Page 9 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“What is it?” he asked, pulling Feya from this memory. “Ye arenae scared of a little horse, are ye?”
He mistook her hesitation for fear and quickly went to her. He grabbed her hand and walked her to the horse, placing her palm flat against the mare’s neck, trapping Feya’s hand with his own.
“She’s the gentlest beast ye’ll ever meet,” Archer assured her, his voice calm in her ear. “And the fiercest in battle. She willnae hurt ye unless ye are a Dougal enemy.”
“Aye,” Feya said, not trusting herself to say anything else. Just the touch of his hand and his voice close to her ear were making her heady.
Ye arenae used to men.
She told herself this was all that it was. Despite her experience as a healer, placing hands on men’s bodies and seeing them in various states of dress, she had spent very little time alone with the opposite sex. It was a new experience to be alone with a man as healthy and strong as the one she found herself with. Of course, she would be nervous around him.
“Good,” Archer said, seemingly satisfied. When he dropped his hand from hers, Feya was disappointed despite herself, but it only lasted a moment. His hands quickly wrapped around her waist and lifted her into the air, dropping her onto the horse as if she weighed nothing. She let out a squeal of shock, grabbing Flora’s mane to steady herself. A second later, he was up behind her and reaching around her body for the reins.
“Go on, Flora,” he called. “Time to go home.”
The horse lurched beneath her, and Feya was thrown back, knocking into his chest. She righted herself quickly, wrapping her fingers in Flora’s mane, but with each step the horse took, she slipped closer and closer to Archer. Within minutes, herback was pressed against him, and his thighs were brushing against her own. Feya’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and she was glad he could not see her face.
“Tell me about your symptoms,” she blurted out, desperate to distract herself from the warm, strong body behind her.
“Nay, let’s not speak of it now,” he said. “It will only ruin a beautiful morning.”
“We must,” she said firmly, knowing she would never survive this ride if she didn’t distract herself. “Ye said ye will bring me home once I have cured ye. The sooner I help ye, the sooner I can go home. Is that right?”
“Aye,” he said, though there was no joy in the word.
“Very well. Tell me about your symptoms. These flashes ye have—what do ye see?”
He was silent for a moment, so long that Feya thought he might refuse to answer. But then he let out a breath and began speaking, talking over Feya’s head as he confessed to the trees.
“I see battle. I see people die.”
“Which people?” Feya coaxed.
“What does that matter?”
His voice was angry, almost scaring her into silence. But then she considered the question, carefully preparing her answer. Her experience with soldier’s heart had been limited to a young man in her village who escaped from a troubled clan, who had spent years of his life trying to survive. She had given him all of the usual tonics and herbs to help him sleep, to soothe his mind, but the thing that had helped, the thing that seemed to make the most difference, was letting the man talk about his experiences.
“It’s good to release it,” Feya answered simply. “Talking about the experiences…it can be a balm of its own.”
“Not for me,” he answered gruffly. “Ye should stick with the potions and the powders. Give me whatever it takes to root out these infected thoughts. I daenae care how brutal the treatment is. But I willnae talk about it.”
A noise from the woods startled her, and Archer’s arm was quickly around her waist. He pulled her tight against him, and she felt his lips against her ear.
“Daenae move, lass.”
The whizz of an arrow flew through the air, too fast for either of them to react. Feya watched it rush in front of her and then lodge itself with a thwack into a tree.
It was then that three men emerged from the woods.
He pulled her from the horse immediately, moving before Feya could think. She heard the metallic drag of his sword as he unsheathed it, and then the whizz of another arrow in their direction. Archer pulled her out of the way and reached for a dagger in his belt. With a confident flick of his wrist, he spun it through the air.
“Who are they?” Feya cried, but Archer was pushing her behind a tree. She heard a cry and looked across to the men just in time to see the man with the bow collapse from his horse, Archer’s dagger lodged in his sternum.
“Stay here,” he ordered, and then he rushed toward the two remaining men who had dismounted, swords drawn. Feya held her breath as he swung his broadsword, brushing back both of them.
They’re here for me.
It hit her all at once: These men were looking for her. She should have known that Cohen wouldn’t stop. As soon as he learned that Archer had killed the first two men he sent, he must have responded by sending more. How stupid she had been to think he would stop, that he would let her live.
