Page 47 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“The same,” Archer shrugged. “Only ye daenae have other siblings to complain to when your sister is bothering ye.”
He pushed his plate away, thoroughly satisfied by the meal and their conversation. Archer refilled his wine glass and topped off Feya’s before shifting his chair so he could look out across the grounds of the castle, watching the glint of fireflies as they hovered over the grass. He took a deep breath and sighed. How long had it been since he had enjoyed a meal like this? Since he had listened to stories and told some of his own?
“Can I ask ye something?” Feya asked.
Archer didn’t hesitate. He nodded, his eyes still following the spark of light in the distance.
“Your scars,” she said, but then she stopped. Archer looked over, trying to make out Feya’s expression in the dimming light.
“I thought ye werenae watching me in the bath, lass.”
She rolled her eyes at him, shaking her head at his teasing. It gave her the courage to keep talking and she pressed forward.
“Do ye remember them all? Do ye ken where each one came from? What battle ye fought in?”
“Not all of them,” he said. He set his wine glass down and pushed up his sleeve, turning to the soft skin on the inside of his forearm. Hard lines crossed the skin, a map of all the times the metal of a sword had found its target. He ran his finger over a long line close to his elbow.
“This was my first,” he said. He laid his arm across the table where Feya could see it more closely. Suddenly, her hand hovered above it, and the lightest touch of her finger ran across the scar.
“What happened?”
“Me fighting master overestimated me,” he laughed. “I was eleven years old, and he decided I was ready for some real-world experience. He brought in an older boy from the village, thinking the kid would be no match for me. But partway through the fight, I tripped over my own feet. Basically fell into the kids’ sword.”
“Oh no,” she said, but she held back a laugh. Archer smiled at the memory.
“I thought the boy was going to faint when he saw the blood. He had just injured the son of his Laird. He probably thought he was done for.”
“Poor boy,” she laughed.
“And what about me?” Archer teased. “I had to go back to me family with me fighting master’s shirt tied around me arm. I was stupid enough to tell them the truth about what happened—Ayla didn’t let me live it down for years.”
Feya’s fingers ran across the mark again, and Archer felt every second of the touch. The air changed between them, and Archer caught Feya’s eye as she ran her fingers up and down his skin.
“Be careful, lass,” he said, his voice low and deep. “Or I may have to take ye back to me bed.”
She stared at him, frozen by the words, and he recognized a mixture of desire and apprehension in her eyes. He gave a small laugh, letting her know he was teasing her, and Feya smiled at him as Archer pulled his arm back to his lap.
“Do they still hurt?” she asked. It took him a moment to realize she was speaking about his scars.
“Nay,” he said. “Not on the outside.”
He surprised himself with the honesty of his words. Where had that come from? He was suddenly thinking of the slash acrosshis chest he had gotten while trying to protect his father. And then there was the scarred-over spot where the soldier’s dirk pierced his side as he struggled to get back to his men who had been attacked unexpectedly.
“What is it?” Feya asked. He blinked and pushed the images away, focusing on Feya’s eyes, the slight upturn of her nose, her full lips.
“Nothing,” he said, but now when Archer glanced out toward the forest, he saw the shadows of his men, the ghosts of those he had lost.
“It’s getting late,” he said. He stood from the table and held out a hand to her, helping her to her feet. “We should get some rest.”
She looked confused by this sudden change, but Archer could feel himself slipping into a sadness. He wouldn’t bring Feya down with him. Better to walk her to her room and say goodnight so he could disappear into his demons all on his own.
“Thank ye for dinner,” she said when they reached her bed chamber. She tilted her head up, and for a moment Archer wondered if she wanted him to kiss her. He thought about it. How nice it would feel to press her against this wall and loose himself in the feel of her body. But it wouldn’t be fair to her. He couldn’t use Feya to exorcise these demons, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Good night,” he said. Archer brought a hand to Feya’s cheek, a gentle touch of his fingers to her skin. Then he dropped his hand and walked away, forcing himself not to look back.
23
“There’s been no invitation. Surely that’s concerning?”
