Artair's Temptress: Highlander Fate Book Five

by Knight, Stella

  He knew the proper response to Niall marrying his intended should be outrage, even jealousy, but he'd only felt relief. Caitria was a good lass who deserved true love and happiness.

  He wasn’t too worried about his manor or his lands. He had a trusted steward and devoted servants who’d tend to them while he was away. He just wanted to get back to his time . . . to his life.

  Kensa stepped into the hallway, pulling him from his thoughts. She raised an eyebrow and placed her hands on her hips, glowering at him as if he were a misbehaving bairn.

  “She almost refused to help. You need to treat her with respect, Artair.”

  “I apologized,” he said, scowling.

  “I mean it. If you want to get back to your own time . . .”

  “I ken,” he said, giving her a firm nod. “I’ll apologize tae the lass again.”

  Kensa looked satisfied by this and moved past him to look out of the side windows that framed the front door. He’d become familiar with Kensa during the past few weeks, and he’d come to like her, though he was initially angry that the magic she’d performed had inadvertently sent him here.

  Magic. The word most commonly used in his time was witchcraft. He’d always been a sensible man, not prone to the superstitions of those around him, but he couldn’t deny that he was indeed in another time, especially after he’d seen the metal beast that Kensa called a car. How else could he have arrived in another time if not by witchcraft?

  Those in his time associated witchcraft with evil, but he could detect no trace of evil or wickedness with Kensa—he was good at gleaning people’s characters, and he only saw goodness in the woman.

  She’d kept him at the manor, bringing him food and drink, insisting that he shouldn’t attempt to venture out while she sought another stiuireadh who could bring him back to his own time.

  “It’ll overwhelm you if you venture far,” she’d insisted. “Things are—faster in this time. Louder. It’ll serve no purpose, especially considering you don’t belong here.”

  And though he was curious about this future world that existed beyond these walls, he’d obliged, only leaving to take brief walks around the cottage. He'd realized the cottage must be nestled deep within the Highlands; nothing but nature—sprawling glens and rolling mountains shrouded in mist—surrounded it. The only obvious difference between his time and this future time were the paved snake-like roads and the occasional metal beast that roared past. He could almost pretend he was in his own time, enjoying the solitude of his manor.

  “You need to give my niece some time,” Kensa was saying now. “She has powerful time-travel magic in her bloodline, but she’s turned her back on it for most of her life. She believes that such magic killed her parents, so this is all difficult for her.”

  “I will,” he promised, shame twisting his gut as he recalled his harsh words to Diana.

  Kensa smiled, reaching out to give his hand a brief squeeze.

  “I’ll prepare lunch, then we can all talk.”

  * * *

  When he entered the dining room later, Kensa had already set out a meal of stew and fresh bread. Diana was already there, her back to him as she stared out one of the windows. He noticed she’d changed into a pair of dark blue breeches and a short-sleeved tunic that Kensa had told him was called a “T-shirt” in this time. The clothing was slightly less scandalous than what she’d worn when he first met her, but they still clung to every one of her lush curves. He swallowed, forcing himself to push aside the desire that flared inside him. This woman was a witch who could help him transport through time, not a lass to lust after.

  “Diana,” he said.

  She turned, her eyes widening briefly at the sight of him. She gave him a curt nod.

  “Artair,” she returned, her tone cool.

  “I wanted tae apologize again—tae truly apologize—for my harsh words earlier,” he said, stepping forward. “I believe in treating lasses with the utmost respect, and ye deserve mine.”

  Her expression softened, and she gave him a cautious smile, one that made her features even more lovely; it was like watching a flame roar to life after being snuffed out.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I—I’m sorry for your circumstances. My magic is a little rusty, but I’ll try my best to get you back to your time.”

  He nodded his thanks, trying to come up with more words to say, but he was inexplicably nervous around her. Fortunately, he didn’t need to say more, as Kensa entered with a tray of tea.

  “I see you two have made amends,” she said, beaming. “Let’s eat and discuss, shall we?”

  “I’m going to spend the rest of the day—and tomorrow—working with Diana on the spell she’ll need to perform to get you back to your time,” Kensa said, when they’d all taken their seats. “If all goes well, she’ll get you back to 1390 and then return to this time. Artair,” Kensa continued, turning to face him, “when you get back—”

  “I ken,” he interjected. “Donnae tell anyone where I’ve truly been—except for those I trust the most.”

  It was something they’d discussed in detail. Few people knew of time travel or of the stiuireadh; such knowledge would only cause fear and chaos. Besides, Artair had no intention of telling people in his time that he’d traveled to the twenty-first century. They would think he was mad. He and Kensa had worked out a story that explained where he’d been. He would tell Latharn and the others that he'd left the castle to go riding, but he'd fallen from his horse and slipped into unconsciousness. A local healer had taken him in and tended to him during the weeks he was in his false sleep—Kensa told him the modern-day term was "coma"—until he was well again and made his way back home.

  “I have attire for Diana to wear when she travels with you. And I’m going to give you both plenty of coin to take with you. Diana, you’ll have to use a special spell to take the money back in time with you—travelers usually can’t take extra physical objects with them to the past.”

  “Why do I need money?” Diana asked, paling slightly. “I thought you said this would be a quick trip—as soon as I get Artair to his time, I’ll return.”

  “It’s just a precaution,” Kensa said gently. “Things can go wrong with time travel. I hope that you won’t need to use it.”

  He could see the hesitation on Diana’s lovely face, and something compelled him to lean forward.

  “I may not be able tae perform witchcraft,” he said, meeting Diana’s gaze and holding it. “But I’ll keep ye safe if something goes awry. Ye have my word.”

  Their gaze held for several moments. As her brown eyes locked with his, a flare of awareness stirred within him. She finally gave him a nod and averted her gaze.

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to,” she said, with a smile that seemed forced.

  For the rest of the meal, Kensa told Diana that they'd spend the next two days practicing her magic, and then he and Diana could depart. He noticed that Diana remained tense; at the end of the meal she politely excused herself and scurried from the room. Kensa watched her go, concern marring her features.

  “This is so hard for her,” Kensa said, with a heavy sigh. “I hate to get her involved, but we have to get you back soon. You’ve been here for too long.”

  A fissure of alarm wound through him.

  “What do ye mean?”

  She hesitated a moment before responding.

  “I can . . . sense when someone belongs in a particular time. The people I’ve helped travel—they often belong in a different time, with their soul mate. But when someone travels to a time in which they don’t belong and lingers for too long—it's hard to explain, but time doesn’t like it. Wayward travelers who linger too long in a time they don’t belong have taken ill or simply disappeared.”

  He stared at her, his heart hammering—her words had thoroughly chilled him. She reached out to give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “I didn’t mean for my words to alarm you. You’d have to be here much longer for any ill effect
s to take hold—but it’s best to get you back soon just in case. Diana may be unsure of her abilities, but I’m confident my niece can get you back to where you belong.”

  Chapter 3

  “Try again,” Kensa urged.

  Diana gritted her teeth in frustration, pushing away the grimoire.

  It was early the next morning, and after she’d informed her assistant and her bosses by email that she’d be extending her holiday, she’d spent three useless hours reviewing basic magical spells in Kensa’s cramped study—none of which she’d been able to master. She had exactly two days to reacquaint herself with magic she hadn’t used in years. She knew that two days wasn't enough time, but Kensa was adamant about getting Artair back sooner rather than later.

  “I’m no good at this,” Diana said, rubbing her temples. “At this rate, I’ll transport myself and Artair to the distant future—and kill us both in the process.”

  “Tairseach is a portal; the magic for time travel is already there. As a stiuireadh, you have the ability to manipulate it.”

  “If I have such an affinity for time travel, for magic—then why can’t I perform any of these basic spells?” Diana demanded, gesturing toward the grimoire.

  “You haven’t performed magic for some time. But it will come to you; it’s already in you,” Kensa insisted. “You just have to keep trying.”

  Diana briefly considered telling her aunt that no, she couldn’t do this, and she was already tired of trying. But the desperation—and faith—on her aunt’s face stayed her tongue.

  “All right,” Diana said, heaving a sigh. “I’ll try again.”

  She looked down at the grimoire Kensa had given her—a grimoire passed down through all the stiuireadh of their family. “Time-weaving” spells filled its pages—spells to assist stiuireadh through time, and guide others, along with defensive and offensive spells. Kensa had tried to explain how it all worked—that time travel already existed, the flow of time wasn’t in a straight line as most people thought, and that all the stiuireadh did was help guide others through time’s meandering streams using their magic.

  But it all still seemed so baffling to Diana. To travel to a different time—or to help another person travel through time—involved complex spells, most of which were in Gaelic, some in Latin, others in Scots and modern English.

  Practicing magic was a far cry from her job as a solicitor who dealt with property laws on a daily basis—property law could be complex, but at least it made sense.

  Still, she gritted her teeth and straightened her shoulders.

  “All right,” she muttered. “Let’s try again.”

  Diana practiced several basic spells, which included opening and closing the door with a simple gesture of her hand and a silent command in Gaelic, along with a Levitation spell, during which she lifted the grimoire from the desk using only her magic. She had to admit that she felt a rush of delight at the sensation of her magic beneath her skin—like a gust of wind rippling through her, or a jolt of electricity.

  “See? You’re already improving,” Kensa said, beaming.

  “These are just basic spells. What if I can’t get Artair back?”

  “You will. I have absolute faith in you, niece. You have to rid yourself of that self-doubt. Our magic is within us and connects with our emotions. You can do this. But for now,” she said, standing and placing her hand on Diana’s shoulder. “I think you should take a break. We’ve been in here for hours.”

  Diana turned to glance out of the window, her eyes widening with surprise. It was already getting dark—they’d now spent most of the day in Kensa’s study practicing.

  Kensa led her to the dining room where Artair was already waiting for them. She hadn’t seen him all day, other than a brief glimpse of him taking a walk around the grounds as she’d practiced a Silencing spell by the window—and she’d quickly averted her eyes at the sight of him. She found him . . . disarming.

  He met her eyes, giving her a warm smile, and her heart performed a small catapult in her chest. She returned his smile and looked away; she couldn’t let his attractiveness distract her, not when she needed to concentrate on the monumental task of guiding him back through time.

  “Diana’s doing well with her magic,” Kensa said cheerfully to Artair, as she set down bowls of lamb stew, which had been on the stove all day.

  Diana gave her aunt a look at the compliment—Kensa was exaggerating. She’d gotten better at what little she knew, but she was far from “doing well.” She said nothing, opting not to dispute Kensa's words, and concentrated on eating the savory stew, her stomach letting out a satisfied grumble—one she hoped Artair didn’t hear.

  “I think you can help Diana as well, Artair,” Kensa continued. “Before you retire for the night, you can tell Diana about several things that remind you of your time. Imagery is a powerful thing with magic, it’ll make her spell more potent.”

  Diana looked up; Artair was nodding in agreement, and anxiety swirled through her gut. She knew her aunt was right, that such imagery would be helpful, but how could she focus on whatever he told her when he disarmed her so much?

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” Artair said. “I’ll gladly help.”

  Diana took a sip of wine and nodded. Just focus, she urged herself. She’d been around handsome men before, had dated handsome men—though none affected her the way Artair did, and she’d known him for all of five minutes.

  Kensa left them alone shortly after, telling them she needed to check on something, but Diana suspected she was leaving them alone on purpose.

  “Shall I tell ye now, lass?” Artair asked, his blue eyes meeting hers. “I see no reason tae wait.”

  “Yes,” she said, setting down her wine. Focus. “Just three things will suffice. Preferably memories that affect your senses—sight, sound, taste, touch.”

  “Ah,” he said, settling back in his chair, raking his hand through his chestnut hair. She noticed that he wore his dark tunic slightly open at the throat, and she could again glimpse his muscular torso beneath. A shard of heat pierced her; she had to force herself to look at his face. “There’s my manor. ’Tis been in my family for generations.”

  Diana noticed that there was no emotion behind his words; he might as well have been reciting a recipe.

  “Is there something specific about it?” she asked. “Some place—a room, a garden—that brings you comfort?"

  He looked startled for a moment before his expression changed. Now she saw a longing in his eyes.

  “There’s a grove, tucked away not far from my manor. My grandfather told me that the druids who used tae dwell in our lands held rituals there. I suppose that’s why there’s something . . . magical about the place. I go there when I need time tae myself; I went there after my father died and my sister left the manor. ’Tis always brought me great comfort. It smells of damp earth, honeysuckle and fallen leaves.”

  Diana tried to remain clinical as he spoke, to file away his words to memory so she could easily recall them when she performed her spell. But there was something about the way his eyes lit up as he spoke that filled her with warmth.

  “Good,” she said. “That helps. Is there anything else? A person, perhaps?”

  She thought of Caitria, the woman he was supposed to marry, who had married Niall O’Kean instead. Though Kensa had told her Artair had expressed relief at the news, a sudden tension seized her as she waited for his response.

  “Aye,” he said, and her stomach tightened, as he continued, “my sister.”

  The tension in Diana’s stomach dissipated when she realized he wasn’t speaking of Caitria—though that was foolish. It shouldn’t matter if he did pine over her his ex-fiancée; she barely knew the man.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister,” Diana said.

  A shadow fell over his face. “We’ve not spoken for many years. ’Tis a long tale, but we didnae part well. She lives near the border of Scotland with her husband, whom I’ve never met. I imagine she
doesnae even ken I’m gone—and if she does, I donnae think she cares.”

  “You don’t know that,” she said gently.

  A long pause stretched as Artair looked past her, his eyes far away. When his gaze returned to hers, it was guarded, as if a window had firmly shut.

  “Do ye need anything more?” he asked shortly.

  “No,” she said, though she was curious for more details about his sister. But by the shuttered expression on his face, she could tell he didn’t want to divulge any more personal information. “I think I have enough.”

  She stood. Artair stood as well, moving around the table to stand close to her. Heat spiraled through her as he reached down to take her hand; awareness flaring to life beneath her skin at his touch.

  “I just wanted tae thank ye,” he murmured. “For doing this. Yer aunt told me ’tis not easy for ye—after what happened tae yer kin.”

  Now Diana’s guard rose, annoyance prickling her. She didn’t want Kensa telling strangers about the tragedy of her past. Her few friends back in London didn’t even know the true nature of her parents’ deaths—not that they’d believe her if she told them.

  “It’s—no problem,” she said, stepping back from him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She hurried out of the kitchen, her skin still pulsating from his touch. It wasn’t her magic that was the most difficult to grapple with—it was her growing attraction to Artair.

  * * *

  Diana drew her cloak around her, the brisk, cold air of the morning piercing her skin like the tip of a knife’s blade. It was just past dawn, and she stood with Kensa and Artair just outside the cottage. She wore a fourteenth-century outfit, of which Kensa had many—a forest-green wool cloak, a light underdress and tunic that she wore under a gown of deep blue. Kensa had insisted that she looked lovely, but Diana felt silly and out of place in the gown. Artair, however, looked every inch the fourteenth-century Highland laird, with a white tunic, a pair of breeches, and a wool cloak of his own. His chestnut hair was windswept, his cerulean eyes a bright blue in the early morning sunlight. It took great effort not to stare at him. Focus.