure would be the antidote to this pain.