Page 19 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
Suddenly, Ayla grabbed Feya’s hand and squeezed. She caught the tall woman’s eye, noting how similar she looked to Archer, though her features were softened, far more beautiful.
“Thank ye for trying,” Ayla said, and Feya heard the hint of tears in her voice. “I ken he can be a stubborn man, but he has a good heart.”
“Aye,” Feya nodded. She imagined Archer swinging his sword to fight off Cohen’s men. She remembered the way he had pushed her behind his back when she first stumbled upon him in the words. “I ken.”
Ayla dropped Feya’s hand, and they walked comfortably together, both feeling like they had reached an understanding with one another. Feya could sense a sadness in Ayla, likely brought on by the constant worry she seemed to carry for her brother.
“Ye ken,” Feya said as the sharp scent of rosemary hit her nose. “The best healers learn from many teachers. Ye must understand things from many sources and then choose your own path. I daenae have the age that Holly has, but I have learned from many masters. It may help ye?”
“Oh yes,” Ayla cried, perking up immediately. “I would love that.”
“Good,” Feya smiled. “And in return, perhaps ye can tell me more about your brother? I daenae ken him well, but I can tell he doesnae like to talk about himself. Ye might give me some insights that can help me cure him.”
“Aye,” Ayla smiled, a spark in her eye. “It’s a deal. I can tell ye many stories.”
9
“It’s been three years,” Lennox said, throwing his hands in the air. “We should mark the occasion in some way.”
“Ye want to celebrate a war that killed our clan?”
“Nay, I want to celebrate the ones wholived.”
Archer sighed, wondering how his council had managed to pull him into another meeting. He had hoped to avoid them today. After yesterday’s contentious conversations, he thought they might steer clear. But Elijah found him early, telling him the council had a quick matter of business.
One hour later, and they were still arguing.
“The villagers expect it,” Stewart offered. “The day we won the war is a day of celebration for them. The day our fortunes changed for the better. Also…”
Stewart trailed off, and Archer could tell he was hesitating over something. He glanced at Elijah, wanting to roll his eyes at these men who seemed to tiptoe around him and his emotions. But Archer controlled himself.
“Speak openly, Stewart.”
“It’s an opportunity for the villagers to see ye, my Laird,” he explained. “For ye to show some good will and garner some favor with them.”
“Ah, because me leadership is not enough?” Archer cried. A familiar twinge was forming at the base of his neck. He could feel the headache creeping over him like a hand wrapping its fingers around him.
“They ken ye are a good leader, my Laird,” Elijah offered, noting Archer’s irritation. “But they want to know ye as a person. They want to know that ye care about their lives.”
“Lady Ayla is very helpful,” Stewart said. “She visits the women and the children often and learns about their struggles. She brings toys to the children and fabric to the women. But the people daenae ken ye, my Laird. A celebration could be a good start.”
Archer sat back in his chair and surveyed the room, wondering why everyone in his council seemed to agree with Lennox instead of him. It made him uneasy, since he was already wary about the man’s loyalty to him. Had Lennox already discussed this with them behind his back?
“This clan has grieved long enough,” Lennox said. “It’s time to celebrate what came of those sacrifices.”
A surge of anger made Archer see white. He gripped his fists together and clenched his jaw.
“And who have ye grieved?” Archer cried, unable to keep his voice from echoing off the walls of the chamber. “How many men did ye lose in the fighting?”
“My Laird…” Elijah said, but Archer shoved to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process.
“Ye too?” He asked, turning to his friend. “Ye lost your brother and ye think this is a good idea?”
Elijah looked stunned, surprised Archer would turn on even him, but the man couldn’t control himself. Archer saw a flash of the ground beneath his horse’s hooves, the dirt stained red. Archer squeezed his eyes closed, trying to fight off the images, but it was no use. Suddenly, there was a war cry in his ears, and Archer felt himself push his horse forward, his muscles sore from the weight of his sword.
“My Laird,” someone cried from far away, but Archer was lost to his nightmares. He felt hands on him, and suddenly someone was pulling him to the ground, dragging him from his horse. He looked over to see his father’s face. He guided him to the ground, and then Malcolm was there too, a gash on his forehead sending a streak of blood down his eye and cheek.
“Ye left me,” Malcolm cried, and his voice sounded hollow and strained. “Why should ye live when I was forced to die?”
