Page 20 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
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, stillwet 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 backstaircase, 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 actuallywantedto 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.
