Page 10 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
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 adrenalinecoursing 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 ofunderstanding 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, andArcher 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.
