Page 72 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“No,” Feya gasped. The men raced away, leaving her behind as they made their way to the large building on the hill, ready to defend their Laird’s home. Feya’s eyes followed their path, looking up to Dougal Castle, the shape just beginning to emerge in the dawn light. There, in the distance, she saw the curl of smoke rising in the air.
Is the castle on fire?
She hesitated for only a moment. Just long enough to think about Archer and Ayla and Holly, all of the people in that castle that she loved. And then she pushed her horse forward, racing in the same direction the men were running—toward the castle.
Archer’s muscles ached from wielding his sword, and sweat poured into his eyes. He didn’t know how long he had been fighting, only that the sky was lightening outside, the gentle song of birds at odds with the grunts and screams of fighting men.
Archer turned the corner and found himself face-to-face with a scowling man, blood smeared on his face. The man’s eyes widened when he recognized Archer, and he turned over his shoulder, calling out.
“He’s here! I found the?—”
Archer didn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence. One slash of his sword, and the man crumpled to the ground, unable to cry out as his throat was slit. He stepped over the man as his muscles twitched with new energy.
I’ve found them. Whoever is ambushing this castle—I’ll see them soon.
He raced in the direction the man had yelled, eager to understand who was doing this. Every man he fought was dressed in plain clothes, looking like humble villagers rather than seasoned soldiers. He had scanned their clothing for the plaid of a neighboring clan, but nothing was recognizable to him.
The sounds of fighting increased as Archer raced to the Great Hall. He could hear men cursing each other and the clatter of metal against stone, sword, and flesh. The fire had not made it to this part of the castle, so the air was filled with the smell of men’s bodies and death.
Archer shouldered the heavy door and found himself staring out across the Great Hall, a space that should be reserved for celebrations. Instead, it was filled with men in combat, fighting on and around the bodies of fallen men. He scanned the roomfor any sign of his enemy and caught the eye of one of his guards, a trusted soldier.
“My Laird,” he cried out, even as he pushed away the man he was fighting. “It’s Elijah. He has betrayed ye.”
The guard threw his sword across two approaching men, shielding Archer from their blades. As soon as they jumped back, Archer attacked, taking care of both men swiftly as he took in the words of his man.
Elijah. Elijah has betrayed me.
There was no time to think. Only time to protect himself, throwing his sword in front of him and behind him, defending himself from all sides. He remembered Elijah’s angry words at the council meeting, his determination to return to war with their neighboring clan. And then there was his insistence that Archer pay attention to Lennox. Was it all a game? Was it a distraction so that Elijah could make his move?
A vicious laugh echoed across the room, and Archer looked up to see Elijah at the top of a few steps, descending down to the hall. His shirt was smeared with blood and dirt, but there was victory in his eyes. A wild confidence seemed to course through him, something dangerous and unpredictable.
“Elijah,” Archer cried, feeling his own blood echo in his ears. He narrowed his eyes at the man, overwhelmed with the anger and betrayal buzzing through his limbs. As his man-at-arms looked up at him, a malicious smile spread across Elijah’s face.
The men rushed for each other, ignoring the soldiers fighting around them, intent only on each other.
“Ye survived your little bonfire, then,” Elijah taunted.
“Ye are a coward,” Archer cried. “Too weak to face me like a man.”
The accusation angered him, and Elijah lifted his sword over his head. He swiped down, putting all of his weight into his weapon, but Archer veered to the left, causing Elijah’s blade to crash into the marble floor. Elijah grunted at the hit and then swiped toward Archer’s legs, but a quick knock of Archer’s broadsword had Elijah reeling in the other direction.
“Ye were never a very good fighter,” Archer laughed. “Always overshadowed by your younger brother. Malcolm was the fighter in the family, the man destined for greatness.”
Elijah grunted and attacked again, this time moving with more precision. Archer had to focus on defending himself, watching the man’s eyes and the turn of his feet to anticipate where he would strike next.
How could ye trust him?
His interactions with Elijah from the past few years replayed in his mind, showing Archer how foolish he had been. Something had always been off with Elijah—Ayla had been saying it for years. But Archer had let his own guilt over Malcolm’s deathblind him. He had rewarded Elijah with a spot on his council not because he earned it, but because his brother had sacrificed his life for the good of the clan.
“Give up,” Elijah screamed as they continued to battle. Archer knocked into a man behind him and threw his elbow into the man’s side, knocking him to the ground.
“Ye think I will go down so easily?” Archer laughed.
“Aye,” Elijah said. “Ye said it yourself. Ye no longer have the stomach for war.”
“Is that why ye are doing this?” Archer asked. He sliced through the air quickly, catching Elijah on the shoulder. He yelled in pain, but it only made the man angrier. He set his jaw and pressed forward, walking Archer backward.
“This clan needs a leader who isnae afraid to fight. Someone who isnae afraid to make others pay for what they have done.”
