Gradually, his labored breathing eased, and Fyfa laid him back down after feeding him more broth and water. Astrid stood, moving back to give Fyfa some privacy with her father.
Fyfa leaned over and murmured soothing words Astrid couldn’t hear before placing a makeshift compress made of plaid fabric to his forehead. She then stood to approach Astrid, regarding her with wariness, but her previous hostility had dissipated.
“I thank ye,” she said grudgingly. “How did ye ken what tae do?”
“Based on his symptoms, I believe he has something called pneumonia.” She saw the confusion cross Fyfa’s face, and decided not to go into the intricacies of bacterial and viral infections, something that wouldn’t be discovered until centuries in the future. “I’ve treated it before.”
Fyfa swallowed hard, once again looking vulnerable. “Will—will he survive?”
“I don’t know,” Astrid said honestly. “The best sign will be if his fever goes down—if he’s no longer warm to the touch. Keep doing what I advised, and I’ll bring back ginger root from the castle, but you should be able to tell in the next day or so.”
Fyfa closed her eyes briefly but nodded. When she opened her eyes again, resentment shone in their depths. “I suppose ye’ll want my help with other stiuireadh in return for yer help with my father?”
“No,” Astrid said as Fyfa’s eyes widened with surprise. “I helped him because it was the right thing to do. Despite what you think of me, I’m not evil, and I’m not responsible for what my parents did. I only want to help—to stop what’s coming to the people of these isles.”
Fyfa held her gaze for a long moment, her expression still hard, saying nothing.
“I just want to meet with other witches,” Astrid continued, desperation creeping into her voice in spite of herself. “There was a spy ship off these shores last night; the laird knows an attack is coming. Without our help, more war, more death will come to the isles. All that being said, if you still choose not to help me, fine. I’d still like to check on your father tomorrow.”
Fyfa remained silent, and defeat settled over Astrid. She expelled a sharp breath and turned, heading to the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on your father.”
She was almost at the door when Fyfa’s voice stopped her.
“My coven meets nae far from here on an islet off the coast, where we’re free tae practice our magic,” she said.
Astrid turned, hope blooming in her chest. Fyfa gave her a shadow of a smile.
“Ye can come with me tae the next gathering.”
Astrid returned to the castle, eager to tell Domhnall that she’d finally made progress with Fyfa.
As she made her way up the stairs to get to his chamber, a willowy brunette intercepted her. Astrid remembered her as the woman who’d given her a death glare the first night she’d come to the great hall, after she’d told Domhnall she intended to stay.
Forcing a polite smile, Astrid tried to move around her, but the woman blocked her path.
“I donnae ken who ye are, but ye should ken that the laird always returns tae my bed,” the woman hissed.
Astrid stilled, stunned by the gravity of the jealousy that tore through her. “I don’t care what your relationship is with the laird,” she lied, leveling her with a hard look. “I’m here as a healer and nothing more.”
The woman looked pleased at this, her lips curving into a threatening smile. “Make certain it stays that way. The laird will one day be my husband.” She held Astrid’s gaze before stepping back to let her proceed up the stairs.
As Astrid continued up the stairs, her need to see Domhnall dissipated. Her chest felt tight with acrid jealousy, jealousy she had no right to feel. Of course Domhnall would have a mistress—many mistresses. The man was gorgeous. Their kisses were mistakes that shouldn’t have happened; she didn’t have a claim on him.
She returned to her chamber, the woman’s words echoing in her mind. Were they lovers still? Was she telling the truth? Did Domhnall intend to marry her? Were they already engaged?
Astrid told the chambermaid who came to clean her chamber that she would take her supper here instead of in the great hall. She knew she was being childish; she had to see Domhnall at some point to tell him about her meeting with Fyfa’s coven; she just didn’t trust herself to not show her hurt when she saw him.
But her attempt at avoiding him failed; he entered her chamber a couple of hours later as she sat on the floor, mentally reviewing spells.
He looked breathtakingly handsome as always, his deep-blue belted tunic accentuating his muscular form, the color of the tunic highlighting the blues of his eyes.
“Yer chambermaid tells me ye wish tae take yer meal in yer room. Are ye well? Did Fyfa still nae agree tae help ye?”
“No, she agreed,” Astrid said, getting to her feet. She tried to keep her tone neutral. “She’ll take me to their next meeting.”
Domhnall smiled, and it was difficult to not get caught up in that smile. Heat spiraled in her belly, and she averted her gaze.
“Then what’s wrong?” he pressed.
Astrid briefly debated against telling him about the brunette, but decided it was best to get it over with. “I bumped into your mistress. She warned me away from you,” she said finally.
There was a tense silence as Astrid waited, hating herself for hoping he would deny having a mistress. When she finally raised her eyes to meet his, they were thunderous with anger.
“What did she look like? This lass who claimed to be a mistress?”
Relief tore through her at his words; the tension ebbing from her body. By the look of angry disbelief in his eyes, the woman was most certainly not his mistress.
“Tall, brown hair, dark eyes. Bonnie,” she added, another misplaced shard of jealousy piercing her.
“Moirna,” he muttered, his scowl deepening. “I’ll have words with her. She likely thought she could talk tae ye so because her uncle is a noble. I apologize, ye shouldnae have tae deal with such matters when ye’re only here tae help.”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly—too quickly “It’s none of my business, anyway.”
He stared at her for a long moment and took a step closer, causing a heated awareness to spread throughout her body. “Ye didnae take tae heart what she said, did ye?”
“No,” Astrid said. “And, really, it’s none of my business.”
She stared stubbornly at his broad chest, refusing to look up at him, until he reached out and tilted her head up.
“Moirna is bonnie, aye. But ye should ken, I want ye more than I’ve ever wanted her . . . more than I’ve ever wanted any lass.”
Her heart picked up its pace as his gaze darkened with lust. He reached out a thumb to stroke her bottom lip, the act so erotic that she couldn’t stop the shudder that swept over her.
“Ye’re beautiful, Astrid,” he murmured. “The most beautiful lass I’ve ever seen.”
Her pulse pounded wildly as he leaned down to claim her mouth with his. Winding his arms around her, he walked with her backward until she was pressed against the far wall. Electricity sizzled through her veins as he reached down to hike up her gown, continuing to dominate her mouth with his.
Astrid moaned against his mouth, her body overcome with arousal as Domhnall continued to lift up her gown until it was gathered at her waist. She tore her lips away from him, flushed with surprise as he lowered his fingers to stroke her heated center.
“Domhnall,” she gasped as he continued to stroke his finger in and out of her, causing a fierce desire to claim her senses.
Astrid was quivering, barely able to breathe. He kept his blue eyes trained on hers, leaning forward to again seize her mouth once more as his finger kept up its deliberate strokes.
“Aye, lass,” he murmured against her mouth as she could feel the beginnings of her orgasm, a delicious ache stirring between her thighs. “Come for me, lass. Let me see ye fall apart for me.”
His words, his kiss, his mascul
ine beauty, and the insistence of his fingers against her center caused her pleasure to build to a crescendo. Astrid threw her head back, letting out a cry as her orgasm claimed her.
He kept probing her mouth with his as she quaked, forcing her to moan her desire into his mouth, until he finally released her.
Had he not held her up she would have collapsed. He continued to hold her as she caught her breath, his lips against her hair, his heartbeat thundering along with hers.
“I ache for ye, lass, though I ken I shouldnae. Moirna nor any other lass compares tae ye, my bonnie witch. Donnae forget that.”
Chapter 12
Domhnall had to force himself to leave Astrid’s chamber. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to touch her so, but he was losing the battle against his desire.
Perhaps he’d lost it the very moment he laid eyes on her.
He kept his determined strides until he reached his own chamber, where he leaned against the wall, waiting for his arousal to ebb, for the image of Astrid’s lovely face, flush with passionate intensity as her climax claimed her, still fresh in his mind’s eye. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity before he moved over to the window where he rubbed his temples.
Now that he’d had a taste of Astrid and touched her so intimately, witnessing how beautiful she looked when she succumbed to her pleasure, he didn’t know how he was going to set aside his need for her. And now that he knew the Norse were planning to invade several nearby isles imminently, he needed every ounce of his focus.
He’d already arranged to meet with the chieftain of the clan to the north of Barra, Neacal, the next day, and dispatched his messenger Aodh to warn the other lairds of the isles the Norse were targeting.
He’d promised Astrid that she could come with him to his meeting with Neacal. Now he regretted this. With the magnitude of his desire and protectiveness toward Astrid, how could he keep focus during the meeting if she was there?
This is yer own doing, he admonished himself. Ye never should have allowed yourself tae touch her.
Tearing his thoughts away from the distracting witch, he made his way to the great hall, now relieved that Astrid had insisted on having her meal in her chamber. It would be difficult to resist her pull if she were in the hall with him. He was doing a poor job of concealing his longing for her if Moirna had recognized her as a potential threat.
It was not long after he took his seat at the head table that Moirna approached, wearing a gown of deep sapphire that may have once caught his eye. But now, she might as well have worn rags compared to Astrid and anything the bonnie witch wore that clung to her beautiful body.
“My laird,” Moirna purred, dipping low to ensure that he had an unobstructed view of her milky bosom. “I’ve nae seen ye in some time. I was hoping tae share a meal with ye.”
“I’m certain there are a great deal of men who wish tae seek yer acquaintance,” he said shortly, recalling how hurt Astrid had looked as she recounted her interaction with Moirna.
Moirna paled, her smile faltering. “My—my laird—"
“There is a foreign lass, Astrid, staying here as my guest,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. He noticed that their exchange was drawing attention from the other guests. “Ye insulted her, which means ye insulted me. After tonight’s feast, I no longer wish tae see ye here at the castle.”
Moirna went even more pale, opening her mouth as if to protest, but stopping at the hard look in Domhnall’s eyes. She swallowed and gave him a shaky nod before turning to leave him.
“I confess I never liked Moirna,” Ruarc murmured. Domhnall startled; he’d not noticed his friend take the seat at his side. “But banishing her from the castle? Her uncle will nae be happy with ye.”
“Senan answers tae me, he’ll nae interfere. His niece stepped out of line when she insulted Astrid,” Domhnall said, terse. “I’ll nae have a former mistress insulting my guests.”
“Is that all that Astrid is?” Ruarc asked, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “A guest?”
Domhnall met Ruarc’s eyes. His friend gave him a knowing grin, and Domhnall quickly looked away.
“Aye,” he said, knowing that the words were a lie even as he spoke them. “She’s here tae help us with our defenses against the Norse, and nothing more.”
The next day, Domhnall entered the great hall of Castle Laidirh, with Ruarc and two of his top nobles flanking him.
Astrid trailed them, her head bowed and covered with a hooded cloak. Again, her presence brought him that familiar sense of calm, a calm that had eased his anxiety during the journey to Castle Laidirh from his lands.
The great hall was filled with a handful of Clan Lairdirh’s nobles, who all regarded him with guarded wariness. Neacal sat seated at the center of them, his dark eyes unreadable.
“I received yer message, Laird Flachnan,” Neacal said, leaning back in his chair. “How do I ken what ye say is truth?”
“Because I have no reason tae lie,” Domhnall said evenly, tamping down his anger at the subtle accusation. “I share this isle with ye. I want it and the people who dwell here tae be safe.”
“Ye have Norse kin. How do we ken we’re nae working with them?” a gray-haired noble at Neacal’s side asked, his green eyes narrowed.
The nobles mumbled in agreement. Domhnall tensed, but forced himself to remain calm. “We fought alongside each other against the Norse,” he reminded Neacal. “If I wanted tae betray my own men, my clan, then that would have been the time. But I’ve bled alongside all of ye here. Barra is my home, and I will fight for my home.”
“Or perhaps ye are weary of fighting the Norse after the last war, and ye’re now fighting alongside them?” the same noble at Neacal’s side hissed, glaring at Domhnall. “Perhaps ye’re luring us intae a trap?”
More grumbles of agreement erupted from the men, but Domhnall kept his gaze on Neacal. Neacal’s face was a stoic mask.
Domhnall expelled a sigh. He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his men shouting baseless accusations. “My laird,” Domhnall said, focusing on Neacal, even as the nobles continued to rumble. “May I speak tae ye alone?”
“Our laird doesnae need tae—" the noble began.
“Enough, Cathal,” Neacal said firmly, cutting off the man with a hard look. “I will speak tae the laird alone and then send for ye.”
Cathal stiffened but grudgingly got to his feet. The nobles filed out of the hall, including Ruarc and Domhnall’s nobles.
But when Astrid started to leave, Domhnall stopped her. He needed her counsel; he suspected she could read Neacal in ways that he couldn’t.
“Stay,” he said gently, taking her arm.
Cathal, who had nearly reached the door, took notice of this. He whirled back around, stalking toward them with a scowl. “Why does yer whore get tae stay and—"
All thoughts of peace and diplomacy vanished as white white-hot anger blazed a fiery trail through Domhnall’s gut. He reached out, grabbing Cathal by the collar of his tunic and lifted him bodily off the ground. Astrid let out a cry of surprise and protest, and Neacal’s men immediately went into offensive stances.
“Astrid is nae a whore. She’s a spy who is risking her life tae help the Scots,” he said through clenched teeth. “She is my guest and under my protection. Ye will apologize tae her.”
“Domhnall,” Ruarc said urgently, “please, put the—"
“Apologize,” Domhnall growled, his entire focus on Cathal, who looked terrified as he met Domhnall’s furious gaze.
“I—I apologize tae ye, lass,” he said gruffly, cutting a quick look to Astrid. “I meant no offense.”
Only then did Domhnall release him. Cathal looked at Neacal, red-faced, as if waiting for his laird to interject on his behalf, but Neacal’s face remained a stoic mask. Cathal shot both Domhnall and Astrid a dark look before hurrying out of the hall.
Once they were alone, Domhnall stepped forward, his gaze focused on Neacal with intensity. “My cousin is one of
the Norse who’s launching these attacks. I’ve pretended tae be on his side, betraying my own kin tae protect my people. That is how ye ken I’m telling the truth. I assume ye’re a man of honor, and that is why what I’ve just told ye, willnae leave this hall.”
Neacal didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes flitted to Astrid, filling Domhnall with unease.
“Who are ye, lass?” he asked.
“She’s a spy,” Domhnall answered for her, trying not to show his panic nor his prick of jealousy at Neacal’s attentions on her.
“No, she isnae,” Neacal said calmly, not taking his eyes off of Astrid. “And I assume the lass can speak for herself.”
Astrid stepped forward, but Domhnall moved to stand in front of her.
“She is here as my trusted spy, and I willnae have ye—"
“Domhnall,” Astrid said from behind him. “It’s all right.”
He noticed with a chill that Neacal didn’t react to her strange accent.
“Again, lass,” Neacal said. “Who are ye?”
“The laird spoke the truth,” Astrid said stiffly. “I’m a spy who—"
“If we are tae be allies, we need tae be truthful with each other,” Neacal snapped, getting to his feet.
His protective instinct flared to life, and Domhnall again moved in front of Astrid, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. Alliance be damned, he’d not let Neacal harm her.
Neacal scowled at Domhnall, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm.
“I am a man of honor. I would never harm a lass,” he hissed. He focused his attention back to Astrid, who had, Domhnall noted with irritation, again stepped out from behind him. “I will ask ye a different question, and this is one I hope ye will answer truthfully.”
“All right,” Astrid said, her voice level, but Domhnall noticed how she paled.
Neacal held her gaze for a long moment before speaking again.
“What year are ye from, lass?”
Chapter 13
Domhnall's Honor: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Book 3) Page 7