Page 33 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
His eyes grew hard, and something changed in his expression. She saw his gaze darken, and he suddenly became angry with her.
“Get out,” he said. He stormed forward, and for a moment, Feya thought he would strike her. She jumped backward and out of his path, but Archer wasn’t heading to her. Instead, he rushed to the door, which he pulled open, standing expectantly.
“Archer,” Feya pleaded, her voice small. She didn’t understand why he seemed so angry, why he suddenly seemed to want her as far away from his bed chamber as possible.
“Leave,” he said, and his tone was cruel. “I daenae want ye here.”
The words stung, and Feya swallowed hard, trying to remind herself that this was his sickness talking. But as she strode by him and glanced at his eyes, it was hard to believe that he felt anything but hatred toward her.
Tears pricked at Feya’s eyes as she stepped out of the room, and then she felt a rush of air at her back as Archer slammed his bedroom door.
16
“What are ye two laughing about?” Holly asked, stepping in from the garden with a basket full of herbs.
Ayla and Feya stood in the healing chamber, crushing seeds and roots to form powders. Feya had been quizzing Ayla on these ingredients, asking her about the important uses of turmeric or cinnamon. But their conversation continued to veer toward their trip to the village yesterday.
“Feya was teasing me about me dancin’,” Ayla laughed. “But it’s not me fault I didn’t learn the country dances growing up.”
“And what good would those serve ye?” Holly asked. Feya saw her grimace in pain as she walked to set her basket on the table. With the threat of rain outside, Feya had a feeling Holly’s knees were hurting her more than usual. “Unless your planning to pick out your husband from the village. I doubt your brother would like that.”
“Nay,” Ayla agreed. “He hates the idea of me becomin’ a healer, but I venture he’d actually prefer it to me marrying below me station.”
Feya took the basket from Holly with a smile. She had been working on something in her spare time, tinkering away when she was waiting for one of Archer’s mixtures to boil or seep. She wondered now if she should bring it out.
“Your brother only wants what’s best for ye,” Holly said. She walked slowly to a chair and sat down with a groan. “He doesn’t want ye to end up old and alone like someone else he kens.”
“Don’t say that, Holly,” Ayla said, shaking her head. “If I could be half of the healer ye are, I would be quite satisfied with me life.”
Holly lifted a hand and brushed the compliment away like she was swatting a fly. Feya eyed the glass jar of salve that sat in front of her, the new mixture she had been experimenting with.
“Holly,” she said before she could lose her nerve. “I’ve made ye something.”
She lifted the jar and crossed the room, watching Holly’s eyebrows rise toward her white hair.
“For me?”
“Aye. For your knees. I’ve been experimenting with willow bark and ginger. Ye can rub this on your joints and see if it helps.”
She held out the gift, and Holly took it with a nod. Feya had a sudden flash of Archer throwing the vial of liquid to the floor, rejecting her healing. She wondered if Holly would do that now. But then Holly smiled at her, and Feya relaxed. The woman was often serious, but when she was happy about something, she made it known to people. Feya could tell she was pleased.
“Alright,” she said, breaking the solemnity of the moment. “Let’s see what sort of healer ye truly are.” She gave Feya a wink as she pulled her skirt up to reveal her angular knees. Feya and Ayla laughed at her boldness, but they were well accustomed to seeing bodies of all ages and sizes in their line of work.
As Holly tried out Feya’s salve, Feya returned to Ayla. Her argument with Archer was still fresh in her mind, and she thought of it now. In truth, she had thought of it in every moment of silence they encountered all morning. What had she said or done to make Archer so angry?
But as soon as she asked the question, she heard the voice of an old teacher in her head:Ye cannae heal someone who doesnae wish to be healed.
Is that what was happening with Archer? Or was there something else going on? After the kiss they shared in the village, she thought she was reaching him. That perhaps everything she was doing to help might be working. But his episode in council chambers yesterday seemed to erase any progress they had made.
“I hear Donovan O’Leary has a great respect for the healing arts,” Ayla mused as she pressed hard against the seeds in her mortar. “Perhaps he wouldnae mind if his wife kept up the practice.”
Ayla’s comment was a sharp reminder of her impending marriage. Archer had told her she could choose a man herself or he would choose for her. Feya tried to read Ayla’s face, wondering whether her comment was meant as a joke, but she couldn’t make out how Ayla was feeling about all of this. There was something that had been bothering Feya for some time, and she decided that now was the time to ask it.
“Can I ask ye something?” she asked quietly. Ayla was focused on the mortar and pestle in her hand, methodically crushing the black seeds as she pushed them into dust.
“Um-hmm,” she said. She looked peaceful at this table with the morning light streaming in through the windows. Sometimes Feya caught her humming to herself, lost in her own thoughts.
“Why is Archer so insistent that ye marry? Why doesn’t he want ye to become a healer?”
