Page 31 of Wedded to the Devilish Highlander
They crested a hill and started their descent into the nearest village, where smoke from the forge mingled in the lifting fog.
Calum continued, undeterred, “She gets under yer skin, that one. I’ve seen the way ye look at her.”
“She’s bold,” Archer admitted. “Stubborn as hell. And she could probably power the forge herself, with all that fire…”
“So, why nae just marry her proper instead of pretendin’? I assume this is to keep yer maither and the council off yer back. I dinnae ken which is the lesser of those two evils, when it comes to being ye wed. Still, ye need to be wed proper, dinnae ye?”
Archer gave him a sideways glance. “I dinnae have time for marriage. What I have time for at this moment is stoppin’ a war and whatever else O’Gunn is plannin’. When that’s done—if it ever is—I can think about such distractions. I’m nae bringin’ bairns into a world that I cannae make safe.”
“Aye, but ye cannae deny she’s a bonny-looking lass,” Calum insisted.
“I dinnae think anyone could deny that,” Archer relented. “If these were simpler times, I’d gladly take her into me bed and have me way with her. But there are complications, and that’s why this agreement needs to be simple.” He smiled slyly. “Ye really think she has feminine beauty? Ye dinnae think that she has a boyish look to her, like someone who’d drink in the tavern late at night?”
“What?” Calum asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. “What’re ye talkin’ about, man?”
“Just a wee joke,” Archer replied. “Forget about it.” He chuckled to himself.
Calum raised an eyebrow. “So, how is yersimplearrangement workin’ out for ye?”
Archer grunted, pulling his horse to a stop just outside the smithy.
The forge had quietened since the accident. Only a few apprentices remained, sweeping ash and reorganizing tools. The air smelled of soot and scorched iron.
“Me Laird,” called out Duncan, the forge master, as he approached. He bowed his head. “Glad ye came. There’s… something ye should see. Both of ye.”
The two men followed him inside.
The blackened floor bore signs of cleanup, but the scorch marks showed where the impossibly hot blaze had surged unnaturally.
Archer crouched near the anvil, where Kenneth had supposedly lost his footing. “These angles dinnae make sense.”
“Aye,” Calum said, scoffing as if he’d already noticed it.
Duncan stepped forward, holding out a small charm melted around the edges. The symbol was warped. Archer couldn’t make sense of it at all.
“Damned fire,” he muttered, turning the charm over in his palm.
Archer stood by the hearth in the Great Hall later that evening, watching the flames dance and hiss, trying not to dwell on the trinket that Duncan gave him, which was burning a hole in his pocket.
He instead let his mind wander to other, more… attractive memories. Like how Eileen had looked caged between his arms, her breath coming hard and fast, her eyes fixed on his mouth like she might forget herself entirely. Like she wanted him to take something from her. Not just a kiss, but control. Permission. A piece of her.
Saints help him, he hadn’t been much better. His whole body had burned to touch her, to taste her. She’d looked up at him with such raw hunger, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, and he’d been around women before. Beautiful, eager, aching women. But that moment had been different.
Eileenwas different.
There was a clear innocence behind her fire. Boldness that didn’t come from practice but from purpose. She’d never looked at another man like that before, he was damned sure of it. The realization had shaken him more than desire had.
And so he stepped away. Because if he had kissed her, if he had touched her the way his hands itched to, he wouldn’t have stopped. And she deserved more than that. She deserved respect. He would not take what she wasn’t ready to offer, no matter how much her body had pleaded for it. He would keep himself in check, no matter the cost.
He hadn’t touched her, but the temptation lingered, thrumming in his bones.
He heard her before he saw her—light, confident, purposeful steps. When he turned away from the fire, she was already in the doorway, and something about the way she held herself made him arch an eyebrow.
Eileen Kilmartin looked like a woman on a mission—and to his surprise, she wore a genuine smile.
“Good morn, Laird MacLennan,” she greeted brightly, folding her hands before her. Her tone was honeyed, her expression pleasant. Too pleasant. But this mood swing gave him the wildest rush he’d felt in quite a while.
He narrowed his eyes, though, playing into her cheerfulness. “Here ye are, bein’ sweet as cream. What vinegar do ye have lyin’ beneath, ready to assault me with?”
