Page 9 of Taken by the Devilish Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #7)

“ I t’s been three years,” Lennox said, throwing his hands in the air. “We should mark the occasion in some way.”

“Ye want to celebrate a war that killed our clan?”

“Nay, I want to celebrate the ones who lived .”

Archer sighed, wondering how his council had managed to pull him into another meeting. He had hoped to avoid them today. After yesterday’s contentious conversations, he thought they might steer clear. But Elijah found him early, telling him the council had a quick matter of business.

One hour later, and they were still arguing.

“The villagers expect it,” Stewart offered. “The day we won the war is a day of celebration for them. The day our fortunes changed for the better. Also…”

Stewart trailed off, and Archer could tell he was hesitating over something. He glanced at Elijah, wanting to roll his eyes at these men who seemed to tiptoe around him and his emotions. But Archer controlled himself.

“Speak openly, Stewart.”

“It’s an opportunity for the villagers to see ye, my Laird,” he explained. “For ye to show some good will and garner some favor with them.”

“Ah, because me leadership is not enough?” Archer cried. A familiar twinge was forming at the base of his neck. He could feel the headache creeping over him like a hand wrapping its fingers around him.

“They ken ye are a good leader, my Laird,” Elijah offered, noting Archer’s irritation. “But they want to know ye as a person. They want to know that ye care about their lives.”

“Lady Ayla is very helpful,” Stewart said. “She visits the women and the children often and learns about their struggles. She brings toys to the children and fabric to the women. But the people daenae ken ye, my Laird. A celebration could be a good start.”

Archer sat back in his chair and surveyed the room, wondering why everyone in his council seemed to agree with Lennox instead of him. It made him uneasy, since he was already wary about the man’s loyalty to him. Had Lennox already discussed this with them behind his back?

“This clan has grieved long enough,” Lennox said. “It’s time to celebrate what came of those sacrifices.”

A surge of anger made Archer see white. He gripped his fists together and clenched his jaw.

“And who have ye grieved?” Archer cried, unable to keep his voice from echoing off the walls of the chamber. “How many men did ye lose in the fighting?”

“My Laird…” Elijah said, but Archer shoved to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process.

“Ye too?” He asked, turning to his friend. “Ye lost your brother and ye think this is a good idea?”

Elijah looked stunned, surprised Archer would turn on even him, but the man couldn’t control himself.

Archer saw a flash of the ground beneath his horse’s hooves, the dirt stained red.

Archer squeezed his eyes closed, trying to fight off the images, but it was no use.

Suddenly, there was a war cry in his ears, and Archer felt himself push his horse forward, his muscles sore from the weight of his sword.

“My Laird,” someone cried from far away, but Archer was lost to his nightmares.

He felt hands on him, and suddenly someone was pulling him to the ground, dragging him from his horse.

He looked over to see his father’s face.

He guided him to the ground, and then Malcolm was there too, a gash on his forehead sending a streak of blood down his eye and cheek.

“Ye left me,” Malcolm cried, and his voice sounded hollow and strained. “Why should ye live when I was forced to die?”

A splash of cold water shocked him, and suddenly Archer felt the cold floor beneath his body.

He found himself back in the council chamber, his heart beating hard as his council members chattered around him, voices full of worry.

He blinked open his eyes only to see that Malcolm was still above him.

His mind reeled as he saw this ghost in the flesh, brought into the real world.

But then he saw it was Elijah, the man’s older brother. Their similar features confused him. He shook his head and focused his eyes on the darker tinge of Elijah’s hair, the full beard he wore when Malcolm was clean-shaven.

“Are ye alright?” Elijah asked, but there was a hint of accusation in his voice, as if Archer had disappointed him in some way. It made Archer angry, and he sat up quickly, making himself dizzy.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled. He shoved to his feet, averting his gaze from the men around him, looking variously confused, shocked, and angry. He expected Lennox to speak, but even he looked stunned into silence.

“Have your party,” Archer bellowed. “But I will have no part of it.”

He turned and strode across the room, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, to stay in the present moment while he left his council behind.

He ran his hand through his hair, still wet from the water they had thrown on him.

His whole body felt hot, and his head still ached, but as soon as he pushed into the hallway, he felt he could breathe again.

Archer steadied himself by placing a hand on the cool stone wall. He gulped air like it was water, and he was dying of thirst.

Get it together.

A memory tugged at him, a tactic that had worked well last night.

With tentative hope, Archer pulled the image of Feya into his mind.

This time, he saw her mixing tinctures and herbs at the long, sunny table in the healing chamber.

He pictured her humming something quiet and comforting as she worked with a singularity of purpose he admired.

He imagined them alone, imagined what it would be like to trap her against that counter, bring his face close to hers. ..

Slowly, the death grip of pain around his skull began to recede.

The haunting wisps of war that were still there, lurking in the dark parts of his mind, began to slip away.

Archer focused on her, and he felt a bit of relief.

It was magical, so surprising that Archer barely allowed himself to believe it.

But then something else came to him, a hypothesis that was too tempting to ignore.

If thinkin’ about Feya makes me feel better, what will actually seein’ her do?

He stood tall and walked down the hallway, determined to find her.

His first thought was to look in the healing chamber, but when he turned down the long hallway that led to the back staircase, he passed the dining room.

There, looking like an oil painting, he saw the petite girl sitting alone at the twelve-person table, dipping her bread into her soup, lost to her own thoughts.

He watched her for a moment, wondering how someone could be so at peace with herself. The light from the window behind her made her black hair shine, and he smiled at the pink tinge of her cheeks. Peace settled over him, another loosening of that vice grip of pain.

“My Laird,” she said, as soon as he entered the chamber. She was immediately on her feet, a look of concern etched on her face. “Are ye well?”

Archer put a hand up, stopping her.

“Aye,” he said. “Better now. And I can wait until ye have finished.”

He walked to the table as Feya settled into her seat again, taking a slow journey to the head of the table where he usually sat. Feya sat to the right of his chair, a space usually reserved for Ayla, but he was pleased to see Feya there now.

“Ye should eat too,” she said around a large mouthful of soup-soaked bread. “We must treat your illness like any sickness—a good meal can work wonders.”

Ayla ate quickly, dipping her spoon into the stew even before she had finished chewing her bread. It made him smile, though he tried to keep himself from gawking at her.

“I can see that,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I take it ye like the castle’s cuisine?”

Feya glanced at him and then at her bowl, at first not understanding. But when she saw that she only had a few spoonfuls of the meal left and held her bread tight between her fingers, as if warding off a thief, she laughed at herself.

“I have a large family,” she explained. She set down her spoon and the bread and allowed herself to breathe for a moment. “If ye daenae eat quickly, ye daenae eat at all.”

“We dinnae have that problem here in the castle,” he laughed. “There was always far more food than we could eat. Though Ayla liked to convince me faither to serve all her favorites instead of mine. He could never say no to her.”

He smiled at this memory, remembering a simpler time when the rivalry between him and Ayla came from love. Somehow, it had shifted into something more quarrelsome, almost without either of them realizing it.

“What about your mother?” Feya asked gently. He could see she was being careful, likely noting that Archer never mentioned her.

“She died giving birth to Ayla. I was only seven years old, so the memories are few. But they are happy ones.”

“Tell me,” Feya coaxed. Her eyes were wide and interested, and Archer was surprised to see that he actually wanted to tell her.

“She loved the animals,” he said. He pictured his mother walking through a grassy field, her shawl blowing in the wind behind her like wings.

“She made friends with all the sheep, bringing them treats, knowing which ones were pregnant. There was a night…I must have been six or so. She woke me up in the middle of the night and carried me out to the barn.”

As Archer spoke, a strange sensation of floating came over him, the pain in his head drifting further and further away. It felt like peace. Something Archer hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“What did she want to show ye?” Feya asked, unable to hold back a smile.

“One of her favorites was giving birth. She sat me on her lap as we watched the mother sheep struggle and push. I remember asking if we should help her, but she said mothers ken what to do without any help. She said nature must work without anyone interfering. I can still remember her words: ‘Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Both things are beautiful.’”

He was surprised to see tears in Feya’s eyes. But Archer didn’t feel sad about his mother. Though he missed her, he didn’t dwell on the what-ifs. He only appreciated what she had given him during the time they were together.

“She sounds special,” Feya said, and she reached out a hand to squeeze Archer’s wrist. Her touch was warm, making every corner of his body spark in response. Those tearful eyes turned up to him, and suddenly, he saw something else behind her sadness. Something more dangerous, more eager.

A noise in the hallway startled them both, and Feya pulled her hand away from him.

Archer caught a flash of Ayla’s tall frame hovering in the doorway, though she quickly tucked herself out of sight.

He shook his head at his sister, but he didn’t feel angry with her.

Something about these memories of the past reminded him of the good times with Ayla—good times he wanted back.

“I think I have someone to speak to,” he told Feya, who nodded at him.

“And I must get back to the healing chamber. I have a new tonic for ye to try. Will ye come find me when ye are done?”

“Aye,” he nodded. He remembered his earlier fantasy of Feya at the counter.

He saw her trapped there as he approached her, that same look of desire in her eyes.

He cleared his throat and pushed the image away.

“Finish that food,” he said, nodding to her bowl.

“Ye daenae want someone else to snatch it.”

He winked at her, something he couldn’t remember ever doing, and was rewarded with a smile and a shake of her head. Archer stood up and strode across the room, looking for his sister. As he walked, he felt a strange lightness, a relaxing of his shoulders that he hadn’t felt in a long time.