Page 17 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“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.
8
“Good morning,” Holly smiled, beaming at Feya as she entered the healing chamber. It was still early in the morning, but sunlight was already streaming through the tall windows, bringing warmth to the room. Feya smelled lavender as she entered, the familiar scent reminding her of home.
“I dinnae think anyone would be up,” Feya said. She felt more relaxed this morning, hopeful with the dawn of the new day. After a good cry last night, she had given herself a good talking to. She knew she was a talented healer, and she wasn’t about to give up on a cure for Archer after one try.
“That dress suits ye,” Holly said, taking in the blue and grey plaid of her skirt, the white shirt, and fitted blue jacket. “Much nicer than yesterday’s.”
Feya smirked at the woman’s honesty.
“Aye,” she nodded. “The innkeeper’s dress wasnae too flattering. This one magically showed up in me room this morning.”
Holly nodded. The whole time she spoke, her hands continued to work. She was mixing something at her large wooden table even as a pot boiled over the fire in the hearth.
“Ayla’s doing, I reckon,” she murmured, and Feya felt touched that Archer’s sister would think of her in that way. Maybe she didn’t hate Feya as much as it seemed she did.
“I met her yesterday,” Feya said. She crossed to the table, curious to see what Holly was doing. “Though it wasnae ideal circumstances. She fought with her brother. It seems they have differing opinions about whether she should be a healer.”
Feya knew it was risky to discuss Archer arguing with his sister. She was in a new castle with people she didn’t know—it could be unwise to speak ill of their Laird. But Feya could already tell that Holly wasn’t a woman who put much stock in ceremony and rules. She said things as she saw them, which was refreshing for Feya since she wasn’t yet used to castle politics.
“Those two can be a pair of bickering cats. But it comes from love—they’re both tryin’ to protect the other. Too bad they willnae just say it.”
“Their faither,” Feya said, broaching the subject careful. “He died in battle?”
“Aye,” she nodded solemnly. “It was a difficult few years for the clan. We were in war for many years. Many took it as a sign of failure when Laird Dougal the elder was killed. The clan gave up hope. But Archer wouldnae allow his faither’s memory to end like that. He was set on revenge, and he got it.”
