Artair's Temptress: Highlander Fate Book Five

by Knight, Stella

  Artair's Temptress

  Highlander Fate Book Five

  Stella Knight

  Copyright © 2019 by Stella Knight

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Created with Vellum

  Stay in touch!

  Stay in touch and join Stella Knight’s newsletter. You'll receive exclusive deals and special offers, and be the first to know about new releases. You’ll also receive a copy of Her Highlander Fate, a prequel novella, as a welcome gift! You can unsubscribe at any time.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Artair - AHR-tər

  Keagan - KEE-gən

  Liosa - LEE-oh-SUH

  Tamhas - TOM-us

  Iomhar - ee-o-VAR

  Loirin - LORE-in

  Latharn - LA-urn

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Stay in touch!

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  Scottish Highlands

  Diana kept her gaze trained on the lush green surroundings of the Scottish Highlands as her Aunt Kensa drove them down a winding road. Kensa hummed softly beneath her breath as she drove, as if this were an ordinary outing, an ordinary task—not a task involving magic. A task involving time travel.

  She forced herself to take a calming breath, clenching her hands in her lap. Deep breaths, she told herself. Deep breaths. But her heart continued to hammer against her chest like a battering ram.

  “I know you’re nervous,” Kensa said, glancing over at her. “But I know you can do this. And I’m so grateful for your help.”

  “I haven’t agreed,” Diana swiftly returned, shooting her aunt a firm look. “Only that I would consider it.”

  Kensa gave her an amicable nod and continued to hum beneath her breath. Diana recognized the song, an old Gaelic song she used to hear her mother sing.

  Kensa was in a disconcertingly good mood, considering the impossible task she'd asked Diana to undertake: traveling back through time. Diana swallowed hard at the very thought. Why was she even considering this?

  Her weekend had started with good intentions. She’d come to the Scottish Highlands to work on early renovations of her family's ancestral home, and to enjoy a nice little holiday away from her hectic life as a solicitor in London.

  Diana leaned back in her seat, resisting the sudden urge to laugh. If she didn’t know all about time travel and witches and magic, she would think her aunt was mad. But she wasn’t. Kensa was a stiuireadh, a druid witch who possessed the ability to travel—and to guide other people—through time.

  A part of her wished she didn’t know about the existence of such things, that she could go about her life as if it didn’t exist, like most people. And for the most part she had, turning her back on everything to do with magic and time travel after her parents, who were powerful stiuireadh, died during one of their time-traveling journeys when she was a teenager.

  Another aunt had raised her, her Aunt Maggie. Like Diana, Maggie had no desire to take part in the family business of magic. That was likely because Maggie possessed little magic herself and lived a completely ordinary life as a shopkeeper in a small village in southern England. Maggie had been just fine with Diana turning her back on magic and even encouraged her to do so. It was Kensa who kept trying to lure her back in, Kensa who kept insisting that she needed to embrace who she was—what she was.

  So, when Kensa had arrived at the manor, uninvited, telling Diana she'd inadvertently sent a man from the past to the present, Diana hadn't been terribly surprised.

  The man was Laird Artair Dalaigh, a fourteenth-century Highlander who was now settled in at Kensa’s home in an isolated stretch of the Highlands. His descendant, Niall O’Kean, had taken his place in the past, where he was now happily married to Artair’s intended, Caitria. Kensa insisted that this was the correct way of things—Niall and Caitria belonged together. She had been the one to influence Niall’s dreams using her magic, warning him that Caitria was in danger. Niall had successfully averted the danger, and now he was with his soulmate.

  It was Artair who didn’t belong in the present. Kensa wanted Diana, who hadn’t practiced magic in years, to help guide Artair back to the year he belonged—1390.

  "Why can't you do it?" Diana had demanded.

  “Time traveling spells are complex. My magic only works on guiding people born in the present to the past—since Artair was born in the past, I can’t guide him back. I already tried, not long after he arrived—and the spell failed,” Kensa said.

  “How did this even happen?”

  “I’m not sure. But I think that because Niall traveled back in time without a stiuireadh, something went awry—something that sent Artair to this time," Kensa replied with a frustrated sigh.

  "Why me? You don't know anyone else who can do it?" Diana asked, desperation sweeping over her.

  "There aren't many of us, and the one stiuireadh I know who can perform the necessary spell isn't—well, she isn't available."

  "I take it that means she's in another time," Diana muttered, rubbing her temples.

  "Yes," Kensa replied, "and I don't know when she's going to return. But you have the magical affinity to perform such a spell, something your parents could do as well—to send someone born in the past back in time.”

  You haven’t agreed to anything, she reminded herself, for the millionth time. She had only agreed to come after Kensa kept pleading with her, on the verge of tears. As frustrating as Diana found her aunt, she loved her—and decided to at least meet this Artair. And she had to admit there was a part of her that was curious—someone from the fourteenth century in this time? What would he be like?

  “How . . . is he?” she asked hesitantly, as Kensa made a sharp left turn, the car cresting north on a steep incline that angled deeper into the mountains. “This—Highlander.”

  “He’s . . . frustrated. Confused,” Kensa said, after a pause. “But most of all, eager to get back to his own time, something I promised I'd help him with.”

  “Is he angry with Niall O’Kean? That he’s taken his place? His bride?”

  “No,” Kensa said, to her surprise. “When I told him Niall had fallen in love with Caitria and married her, he seemed relieved. I suspect he prefers being alone. Sounds familiar.”

  Her aunt gave her a sly look, but Diana didn’t take the bait. She too preferred her solitude, and there was nothing wrong with that.

  They reached the top of the mountain road, and Kensa made a turn onto yet another dirt road that led to what appear
ed to be a crumbling manor. But Diana knew this was merely a charm to prevent any curious onlookers from coming closer if they even ventured this deep into the Highlands. It was actually a cozy two-story cottage that Kensa had lived in for as long as Diana could remember. Kensa actually had several cottages dotted around the Highlands, using the money from a sizable family inheritance to purchase them. Kensa had told her having the multiple homes helped her assist wayward travelers as they made their way to and from the portal in Tairseach.

  Diana had refused to use any of the inheritance after her parents' deaths, though she knew her parents would have wanted her to have it. She simply couldn't bear to touch it after they died; she was happy to make her own money, to live her own life separate from her family's magical legacy.

  As they drew closer to Kensa's home, its true form appeared, and as Diana took in its gray steepled roof and red brick façade, a wave of memories swept over her.

  She had come here once when she was young to celebrate Yule with her parents and other extended family members, many of whom were stiuireadh. A pang pierced her as one sharp memory entered her mind's eye: standing in a circle with her parents and other family members when she was twelve, including Kensa, as they all sang an ancient druidic hymn. She could remember how happy she felt in that moment, unaware that her parents would be dead the following year.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Kensa said gently, as if reading her thoughts, pulling the car to a stop. She reached out to give Diana’s hand a gentle squeeze. “If you help me—and I hope you will—you only need to be here for a night or two.”

  Diana gave her an abrupt nod and stepped out of the car, forcing herself to push aside her dread—and remnant grief—as she trailed her aunt into the cottage.

  She was not prepared for the sight that greeted her when they stepped inside.

  A tall man paced in the center of the entry hallway. His clothes were medieval—he wore long dark breeches and a white tunic, partially opened at the throat to reveal a muscular torso beneath. He had wavy chestnut-colored hair that fell to his shoulders, clear blue eyes the color of a summer's sky, proud, aristocratic features, a wide, generous mouth, and a stubble of beard that dotted his square jaw.

  He stopped pacing when they entered, turning to face them, his eyes narrowing as they settled on Diana. Her reaction was immediate—and embarrassing. Her face warmed, her mouth went dry, and her heart pounded furiously against her ribcage.

  He strode toward her, stopping when he was only inches away. Diana was a tall woman, meeting most men eye to eye, but with Artair, she barely reached his shoulders and had to tilt her head back to meet his stormy blue eyes.

  “Is this the lass, Kensa?” he demanded. His voice was a deep rumble, his words heavily accented with a deep Scottish brogue; she had to concentrate to make out each word.

  His eyes traveled from the loose shirt she wore beneath her jacket down to her tight yoga pants, his gaze leaving a scorching trail of heat on her skin. Something flared in his eyes, and his mouth tightened. “She looks like a common whore.”

  Fury chased away her stirrings of desire. She straightened to her full height and returned his glare with a fierce one of her own.

  “Excuse me?” she hissed. “I’m here to help you, and the first thing you do is call me a whore?”

  “Diana. Artair,” Kensa said hastily, moving to stand between them as they glowered at each other. “Now is not the time to trade insults. Artair, I told you before—men and women dress differently in this time. I’m sure you didn’t mean it. Do you want to apologize to my niece?”

  While Kensa’s tone was polite, it was edged with steel. Artair had the decency to look apologetic, taking a step back.

  “I apologize, lass,” he said gruffly.

  “Now, let’s try this again, shall we? Diana, this is Laird Artair Dalaigh, though he’s fine with being called Artair. Artair, my niece Diana Hartford.”

  He gave her a jerky nod in greeting, and Diana scowled. He was gorgeous as sin, but rude. She gave him a nod of her own, turning away from him. He’d made her decision very, very easy for her. Her aunt could find someone else to transport this handsome sod through time.

  “Can I talk to you alone, Aunt Kensa?” Diana asked tautly.

  Kensa blinked in surprise.

  “Yes, but I was hoping we could all—"

  “I think it's best we talk alone.”

  Kensa deflated. Her aunt knew her too well: she had to know what she was going to say. But Kensa gave her a polite nod, turning to give Artair a brief smile.

  “We’ll be back in a moment.”

  Kensa took Diana to a parlor at the end of the hall, closing the door behind them.

  “I won’t do it,” Diana said, as soon as they were alone. “I’m not the only witch you know. There has to be someone else.”

  “Artair is unnerved by all that’s happened. He’s usually very considerate,” Kensa insisted. "And I’m still working on finding someone else—but taking a person born in the past back to the past is a tricky spell. It's why I need someone like you, someone with a strong affinity for such magic. Diana,” she continued, her voice wavering with emotion, “I do what I do to help people. Artair has been torn from his time—he doesn’t belong here. The task is simple—you get him to 1390, and then you return to the present. I’ll tell him to treat you with nothing but respect going forward.”

  Diana expelled a sigh, gazing into her aunt’s pleading eyes. It was rare to see Kensa, who was often so self-assured, in a state of anxiety.

  She closed her eyes. Just this once, she told herself. Just this once, and then you can get back to your normal, nonmagical life.

  “All right,” Diana said grudgingly, opening her eyes. “But you'll have to tell me exactly what to do.”

  Chapter 2

  Artair resumed his pacing once Kensa and Diana disappeared into the parlor. The woman Kensa had brought with her was not at all who he'd expected. He’d expected an older woman, stooped with age, not the young golden-haired beauty that had stepped into the foyer. A surge of desire filled him at the memory of her—her golden hair, tied back into a bun, her deep brown eyes, a lush mouth that he'd imagined exploring with his own, and firm, taut breasts, the outline of which he could make out beneath the loose tunic she wore. Hips that were delectably curved, which her short, tight breeches emphasized.

  The powerful wave of desire that swept over him at the sight of her had disconcerted him; he’d resorted to an insult to pull himself out of his stupor.

  He heaved a sigh, closing his eyes. The last thing he needed was a distractingly lovely lass hovering about, not after all that had occurred.

  He could remember every detail of the day he’d been ripped from his own time. He’d made the journey south from his manor with his manservant, Latharn, at his side, ignoring the dread that swirled in his heart. Caitria, the lass he was to marry, was bonnie and kind, but he held no passion for her. He’d agreed to the marriage because it was time for him to wed, and he wanted to make an alliance with the powerful MacGreghor clan. He’d decided it was best he felt no great love or passion for his wife-to-be; he would do his duty and sire a few sons with her and focus on his duties as laird and as a member of his new clan.

  He’d just settled into his room at MacGreghor Castle when the room had begun to shake, and he’d wondered if a great horde of horses were approaching the castle. The world had tilted around him, and everything went black.

  When he came to, he’d found himself lying sprawled in the center of the ruins of an ancient village.

  He’d stood up and looked around, panic and fear racing through his veins.

  “Oh no!”

  A woman had rushed toward him—Kensa—her eyes wide with alarm. She wore strange clothes and he'd struggled to understand her words, which had come out in a rush. She'd said something about a Niall O’Kean, switching places, and that he wasn’t supposed to be in this time.

  As he'd looked down at her in confusi
on, she’d taken his hands and uttered strange words. When nothing happened, she’d sunk down to her knees, looking up at him in despair.

  “I’m so sorry, Artair,” she’d said. “I don’t know what happened—but you shouldn't be here."

  She’d taken him back to a large cottage where over the course of the next few days, she’d tried to explain to him what happened, and it gradually sank in how he’d come to this place.

  He’d traveled through time.

  A distant descendant of his family, someone who shared his likeness, had taken his place in the past. As soon as this man, this Niall O’Kean, had arrived in his time—Artair had been transported to the present. Artair couldn’t believe it when she’d told him the year—over six hundred years beyond his time, in the twenty-first century.

  He hadn’t believed her at first, of course. He’d thought that perhaps she was a member of a rival clan of the MacGreghors who wanted to stop his wedding to Caitria for some reason, and thought to use trickery to capture him. He’d left the manor, ignoring her cries of protest, intending to find his way back to the castle—when a giant metal contraption with wheels had nearly run him over. Kensa had helped him back to the manor, and he’d demanded to know what that thing was.

  “That’s a car. Something not common until the twentieth century,” she'd said. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this, Artair. You’re in the twenty-first century.”

  Only then did he sit with her as she'd explained—or tried to explain—again. She was a stiuireadh, a druid witch who could help travelers through time. She’d told him that Niall had settled into the past where he would stay, and though Caitria and Laird MacGreghor knew he wasn’t Artair—he’d found a place there, with Caitria.