Page 36 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
She chattered on, staring at the flat surface of the water as she tried to convince him to accept this unorthodox healing method. Archer kept his eyes on Feya’s back, the long braid of her dark hair, the smooth skin of her neck. And then he reached down and pulled his tunic over his head.
“…oh, and some hops should calm ye, too. If drinking the mixtures isn’t working, I thought we should try aromatics. A twenty-minute soak once a day...”
She realized she was rambling. Archer was remarkably quiet beside her, which likely meant he would reject this idea. She still saw his angry scowl as he told her to leave this very room last night. She knew it was a risk that he could do the same thing now.
Feya ventured a look in Archer’s direction, only to see him standing shirtless, his tunic bunched in his hand. She locked eyes on the solid muscles of his chest, scars crisscrossed in different colors. He dropped the shirt to the ground as Feya forced her eyes up his body, past his angular collar bones, the sinewy muscles of his shoulders, and up his strong neck. His beard was long today, a few days past his usual grooming routine.
She forced herself to speak, swallowing hard.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said, but as soon as she spoke, Archer’s hand dropped to the buttons of his breeches. Feya yelped and turned away, fixing her eyes on the open window and the gently blowing curtains of his room.
She heard Archer’s low chuckle at her response, and the sound brought lightness to her chest. It was so rare that she heard the man laughing about something. She had heard it while they were dancing at the village yesterday, the music and the stars above bringing a carefree lightness that was so rare for the Laird. And now Feya had brought him some joy of her own.
Her body was flush with the image of Archer shirtless, his hand dangerously close to revealing the rest of him. She worked hard to breathe steadily as she heard the drop of Archer’s boots on the floor. And then the rush of fabric against skin. Her cheeks were on fire as she pictured him stepping out of his clothes, completely exposed as he stared at Feya’s back.
She glanced at the window and there, in the glass, she caught the briefest flash of his tall, strong form. Heat flushed between her legs as she heard the splash of water and a comfortable sigh as Archer settled himself into the bath. There was a splash of water onto the floor as his large frame disrupted the warm liquid.
“I’ll be going, then,” she said. Feya looked out of the corner of her eye toward the bedroom door, wondering if she could escape without her eyes betraying her. “Twenty minutes,” she told him. “I’ll come back when you’re done.”
“Stay.”
His commanding voice sent a shiver up her spine. It was simultaneously an order and a request, at once confident and vulnerable.
“Sing to me.”
She remembered their first night together, one that felt so far away. They had been in the village inn, sleeping in the same bed. It was the first time she saw Archer’s haunted visions, the nightmares that tormented him. Then she had moved on instinct, running her fingers through his hair and singing to him because she could think of nothing else to do.
“As ye did at the inn,” he said, showing her that he was thinking of the very moment. She was touched that he thought of it fondly, but she felt shy all of a sudden. Back then, she had sung because she thought he couldn’t hear her.
“Nay, my Laird,” she laughed. “That is not part of your treatment.”
“Ye would deny me?” he teased. She heard the splash of water as he moved. “Even if it would heal me?”
“Aye,” Feya laughed. “Because I cannae stay by ye and sing whenever ye have an episode. What would ye have me do, stand by your bed every night waitin’ for a nightmare?”
She spoke without thinking, realizing all at once how dangerous it was to conjure the image of standing in his bedchamber, alone with Archer in the dead of night. He felt it too, and she heard a low growl from his place in the tub.
“Daenae tempt me, lass, or I will order it so. That is the sort of medicine I wouldnae mind taking.”
His voice was raw with longing, and Feya glanced over her shoulder, unable to stop herself. She caught a flash of him in the bath, his substantial frame looking even larger in the small metal tub, and then she looked up to his eyes. He stared at her with unabashed hunger, his fingers gripping the edge of the basin as his chest rose and fell.
She looked away, overcome with shock and a desire that might burn her up. She had never felt such a powerful need, something stronger than hunger after a long ride or sleep after a day of healing. She had to step away from him so she wouldn’t walk toward him. Instead, she gripped the post of his bed, grounding herself in place. And then she started singing.
She hummed at first, low and tentative as she tried to get her voice and her emotions under control. Without thinking, she had started a gentle lullaby her mother used to sing to her and Morgana. It was the same song Feya still sang to her young sisters when they tossed and turned at night, troubled with childhood fears. The song brought her back to her family, and she allowed herself to disappear into the memory.
Slowly, Feya started singing. She pictured her twin sisters in the bed, looking up at her with all the easy love of children. She imagined their eyelids drooping as they tried to stay awake. She could remember their defiant voices, telling her they weren’t tired or begging to stay up later with their older siblings.
Feya settled onto the bed, her back still facing Archer. She closed her eyes and dreamed of her family as she let her voice echo throughout the bedchamber.
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Her voice soothed him more than any herbs or smells ever could. For the first time in weeks, he felt all the tension leave his body. His muscles relaxed into the warm water, and he closed his eyes, able to let down his guard. He wasn’t thinking of ghosts or even of Lennox trying to disrupt his clan. There was only this room, the soothing sensations of the bath, and Feya’s voice.
It ended far too quickly, though his fingers were wrinkled from his time in the water. Feya’s voice was growing tired, telling him that they had stayed like this for a long time even though it felt like minutes. Slowly, her voice trailed off, and Archer was left only with the memory of her voice and the calm sensation she had elicited.
Feya sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tight around the post. He tried to imagine her face, wondering what she was thinking about. Her song had sounded like family, like comfortable nights by a fireplace, like fantastical bedtime stories. Was she thinking of her home? Was she longing for her family?
This thought brought Archer back to reality. Feya’s departure was always there, looming in his mind. For the hundredth time he reminded himself that finding peace with Feya at his side was really no peace at all. She would leave, and then where would Archer be?
