“Ye’ll be safe here, lass.”
Domhnall’s husky voice catapulted her from her thoughts, close against her ear, and another jolt of desire shot through her.
She gritted her teeth with frustration. If she was going to stay in this time and do whatever her magic needed her to do, she needed to quell her off-the-charts attraction to this man.
They entered a bustling courtyard where Domhnall dismounted, reaching up to help her down. Despite her resolve to calm her reactions toward him, a shiver roiled through her at his touch. His hands seemed to linger on her waist before he abruptly stepped back.
“Follow me,” he said gruffly.
She obeyed, trailing him through the courtyard and into the castle. The inside of the castle was even larger than it appeared from the outside, with cavernous corridors, stone walls hung with tapestries, all lit by flickering candlelight. It was a hubbub of activity, filled with dozens of servants dressed in simple tunics moving to and fro around her. Most of them were shorter than people in her own time, Astrid herself taller than most of them, which made Domhnall’s height even more impressive.
Domhnall led her through the winding corridors to a large, bustling kitchen, where even more servants were milling about—hauling in buckets of water, grinding flour, scrubbing down floors, chopping heaps of vegetables. Many of them stopped working at the sight of Domhnall, straightening with respect as he approached.
A petite, elderly woman stepped forward with a frown, setting down a rag and rubbing her hands on her apron.
“My laird?” she asked, her gaze sweeping to Astrid with confusion. “Is this a new maid?”
“No. This lass is my personal guest who is under my protection. Find her a chamber, feed her, and get her some warm clothes.”
“Aye, my laird,” the woman said instantly.
Domhnall turned to her, giving her a smile that made her insides melt.
“Saibhe will take care of ye. I’ll come tae see ye later.”
Unease spiraled through her at the notion of being separated from him and on her own. She’d only been in this time for a matter of minutes, yet Domhnall already felt like an anchor. He seemed to sense her unease and gave her a reassuring smile.
“Ye’re safe here. Ye have my word,” he said.
His words reassured her, and she gave him a nod.
“Ye need nae be afeared,” Saibhe said moments later, giving her a reassuring smile of her own as she led Astrid into a sprawling chamber complete with a massive bed, fireplace, and windows that looked out onto the waters surrounding the castle. “The laird is a good man. He will protect ye from whoever has done ye harm.”
Guilt pierced Astrid; they assumed she was some sort of victim and she hadn’t corrected them. But in a way, wasn’t she a victim of the magic she didn’t want? Magic that had compelled her to travel back to the past by torturing her with dark visions?
Astrid merely nodded and Saibhe left her with another patient smile. Only moments later, a young chambermaid entered her room with a wooden bath, a hot broth, and a gown for her to change into. Saibhe left her and the chambermaid alone, and Astrid realized in horror the maid was here to help her bathe.
She almost opened her mouth to protest but didn’t want to give away her modern accent. This is a different time, whatever year this is, she reminded herself. You have to go along with the different things people did.
The maid’s accent was even stronger than Saibhe’s and Domhnall’s, and Astrid had to concentrate to understand her as she helped her into the bath. The maid’s eyes widened with surprise at her smooth, unmarked skin.
Astrid was a doctor in her own time, but even if she weren’t, she knew that her unmarked skin wasn’t common in the past, in a time before modern medicine and vaccines. She could only pray that the chambermaid wouldn’t gossip; she didn’t want to stand out.
The maid said nothing and dutifully washed her, helping her into a white linen underdress and a high-waisted dark blue gown before leaving her.
Once she was alone, Astrid moved over to sit by the fireplace, drinking the surprisingly flavorful hot broth as she gazed into leaping flames of the fireplace. Her heart was still racing at about a thousand miles per hour, and though she knew she was in the past, she still felt as if she were suspended in a dream from which she’d soon wake.
But everyone she’d seen and spoken to was very real, including the devastatingly gorgeous Domhnall.
Just tell him the truth. The sooner and more forthright she was with him, the sooner she could get to the business of obeying her magic and helping him, and then returning to her own time.
She thought she would have hours to prepare what she was going to say, but it wasn’t long until Domhnall entered her chamber. A flood of emotions enveloped her at the sight of him—that nagging familiarity, nervousness, and the undeniable pull of desire.
He approached her with a concerned frown. “Are ye well, lass?” he asked.
She nodded, getting to her feet on shaky legs.
“I never asked yer name,” he continued, offering a kind smile, making his handsome features even more so.
She returned his smile and stood, expelling a breath. It was now or never.
“My name is Astrid,” she said, watching his eyes widen at her strange manner of speech. “Domhnall . . . you’re the reason I’m here.”
Chapter 3
It took several long moments for Astrid’s words to register. When they did, Domhnall just stared at her in disbelief, certain that he hadn’t heard her correctly.
“Have—have you heard of the stiuireadh?” she pressed in that strange accent of hers.
He stiffened, drawing himself up to his full height. Aye, he had heard of the stiuireadh, but he had also heard of the sidhe and other mythical creatures that children and superstitious old women believed in.
“I’m a stiuireadh, from a time yet to come,” Astrid continued in a rush. “I’ve had visions of you, and I know you need my help. Something is coming, something dark that threatens you and the people here. I don’t know exactly what it is, I just know that my magic—that time itself—wanted me to come here to help you . . . whatever year this is. What—what year is it?”
Domhnall’s astonishment and disbelief faded, replaced by a growing anger as the sheer nonsense of her words settled in. It had been difficult to understand her words with her accent, and what he had understood made no sense. She had come from a time yet to come? She didn’t know what year it was? She had visions? And she claimed to be a stiuireadh, a witch who could perform magic? He’d always thought that if such creatures did exist, they would look like just that—creatures. But Astrid just looked like a regular lass. An exceedingly bonnie one, but a lass nonetheless.
He stared at her, searching her expression for any hint of malfeasance, of deceit. But she was looking at him with clear, albeit desperate, eyes.
His anger spiked, and he took a step back from her. She must be a spy, sent to him by the Norse, or perhaps by another clan, to seduce him, pry information out of him. His eyes raked over her; the tumble of dark curls that cascaded past her shoulders, the luminescent green eyes, the soft beauty of her features, her tempting curves. It would explain why she was so damned desirable. Had his cousin sent her, having guessed his true intentions?
“Who sent ye?” he growled.
She blinked at him, looking genuinely astonished.
“Wh—what?”
“Who. Sent. Ye?”
“N—no one. I mean, my magic,” she stammered, flushing as she seemed to realize how absurd that must sound. “I saw visions of you, and—"
“Stop yer lies,” he hissed. “Aye, I’ve heard of the stiuireadh, but I ken they’re creatures of fancy. They donnae exist. Who are ye in truth?”
“I’m telling you the truth!” she cried, her voice rising with desperation. “My name is Astrid. Astrid Hart. I’m not sure what century this is, but I’m from the twenty-first century. I came here through the fairy pools in
Skye, a portal. Not only have I had visions of you, but I saw you in the waters there, and—”
“Enough,” he snapped.
The twenty-first century? He couldn’t fathom such a distant time. And visions of him in waters? Was the lass mad?
Yet Astrid was looking at him with urgent desperation, clearly determined to stick to her lies. She licked her dry lips with her tongue, and he hated the shard of desire that stabbed him at the sight. He averted his gaze, cursing himself for his foolishness, for that overwhelming sense of protectiveness, and heated desire, that had washed over him when he’d come across her on the shore.
“I’ll give ye the rest of the day tae tell me the truth. Ye’ll stay in this chamber for now, but if ye persist in yer lies, I’ll put ye in the dungeons until ye tell me the truth.”
When he looked at her again, anger had filled her green eyes; anger and fear, which he tried to not let affect him. She reached out to grip his arm, her touch sending a rush of heat racing through him.
“Domhnall, I’m telling you the truth, I swear. Why—why do you think I sound so strange? Have you ever heard an accent like mine? How do you think I arrived on that shore without an escort—no horse, no boat?”
“Ye could have walked from a village on the isle. Ye could have been brought here by whoever we’re working for,” he returned, though her words momentarily gave him pause. Aye, she had an accent like he’d never heard before, but there were faraway lands he’d never ventured to. She was likely from one of those lands.
He jerked away from her unnerving touch and moved to the door. “I’ll soon return. When I do, ye’ll tell me the truth or I’ll have ye sent tae the dungeons,” he snapped, glowering at her before slamming the door behind him.
He stalked to his chamber, ushering out the chambermaid who was cleaning it and sinking down into a chair by the fireplace. He glared at the flames as if they could provide answers.
Who had sent her? The last conflict his clan had was with the northern clan of the isle, and they had amicably resolved it before the war with the Norse. As far as he knew, the clans of the surrounding isles were more concerned with the lingering threat of the Norse than with each other; it was the one positive thing that had emerged from the Norse-Scots conflict. Less infighting among the clans of the isles.
And he couldn’t believe that Ulf distrusted him; there had been no suspicion in his eyes during his meeting. Ulf wouldn’t betray Domhnall. Nae the way ye’re betraying him, he thought darkly.
He pushed away the thought, rubbing his temples as he considered. Perhaps it was another Norseman who had sent her, trying to determine where his loyalties truly lie. But her odd accent didn’t sound Norse.
Perhaps she’s telling the truth.
A stiuireadh from another time? It sounded like a story his mother or nurse would tell him when he was a lad. He scowled, gritting his teeth. He would get her to tell him the truth; she couldn’t hold on to such a fanciful tale for long.
Later that afternoon, Domhnall sat in the great hall with Ruarc, a clan noble and his most trusted advisor and friend. He’d not told him about Astrid, instead discussing the meeting he’d had with Ulf.
“And yer cousin believes that ye’re on his side?” Ruarc asked.
“Aye.”
“I ken ’tis difficult. I ken ye think ye’re betraying ye’re blood,” Ruarc said, giving him a look of sympathy. “But ye’re doing what’s right for yer people.”
Domhnall said nothing. Ruarc was a close friend and knew him well, but he’d never know how difficult it was to betray your own blood. Ruarc was a Scot through and through. He had no Norse blood; he could trace his line back to the old Gaels. He didn’t know what it was like to feel torn between two sides.
“Is there something else that ails ye?” Ruarc persisted, studying him closely.
Domhnall hesitated, debating whether to tell him about the lovely green-eyed prisoner he had in a guest chamber. But perhaps Ruarc would have insight.
“When I came back from meeting with my cousin, I found a lass on the shore,” he said.
He proceeded to tell his cousin about Astrid’s wild tale about being a stiuireadh from the future, and how he was determined to get the truth out of her.
When he was finished, he waited for Ruarc to agree with Domhnall’s actions. Instead, Ruarc leaned back in his chair, looking pensive.
“I ken her story sounds strange,” Ruarc said slowly. “But . . . I heard rumors when I was a lad. Rumors of people disappearing by the waters on the Isle of Skye. My nurse thought they were taken by the sidhe, but my mother would tell me that they were going tae another time. When I asked her how she kent, she told me she’d met one of them when she was playing by the waters of Skye as a wee lass . . . a man in strange clothing who spoke with a strange tongue. She ran tae get her nurse, but when she came back, he was gone. She told me she never forgot about the man despite her nurse telling her it was just a drunkard playing her for a fool.”
He paused, holding Domhnall’s gaze, allowing his words to settle in. “I’m nae saying ye shouldnae be suspicious,” Ruarc continued, “but perhaps the lass is telling the truth.”
“How do I determine if she is?” Domhnall asked, though he was still skeptical.
“’Tis simple,” Ruarc said with a shrug. “Make her prove that what she says is true.”
Chapter 4
Astrid paced the length of the chamber, fear and anger battling for dominance of her emotions.
A large part of her didn’t blame Domhnall for not believing her. If she wasn’t a witch, she wouldn’t believe any of her story herself. Yet another part of her was angry that he hadn’t even considered that she might be telling the truth . . . something that caused her a surprising amount of hurt, which made no sense, given that she barely—didn’t—even know him.
She stopped pacing, sinking down onto the bed and closing her eyes. She had considered using her backup plan of fleeing with the use of a spell when he’d threatened to throw her in the dungeons, but if she did that, she’d be right back where she started . . . back in her own time, plagued by visions of the past.
Astrid rubbed her fingers against her throbbing temples, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. She’d gone years without practicing magic and could almost pretend she was normal. Why couldn’t her magic just leave her be?
After the tragic events of her childhood, she’d managed to make a comfortable life for herself back in the twenty-first century. She’d moved from the small Northern California town, where her normal, non-magical Uncle Peter had raised her, to the bustling city of Los Angeles, where she’d gotten her medical degree and snagged a prized residency at a hospital there. At twenty-nine years old, she’d believed that she’d finally left her dark magical past behind her.
You’ll get back to your life, she promised herself. She’d just have to do whatever it took to prove to Domhnall that she was telling the truth and get to the business of whatever time—her magic—wanted her to help him with.
The door abruptly flew open, and she stumbled to her feet in surprise, her heart leaping in her chest at the sight of Domhnall. A sudden burst of hope flared inside her. Maybe he believed her?
But his expression was thunderous as he entered, his brows knitted together in a scowl.
“The year,” he practically spat, “is 1266.”
Twelve sixty-six.
Astrid nearly sank to her knees. She’d ascertained that she was somewhere—some time—in the Middle Ages, but to hear confirmation that she was so far back in the past was still unfathomable.
Domhnall studied her for a long time as if searching for any trace of deceit in her expression. When she said nothing and just stood there, pale faced and trembling, he continued, “If what ye say is true, I want ye tae show me.”
She blinked. “Show you?”
“Aye,” he growled as he continued to step forward, his eyes filled with dark challenge. “If ye can perform magic as ye say, perform a spell. I want ta
e see it with my own eyes.”
Astrid swallowed hard. It was a reasonable request. But other than coming back in time—through which she’d done nothing but jump into that fairy pool in Skye—her magic was still very raw. She’d only practiced a handful of spells before coming to this time, and each one had been difficult to cast.
She expelled a breath, thinking of the easiest spell she could cast. Looking around the room, her eyes landed on an unlit candle perched on a side table. She moved toward it as Domhnall kept his hawk-like gaze trained on her, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
Trying to ignore his distracting presence, she placed her hand above the candle and murmured the words of an Incendiary spell. “Suidhich an aflame seo.”
She waited for the telltale hum of electricity beneath her skin, but there was . . . nothing. Astrid repeated the spell. Still, nothing happened.
Panic coursed through her as her eyes locked on Domhnall, who was now looking at her with smoldering fury. “I—I don’t understand why it’s not working,” she whispered.
“Enough of the lies!” he roared. “Who are ye?”
“I told you!” she cried. “I’m a stiuireadh from the twenty-first century. I came here to—”
“Perhaps a night in the dungeons will help ye with the truth,” he snapped.
He stepped forward, and her fear rose to a crescendo as he took her arm in a firm grip. She fought to release herself from his grip, her adrenaline spiking as she shot out a hand to ward him away from her.
It happened quickly. Domhnall’s massive body lifted into the air, and an invisible force hurled him against the far wall.
Domhnall's Honor: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Book 3) Page 2