Page 16 of Wedded to the Devilish Highlander
“Do ye need help with yer search?” Archer asked with a smile.
“Nay, I’m fine,” she replied, smoothing down the front of her dress.
She approached the next cell tentatively, standing on her tiptoes to look in. The prisoner inside didn’t make a sound. She made her way around the lowest level of the dungeons, checking each cell, not making a sound as she searched for her brother, and it didn’t take her that long to figure out that he wasn’t there.
“All right, so ye were bein’ truthful about one thing,” Eileen muttered.
“Aye, I was,” Archer agreed. “Come on, let’s get ye back to yer room. Can ye stay there for the night at least?”
“Aye,” Eileen grumbled.
They made their way back upstairs, Eileen walking slightly behind him. Every time he looked back at her, she would quickly avert her gaze. When they were back in her room, she looked down at her feet, twisting her lips as if she had something to say.
She opened her mouth to speak when an earsplitting scream sounded from somewhere deep in the keep.
They both froze, his eyes searching hers wildly before reaching for his dagger.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“Like hell I will.”
The scream cleaved through the quiet like a blade, sharp and full of panic.
Archer was already moving. The familiar weight of his dagger was a comfort in his palm. He bounded past Eileen, easily reaching the door before her. His hand landed on the door, keeping it shut as she tried to pull it open.
“Ye willnae follow.”
“I will,” she said stubbornly. The fire in her eyes heated his very core.
His hand curled around the handle, over hers. “Then ye’ll stay behind me and out of the way.”
Eileen smartly released the handle and nodded once.
Archer moved quickly then, the door swinging open and banging loudly against the stone wall, rattling the sconces and stirring the shadows in the corridor.
He didn’t look back at her; there wasn’t time.
His boots pounded against the stone floor, each step filled with mounting dread, and her lighter footsteps hurried after his. He could hear her breathing fast behind him, could feel the fear in the air.
His gut twisted. That scream—it had come from close by.
From his chambers.
His blade still drawn, he thrust it behind him and felt Eileen’s hand curl around the hilt. He quickly retrieved the dirk from his boot as they reached the end of the corridor, instincts honed by years of war and whispers in dark corners screaming that he was too late.
He rammed his shoulder into the heavy oak door to his chambers and burst inside, pointing the blade menacingly to cut down whoever was waiting for him there.
And froze.
The metallic tang of blood hit him first, thick and suffocating. It clung to the air like smoke, curling in his throat and turning his stomach.
A guard lay across the threshold, his throat slit. His blood seeped into the stone floor in slow rivulets. His eyes stared up blankly, frozen in startled disbelief, his mouth slightly parted as though he’d tried to call out.
“Bastard,” Archer hissed, his voice sharp and deadly. He whirled around, knowing his man-at-arms was nearby. “Calum!”
As if summoned by the force of his fury, Calum appeared, his eyes scanning the scene before him. A second guard followed close behind, his sword drawn.
“Christ above,” Calum muttered as he took in the sight. “What happened?”
