Page 38 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
His father’s face rushed into his mind, and Archer grabbed for the closest thing he could find: a pitcher by the washbasin. He lifted it and tossed it into the fireplace, relieved as the plaster shattered against the brick.
“It should have been me,” he screamed, unable to control the words pouring out of his mouth. “Me faither should have survived. Me men should still be here. ButI’mthe one who lived.I’mthe one who’s here, standing on a mountain of corpses, all of them better men than me.”
“Enough,” Feya cried. She rushed forward as Archer grabbed for a boot brush, ready to launch it across the room. She grabbed for his forearm, gripping it hard as she forced him to come back to himself, to come down from this fit of rage.
Archer yanked his arm away from her, but the gesture made him pause. He blinked at her and then slowly lowered the brush. She watched the anger seep out of him and saw his chest rise as he breathed deeply, intent on calming himself.
“Ye cannae speak about yourself like that,” she said. “And I ken it isnae how Ayla sees ye.”
He gave a snort of derision and walked away from her, going over to sit on the edge of his bed.
“Ye should leave,” he said, but Feya wouldn’t do that. She remembered Ayla and Holly telling her she needed to force Archer to speak. They told her it was the only way to get him out of these moods.
“Nay,” she said, and the jerk of his shoulders told her she had surprised him. “I willnae go until ye admit that ye arenae a monster. Ye must see there is no reason when it comes to war. Men die and it isnae your fault. Just as it isnae your fault that ye survived.”
He didn’t speak. Only crossed his arms across his chest and kept his gaze firmly fixed away from her.
“This is what ye think of me then?” she asked, trying a different tact. “Ye think of me as a coward?”
He turned over his shoulder, a deep line still evident between his eyebrows.
“What are ye talking about?”
“I ran away from me family,” Feya said. She had meant to use the words to wake Archer up, to shake some sense into him. She hadn’t anticipated the truth of them would cut into her, would send a pang of her own guilt slicing into her heart. “I am here, living comfortably in your castle, with no idea if me siblings are safe. They could be starving in a dungeon somewhere, accused of treason. They could be…”
She faltered, unwilling to voice her darkest fears. Even at the moments she felt the most alone, she wouldn’t let herself think they could be dead. It was too much to handle.
“It’s not the same,” he said.
“It’s exactly the same. I am alive, just as ye are. So ye must think me weak. Ye must see me as a monster who abandoned her family, just as ye left your men.”
“I have never thought of ye as weak,” he said. He stood up and shook his head, walking toward her. “I would never think that of ye.”
“But ye think it of yourself,” she accused. “I could have stayed with them. I could have tried to save them.”
Wind blew through the window, billowing the curtains into the room. It brought her right back to that night when Cohen brutally murdered his Laird. She saw the pool of blood beneath the man’s body and the sneer of hatred as Cohen glared at her.
“Ye would have been killed, Feya.” Archer’s voice sounded far away. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as if she were back in that castle. She could feel the panic as she turned to run, the knowledge that if she didn’t move fast enough, Cohen would kill her.
“Feya.”
Archer’s hand rested on her shoulder, turning her toward him. She looked up into his eyes, reminding herself that she was here in Castle Dougal. Right now, she was safe. Archer had made sure of that.
“If ye had gone back, ye would have been killed.” Archer ran his hand up her shoulder and onto her neck, cupping it in his palm. His thumb brushed gently against her jaw, trying to comfort her. “And then what good would ye be to your family? What good are ye if you're dead?”
She leaned into his hand, finding her breath as the panic of that night receded. She listened to the truth of Archer’s words and allowed them to bring her comfort, let them push away her darkest fears.
“You’re right,” she said. She met his gaze, suddenly aware of how close he was. She could smell the herbs and the flowers of the bath she had drawn for him, clinging to his skin. “It’s the same for ye. Ye are no good to anyone if you’re dead.”
“Feya…” he began, but she shook her head.
“Nay,” she interrupted. “We are alive for a reason. We must believe that. It isnae an accident that ye are still here.”
19
He wanted to deny it. All of his life he had been told what a great Laird his father was. Everyone around him spoke of his father’s strength, his leadership, his even temperament. And then there was Malcolm, the only man who had ever been a match for Archer when it came to wielding a sword or riding a horse.
But then he looked at Feya, connecting her situation to his own. He had never thought of Feya as a cowardly person. In fact, coming to his castle had been the bravest choice she could make. She gave up everything she knew and put her trust in him, not only to save herself, but because it was the safest choice for her family.
