Page 74 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“No,” she screamed, and Archer grunted in pain. He stepped back to avoid Elijah’s attack, but he was unarmed and he only had his hands to defend himself. He ducked beneath the next blow and threw his shoulder into the broadsword, knocking Elijah off balance but cutting himself in the process.
“Why are ye doing this?” Archer cried out again, his teeth gritted in pain.
“Because ye daenae deserve to live. Why should ye live when me brother is dead?”
The blade caught the top of Archer’s shoulder, slicing down across his collarbone. Feya’s heart ached as she heard Archer’s scream of torment, but even more troubling was the look she saw in his eyes. For so long Archer had told himself that he should have been killed in that war. He believed exactly what Elijah was telling him: Malcolm deserved to live. Archer deserved to die.
“Daenae listen,” Feya cried, but the guilt and the same were already reflected in Archer’s eyes.
“It’s true,” Archer screamed back, retreating further to avoid Elijah’s slashes. “Malcolm was a better man than me. He dinnae deserve to die. But neither do these innocent people here. Ye cannae repay death with more death.”
“Of course I can,” Elijah laughed. “I’ll kill everyone who is loyal to ye. Until there is no one left to remember your name. Until ye will only be known as the man who killed me brother.”
Elijah raised his sword over his head, intent on delivering the final blow. Feya screamed, kicking hard against Lennox’s shin. She shoved his arm and the knife away, rushing toward Archer, but Lennox held on to her sleeve. With a yank, he spun her backto him, and then he backhanded her, hitting her hard along the side of the cheek.
It was the last thing Feya saw before everything went black.
As he watched Lennox strike Feya across the face, everything went red. Fury flooded his veins, more intense than any feeling he had ever had on the battlefield. Every fiber of his being told him to move, to get to her, to survive. And to kill anyone in his way.
Ye love her.
He thought it even as he lunged for the sword on the ground. Now that Lennox no longer held a knife to Feya’s neck, he could pick up his weapon without fear of them hurting her.
Ye love her.
He thought it as he gripped his weapon in his fist, ignoring the pain radiating down his right arm from Elijah’s strike to his collarbone. And as he charged, determined to make these men pay.
Ye have always loved her.
Archer shoved his elbow into Elijah’s chest, knocking the man to the ground with one hard shove. Archer’s fury was no matchfor the bravest of soldiers, something Elijah was decidedlynot.Archer stepped forward and sneered at the man who had betrayed him.
“Do ye have anythin’ to say for yourself?” he asked. Perhaps an apology would make Archer reconsider. If Elijah showed some remorse, he wouldn’t need to kill him. But then the man narrowed his eyes at him and spit directly onto the floor.
“Ye arenae worthy to rule pigs. And neither was yer faither.”
Archer growled as he pushed his broadsword clear through the man’s chest. Then he watched the life fade from the man’s eyes as he pulled his blade from the traitor’s body. He had mourned Elijah’s brother, Malcolm, for many years, but there would be no kind thoughts for his older brother. Elijah was a mark on Malcolm’s good name, a smudge on the man’s heroic reputation.
He turned toward Lennox, taking in Feya’s crumpled form on the ground. He needed to get to her. He wanted nothing more than to scoop her into his arms and bring her to safety. But there was one more person to deal with. He turned toward Lennox, hatred radiating in his direction, and the man cowered, backing away from Feya’s body. In that moment, he looked far older than he was, muttering and visibly trembling.
Archer stalked toward him with no ounce of sympathy for this man who had struck the women he loved.
“M-my Laird,” Lennox stuttered. He stepped backward with his hands up, desperate for forgiveness. “I-I had to do it. Elijah forced it.”
“And did he force ye to hunt down me sister?” Archer asked, gaining ground on the man. “Did he force ye to strike a woman, to hold her captive?”
“I-I will be loyal to ye,” Lennox cried. He was now backed up to the wall, fallen soldiers on the ground around him. His eyes darted left and right, searching for an escape, but there was nowhere to go.
“Too late,” Archer said, letting the words roll off his tongue with satisfaction. And then he lifted his sword and sliced the air, running his blade across Lennox’s throat. The man gave a final gurgle of surprise before collapsing to the floor, unable to pull another breath of air into his lungs.
He dropped his blade, letting it clatter to the floor. The weight of death began to settle around him. The fighting in the hall had ended, and it was Archer’s men who still stood on their feet. They looked around, dazed by the shock of this attack, some nursing broken bones and bleeding wounds. But Archer had no time for them. Instead, he rushed to Feya, dropping to his knee by her side.
“My love,” he whispered, as he pulled her up, cradling her head in his hand. He could see an angry bruise mottling her cheek and that streak of blood still wet from the wound on her throat. “Wake up, my love.”
He brushed hair away from her face, holding her in his lap. Archer’s heart beat with worry, but then her eyes fluttered open, her eyelashes wet with tears.
“That’s it,” he coaxed. He continued to talk to her, pulling her back to this world. He spoke to her with the same gentle tones Feya used when she was pulling him from a nightmare. And then, finally, she stared up at him.
“Archer?” she asked, her voice raw and quiet. All at once, the events of the past few minutes came back to her, and her eyes opened wide. She struggled to sit up, reaching for him. “Ye are hurt. Are ye alright?”
