Page 7 of Wedded to the Devilish Highlander
His body moved with the deadly ease of a man used to chasing danger. He was more than just a soldier—he was a predator on his own land, every muscle honed and alert.
His boots made barely a sound as he ducked low beneath the arching limbs of trees. He darted sideways and slipped behind a thicket, using the natural rise of the land to conceal his path. In less than a breath, he halved the distance between himself and the stranger before they realized he was gone.
The stranger’s posture stiffened when they noticed, their head snapping in the wrong direction—just a heartbeat too late.
Foolish and too slow.
Archer surged forward like a shadow loosed from stone. His body was a blur, built of power and purpose. Every inch of him—from the shoulders honed by blade work to the thigh made solid from years in the saddle—moved with coordinated, ruthless efficiency. He was a man who could chase down a stag and fellit with his bare hands if he needed to. And this morning, he was hunting.
When the stranger turned to bolt, it was too late. Archer was nearly there, driven by instinct and the fury simmering just beneath his skin. He tackled the stranger hard, slamming them into the soft ground with a grunt.
The stranger yelped, twisting beneath him in a fierce struggle. They rolled once, limbs tangling, and Archer pinned their wrists under his knees.
Then, he saw the face beneath the hood.
Familiar eyes. Familiar mouth.
Theladfrom the tavern.
“Unhand me,” she snapped, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming fast. Her body writhed beneath his, but he held firm, his weight pressing her into the earth.
“Who are ye?” he asked through clenched teeth. “What is it ye want, sneakin’ around me lands?”
She turned her head, avoiding his gaze. “I am lookin’ for someone.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Aye, ye said as much last night, foolish lass. Sent by O’Gunn, were ye? Aspy, perhaps?”
She stiffened in indignation. Her face had flushed red, and while she didn’t like being pinned to the ground, she made no attempt to escape his clutches.
“I amnaea spy.Yeare afool,” she spat.
Archer felt his lips parting, as if he had tasted her venom and wished for a second helping. He inhaled, and her scent hit him like a blow to the gut—earthy, warm, and distinctly feminine beneath layers of soil and sweat from travel.
He got a better idea of what might be hiding beneath her plain clothes. She wasn’t strictly dressed as a man, like she was in the tavern, wearing a long cloak with a hood.
Now that his hands were on her body, he could feel the clothes of a woman, and the intrigue he felt during their interaction in the tavern only fueled the fire of his intrigue. It was maddening, the way it crept up his spine, igniting heat low in his belly.
“Who are ye lookin’ for, lass?” he gritted out.
“Get off me!” she snapped, finally trying to wriggle free.
There is it again, that venom. I can almost taste it.
“Nay, nae yet.”
Her mesmerizing eyes widened at his remark, fear flashing in them before determination masked it. “Get. Off!”
“Nay. Now, answer me, lass. Ye arenae gettin’ out of this any other way.”
Her eyes snapped to his, brown and burning a hole through his head. “Me braither.”
“Yer braither?”
“Are ye deaf?”
Archer laughed at her insolence. Usually, if someone was so rude to him, especially when they were in the wrong, he would set them straight so they didn’t make the same mistake twice. Yet, her rudeness was amusing.
She didn’t like his response, glaring at him as she thrashed again, trying to free herself to no avail.
