Page 13 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“He’s been hurt,” Feya said. She didn’t waste time in guiding Archer to one of the cots, where she set him down. “Do ye mind if I tend to him?”
Holly nodded and gestured to her table, inviting Feya to everything she had. Feya felt the woman’s eyes on her as she grabbed clean cloth, water, and salve. She set the items on the bed next to Archer and then pulled at his shirt, telling him to take it off. The piece of clothing was useless at this point, anyway. The innkeeper’s shirt had torn at the shoulder seams, no match for Archer’s strength in battle.
Feya averted her gaze when she was met with his bare chest, even though everything in her wanted to trace her fingers down his scars, find out where one ended and the other began. She locked her eyes on the cut on his arm and cleaned it carefully. The water in her bowl turned red with the Laird’s blood.
“She kens what she’s doing, Archer,” Holly said, appreciation in her voice. Feya was surprised to hear the woman use her Laird’s given name, but Archer didn’t take offense. Once again, she noticed how at ease he was with her.
“Did ye think I would bring an amateur?” he laughed.
Holly grabbed a jar of something viscous and yellow from her table.
“Use this, child,” she said, as Feya finished cleaning and prepared to spread salve along the cut. Everything Feya knew about healing came from older and wiser women around her. She had travelled for miles to study under some of the best healers in her clan, so she was nothing but eager to learn from Holly as well.
The woman’s walk was slow and painful. Feya noted the stiff hunch to her shoulders, the way her knees seemed to stay bent even as she walked. She immediately recognized the pain of sore joints, the limp of a woman whose knees were giving out on her.
“Are ye in pain?” she asked gently. She had seen it before—healers taking care of everyone else except themselves.
“Aye,” Holly said, but there was laughter in her voice. “But no more than usual. These old knees aren’t what they used to be.”
“Ye should rest,” Feya said. She stepped forward to take the salve from Holly’s hands. “I can handle this.”
“I am fine—” Holly started, but Archer interrupted her. His gaze was kind and encouraging.
“Go, Holly,” he instructed. “Ye are long overdue for a break.”
She paused for a moment before giving him a slow nod. Feya continued to work on Archer’s cut as she heard Holly’s footsteps across the floor. As soon as Holly was gone, the air in the room seemed to change. Feya couldn’t explain it, but suddenlythe space between them felt smaller, his skin felt warmer. Even though Feya’s eyes were on his wound, she could tell he was looking at her.
“Does that feel better, my Laird?” she asked, though her voice came out quiet, like she was telling him a secret.
“Aye,” he said. His voice was deep, making Feya’s stomach jump. “Ye have a gentle touch, lass.”
She looked up and got trapped in his stare. Her hands were still on his arm, holding it steady, but suddenly she felt how close she was to his thigh. Her breathing grew shallow as Archer turned his injured arm slightly, began to run his finger teasingly along the inside of her elbow.
Feya gasped, immediately overwhelmed by the sensation. How could this tiny touch spark electricity through her entire body? She stared at him, unable to look away, and suddenly Archer’s eyes dropped down to her lips.
“Archer!”
The voice echoed around the chamber, shocking Feya into backing up and dropping his arm. With wide eyes and a pounding heart, she turned to see a tall, furious woman striding toward them.
6
“Ayla,” Archer said, standing in surprise. He stepped forward to meet his sister, instantly recognizing she was in a fighting mood.
“Itoldye to be careful,” she cried. “Ye are too reckless. Throwing yourself around without a care for your safety.”
She stood nose to nose with him, and Archer read the fear in her eyes that sat behind her anger. He knew Ayla scolded him because she was worried about him. All her arguing was based on her concern. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. He couldn’t bear to be lectured by his younger sister, whether it came from a good place or not.
“This is how ye greet me?” he asked, matching his anger with hers. “Ye cannae barge in here to yell at me.”
“Of course I can,” she said, and Archer felt a surge of rage flow through his chest. “If ye insist on putting yourself at risk, then I will do whatever it takes to protect ye. To protect the clan.”
Feya stood next to them, taking small steps backward to separate herself from this confrontation, but Archer felt her presence as if she were glued to him.
“It is not your job to protect the clan,” he bellowed, furious Ayla would embarrass him like this. “I am the Laird. And I ken what is best.”
He felt a sharp pain in his left temple, a sensation that cut his breath short. He pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to rub it away.
Not now.
