Page 70 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“Oh, dear one,” Morgana cried. She reached across the table to take Feya’s hands. “What is it?”
“I daenae ken,” Feya cried, letting the tears fall down her face. Every sentence was a struggle as she gasped and cried under her sister’s kind gaze. “Everything should be perfect. I am back home, and our family is safe. But there’s…something wrong. Something missing.”
“Or perhaps someone?”
Feya sniffed and looked up in surprise. She wiped her nose on her sleeve as she looked at Morgana with a questioning gaze.
“Ye mention him, ye ken? More than ye may realize. When we’re telling stories over dinner or I tell ye something sweet Ryder has done for me. Very often it’s his name that passes between your lips.”
“Who?” Feya asked, though of course she knew who Morgana spoke of. Somehow, she needed to hear her sister say it.
“Archer, ye dolt,” Morgana laughed. “I think I ken more about the man than I do me own husband. Ye miss him.”
“Nay,” she protested, though Feya’s heart ached at that very moment with a longing for the man. If she could only see him one more time, if she could only make sure he was safe.
“It’s alright,” Morgana coaxed. “If ye love Archer it doesnae mean ye love your family any less.”
“Love?”
She was shocked by the word. Not because it wasn’t true, but because she thought she was hiding it. She thought she had locked that truth far away where no one could see it, but she should have known she would be no match for her older sister.
“Aye, love,” Morgana teased. “Ye love him. I can see it in your eyes every time ye talk about him.”
“And so?” she asked. She had had this argument with herself so many times before. “What does that matter when he doesnae feel the same?”
“And how do ye ken that?” Morgana challenged.
Feya thought back to their final goodbye in the barn, her desperate need to be close to him, to find a connection with him before he disappeared forever. When she thought of it now, she was mortified, remembering how Archer had pushed her away, had stopped things from going too far.
That is for the man ye will love. The man who will be your husband.
In other words, a man who wasnotArcher.
“He left,” Feya said, because she couldn’t put all of that into words. Even though she told Morgana everything, she couldn’t tell her about those final moments in the barn, the way she had embarrassed herself.
“Of course he did. The man has a clan to take care of. What did ye expect of him?”
“Exactly,” Feya said, exasperation taking over her sadness. “He has a life at Castle Dougal. And me family is here.”
“Aye, and we’ll always be here,” Morgana said. She spoke with reason and logic, making it all sound so simple. “Just becauseye move away doesnae mean yer family disappears. We’ll love ye just as much, whether ye are here or there. But if ye love this man, then ye owe it to yourself to find out if he feels the same way.”
Feya shook her head, ready to fight this again, but Morgana squeezed her hands.
“I dinnae ken how wonderful it could be, Feya, to have someone love me and to love them back with such fierceness. It’s an experience not everyone gets. And if ye have the chance for it, ye have to go for it. Daenae deny yourself this happiness.”
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The smell of smoke reached his nose, pungent and painful. He assumed it was a nightmare, brought on by the council’s talk of war, or maybe his unhappiness over losing Feya. It would be just like his body to send him into an episode immediately, the second he no longer had Feya to heal him.
But when he opened his eyes, he felt the sting of something cloudy and thick. Archer sat up to find his room engulfed with smoke, more of it rolling beneath his door with each second. With no time to spare, he jumped to his feet, grabbing for his sword and his clothes.
Ayla. I must get her out of this.
He pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose and rushed for the door. His hand burned when he touched the handle, and he pulled it back, cradling a throbbing hand. A cloth was discarded on a chair nearby, and he picked it up, wrapping it around his hand so he could turn the doorknob and throw open the door.
Red flames were licking across the threshold of his bedchamber. They jumped up the wall, flickering over wall tapestries as the fire looked for anything it could consume. Without stopping to think of the consequences, Archer rushed through the thigh-high fire, relieved when he found himself on the other side. He patted at his thighs with the cloth in his hand, putting out the sparks and the embers that clung to him.
“Ayla,” he cried out.
