Page 2 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
“I didnae see anything,” she said, but her voice was practically a whisper, wavering with terror. The man began a slow march toward her, but Feya couldn’t compute what was happening. Instead, she found herself strangely distracted by the scattering of freckles across the man’s face.
“I’ve seen ye before,” she said, remembering the wedding feast. She pictured Laird McKenzie’s table, the figures that surrounded him earlier in the night.
“Ye’re her sister,” the man said. There was a spark in his eye, an intrigue that made Feya’s limbs cold. “A shame ye arenae as beautiful.”
“Ye’re McKenzie’s man-at-arms. Ye’re supposed to protect him.”
Cohen. The man’s name is Cohen.
He didn’t react to Feya’s recognition. Only moved with the confidence of a man who knew what his next steps would be. Who would do whatever it took to ensure his own safety.
“She’s mine now,” he said. “I wouldnae let McKenzie stand in me way. I willnae let anyone stand between me and Morgana.”
The look in his eye was deadly, and Feya knew the man would kill her. He looked crazed, all reason gone. If she didn’t do something now, if she didn’t make her limbs move, make her voice scream, Feya would be dead.
I’m sorry, Morgana.
Feya took two steps back until she was back in the hallway. And then she ran. She ran faster than she ever had, knowing that the only thing between her and death was the speed of her feet, her agility to move through the corridors. She had to leave. She had to get out of this castle and get as far away as possible.
Tears streamed down Feya’s face as she turned into a tight stairwell, as she went down, down, down as far as she could, as she searched for a door. She pushed through a servant’s entrance and took off across the grounds, her sights set on the woods.
I’ve left her.
Devastation washed over her as she disappeared into the trees. She thought she was brave enough to protect her sister. Shethought she could be strong for Morgana in the same way her older sister had been strong for her family. But Feya was wrong.
When faced with danger, Feya had turned out to be nothing more than a coward.
He knew it was reckless to journey without his men. As the Laird of Dougal Castle, he should think about his own protection. He should care about the risk he took to be out in these woods alone, sitting by a pond as he stared up at the moon. But Archer Brown hated being treated like something that needed protection. He hated guards who felt like governesses, men who told him to be careful, who wouldn’t put up with any risk.
He had learned long ago that it was easier to do things on his own. Then ask forgiveness later. So, when he heard about land disputes between farmers of his clan and a neighboring Laird, he saddled his horse and dealt with it. His council would chastise him when he returned, but he had solved the problem, hadn’t he? And he had done it on his own.
A sound in the woods made Archer leap to his feet, his hand immediately on the sword at his side. The crunch of leaves and breaking of branches told him it was an animal, likely spooked by something and running off its terror. But then he heard a voice.
“Help me,” she cried. “Help me, please.”
A woman in white emerged from the trees, her dark hair long and tangled behind her, her feet bare. Her green eyes locked on him, desperate and intoxicating. She was like a specter of the woods, one of the fairies the townsfolk claimed to see in the early morning hours, the fae they warned their children about.
As Archer struggled to understand what was happening, he heard the thunder of hooves, saw the flash of horses through the line of trees.
“Please, they’re going to kill me.”
“Who are ye?” he cried. Everything in him told him to leave her. He should jump on his horse and run away before he put himself in danger for some stranger. But even as the horses got closer, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He felt the familiar adrenaline of battle pouring into his veins.
“I’ll do anything,” she cried. “Please, help me.”
As the men burst through the trees, he pushed the lass behind him, her small frame dwarfed by his giant one. He set his feet and slashed his sword with perfect timing, getting the first man in the thigh as he dodged the man’s weapon. The second was upon him quickly, but Archer was ready. With a clash of steel and an expert twist, he disarmed the man.
“Give us the lass,” one of them cried, but it only made Archer chuckle. He picked up the sword he had just dislodged.
“Hold this, lass,” he said, turning to the terrified girl behind him. He pushed the broadsword into her two hands and watched her struggle beneath its weight. Then he turned back to the men who had now dismounted, one with only a dagger to defend himself with.
This won’t take long.
They approached together, but Archer rushed forward with speed, surprising them. He locked blades with the first man, pushing his broadsword away so he could plant his boot on the man’s chest. He kicked him to the ground and heard the man cry out, but he didn’t have time to linger. Instead, he turned to the second man and plunged his weapon into his stomach.
Archer felt nothing as the man crumpled to the ground. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, just that he couldn’t let himself. Growing up surrounded by war, he had learned to turn off those emotions. He had learned to focus on his hands, the flex of his muscles—only the job in front of him.
“Look out,” the girl cried, and Archer felt the sting of a sword in his back, though he knew immediately the cut wasn’t deep. He spun around to see the first man struggling to stand, one pant leg red with blood. His sword was loose in his hands as he fought through pain, but he was still trying, determination in his eyes. Archer caught him in the arm, making him drop his sword. Then he walked behind him and swiftly sliced his throat, a merciful death.
