Page 22 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
He left Ayla gaping at him. As he turned away, her mouth was open in shock, but the beginnings of panic were setting in. But Archer wouldn’t stay to comfort his sister. He was fuming with anger, but he knew it wasn’t Ayla he needed to confront. Instead, he rushed for the healing chamber.
This time, when he pictured Feya in his mind, he felt nothing but rage.
She was alone in the healing chamber, and her mind wandered to a future where she might have a place like this of her own. It was a beautiful space, and Feya could imagine early mornings here, challenging herself with new medicines or researching illnesses from distant lands. But as soon as her mind would wander, she would pull herself back, remembering that she couldn’t lose herself here. She had a family to get back to.
She focused on the mixture in front of her. Holly’s garden had sparked a new idea, and Feya wondered if flowers like chamomile, traditionally used to aid with sleep, might hold a secret. The trick would be to create a mixture that could calm Archer’s mind without putting him to bed.
She had a sudden flash of Archer beside her, shirtless in bed. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered him thrashing in his sleep, his muscles working, those scars twisting as he moved.
“Feya,” she was startled when she saw him, the very man she had been fantasizing about, suddenly striding into the room. Herblush deepened, though of course she knew he couldn’t read her mind.
“My Laird,” she said, and she greeted him with a smile, but she quickly saw his scowling face. Archer was unhappy.
“Did ye tell Ayla she could be an apprentice?”
Feya’s mind worked quickly, remembering that Archer had left the dining room to speak with his sister. Ayla must have told him about Feya’s offer to train her.
“I told her I could teach her,” she said carefully, though she felt her spine stiffening. She wouldn’t let Archer yell at her. “She wants to learn. Why shouldnae I encourage that?”
“Because I need her to marry.” Archer slammed his open palms on the wooden table, facing off across from her. “She cannae stay here playing pretend with plants and potions.”
“Pretend?” Feya challenged. She put down the pestle she held in her hand and stared at him, trying to read the truth behind his words. She already knew Archer well enough to see that something else was driving him.
“That isnae what I meant,” he grumbled. He shook his head, and Feya narrowed her eyes at him.
“She doesnae want to marry,” Feya pushed. “Would ye be so cruel as to send her away when it’s the last thing she wants?”
“And who are ye to criticize?” Archer asked. He leaned across the table further, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly, he was taking long steps down the length of the counter, turning tightly so he could reach her. “I am the Laird of this castle. It doesnae matter what me sister wants.”
“I see,” Feya said, even as Archer walked closer. She felt her heart rate increasing, but she told herself to stay put. She gripped the edge of the counter and pressed her toes into her boots. “So we are all to live based on your whims? We all must run our lives based on the wishes of our Laird?”
He slowed down, only a few feet away from her. His eyes were locked on hers, and Feya felt the air in the room shift. She could sense his presence: the expanse of his shoulders, his impressive height. His dark beard was a few days overgrown, giving him an unkept look that only made him more attractive.
“I guess ye ken what your Laird wants, then?” he asked. His voice was suddenly low, deep, and riddled with something she could only peg as desire. Feya recognized it because her own body was awash with it. Her mind was filling with images of Archer getting closer, of Archer pressing her body against this table as he stared down at her.
“Aye,” she said, and Feya was surprised by the deep tenor of her own voice. “I think I ken what ye want.”
He was right in front of her. Feya still gripped the edge of the table, and Archer slid his hand forward, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the whisper of his fingers. Her breathcame quickly, erratic as she tilted her chin to look up at him, losing herself in those wide gray eyes. Yes, she knew what Archer wanted.
“What is it, lass?” he asked. His head tipped sideways, and his eyes dropped to her lips. “What do I want?”
“Me.”
The surprise in his eyes was priceless. He hadn’t expected her to come out and say it, and Feya smirked that she could shock him like that. But then he gave a low chuckle, deep and arousing, which silenced her. Feya’s chest rose and fell as her mouth dropped open.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Perhaps ye ken after all.”
In a flash, he moved forward. Archer’s hand found her hip, and he pulled her in, letting their bodies crash together. Before Feya could enjoy the solid press of his chest and his strong thighs, his mouth was on hers. She was caught unprepared, her mouth still dropped open in shock, and she could only move by instinct.
She had never been kissed before, but it suddenly felt better than she could ever imagine. Archer’s soft lips pushed against hers, and she felt the roughness of his beard as he moved. A hand ran up her arm and squeezed her shoulder, and then the hand on her hip slipped to the small of her back.
Feya gasped as he pulled her even closer to him. Her thighs were pressed against his, and she felt the solid wall of his chest beneath her own. The gentle movement of his upper body sent sparks of arousal from her breasts deep into her stomach.
“What are ye doin’ to me, lass?” he whispered, dropping his mouth to her neck. He kissed beneath her ear and then down her neck as Feya squeezed her eyes closed, lost in the sensation of his mouth and the slightest whisper of his tongue. He dropped to her collarbone, laying kisses across it, teasing along the neckline of her shirt.
She wanted his lips back on hers, and she ran her hand up and across his shoulder, down to the neckline of his shirt. She gripped the fabric in her fist and pulled him up, eliciting an amused smile.
“What is it, dear one?” he whispered, and Feya’s stomach flipped at the nickname.
