Domhnall's Honor: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Book 3)

by Stella Knight

  Domhnall's Honor

  Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Book Three

  Stella Knight

  Also by Stella Knight

  Highlander Fate Series

  Eadan’s Vow

  Ronan’s Captive

  Ciaran’s Bond

  Niall’s Bride

  Artair’s Temptress

  Latharn’s Destiny

  Highlander Fate Omnibus Books 1-3

  Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Series

  Gawen’s Claim

  Bhaltair’s Pledge

  Domhnall’s Honor

  Copyright © 2020 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.

  stellaknightbooks.com

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

  Cover Design by Kim Killion

  Pronunciation Guide

  Domhnall - DOH-nuhl

  Ruarc - RORK

  Siomha - SHEE-vuh

  Neacal - NIY-kl

  Moirna - MOY-er-nuh

  Fyfa - FEE-fuh

  Lachina - Lock-EEN-ah

  Ulf - OOLF

  Aodh - AY

  Erskina - ERSK-in-uh

  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

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Stella Knight

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  1266

  Leagh Isle, Scottish Isles

  A thick layer of fog hovered over Leagh Isle as Domhnall trudged toward the fishing cottage that clung to the edge of one of the ragged cliffs that lined the coast. He could barely make out the features of the isle that surrounded him—the cliffs, the rugged yet verdant glens, even the churning waters of the surrounding ocean, though he could taste the salt in the air.

  He knew the fog would lift come midday, when the sun’s rays fought their way past its impenetrable cover, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding as he approached the doorway of the cottage. The tension that coiled around his belly tightened like a noose, and he expelled a breath.

  Ye’re doing this for yer people. Yer clan, he told himself, as a wave of guilt washed over him at the prospect of what he was about to do.

  He forced himself to enter the cottage.

  Inside, his cousin Ulf stood with his back to him, warming his hands by the fire that roared in the central hearth. Ulf turned, his eyes lighting up at the sight of him. Domhnall returned his smile, hoping his inner turmoil didn’t show as an array of emotions roiled through him; dread, unease, fear.

  Ulf strode across the room, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder.

  “Cousin,” Ulf said. “It’s good to see you well.”

  Ulf’s warm greeting only increased Domhnall’s guilt, but he made himself nod.

  He took in Ulf; he’d last seen him two Yules ago. He and his cousin shared the same blond hair and ice-blue eyes that told of their Norse ancestry. Their manner of speech was the biggest distinction between them; Domhnall’s tongue displayed the Gaelic side of his bloodline that he lived and breathed, while Ulf’s brogue was fully Norse, the side that he fully embraced.

  “You are well, cousin?” Ulf pressed, his smile fading as he took in Domhnall’s tight expression.

  “Aye,” Domhnall said, forcing the tension from his expression and giving his cousin a smile. “And ye?”

  “The sea was rough getting here, but it was worth the journey to see my cousin—to discuss what must be discussed in person and not by letter or messenger.”

  Ulf turned, looking around the small cottage, shaking his head as a look of nostalgia entered his eyes.

  “I still remember the last time we were here as lads,” he said. “Remember Uncle Svend? What a terrible fisherman he was. He would be in a mood whenever he didn’t catch fish—which was often.”

  Domhnall couldn’t help but smile at the memory of his Uncle Svend, who was indeed a terrible, moody fisherman. But his smile faded. Svend was yet another reminder of the blood ties he shared with Ulf.

  Ulf gestured to a table where a large jug of ale sat. Domhnall took a seat, hoping that his visage appeared neutral and relaxed.

  “Have you thought about my proposal, cousin?” Ulf asked, his tone becoming serious.

  ’Tis all I’ve been able tae think about.

  “Aye,” Domhnall said, forcing himself to hold his cousin’s gaze as he spoke the next words, words which were lies. “And I agree with it.”

  Stark relief passed over Ulf’s face as he sat, offering Domhnall a wide grin.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t,” Ulf said. “I was afraid you’d let your men sway you into betraying your own blood.”

  They’re my blood as well, Domhnall wanted to shout.

  Ulf and Domhnall shared blood on their mother’s side; Ulf was the son of his maternal uncle. Domhnall ruled lands on the Isle of Barra, an isle where the descendants of the great Somerled, a Norse-Gael, had long ruled. But ever since the Norse king had signed a peace treaty with the Scottish king over the contested isles between Scotland and Norway, Barra and other isles that had once belonged to the Norse, now belonged to Scotland.

  While the Scottish king left the isles of Somerled to remain self-governed under the native clans, they had become more and more Gaelicized, and the Norse knew it.

  Including his cousin.

  Domhnall had only known life on the isle he had inherited through his father’s side, a proud Norse-Gael descended from both the Norse and Gaelic kings. Barra was his home, and he was loyal to it, his clan, and the people who resided there. He loved Ulf and his Norse kin, but he would do whatever it took to protect his home . . . even if it meant betraying his cousin, who wanted to ignore the treaty and take back the isles for the Norse. He had tried, without success, to dissuade Ulf from his intentions, but his cousin had only grown more determined.

  He ultimately had no choice but to pretend to agree with Ulf’s plan, all the while supplying information to his own men, information that could impede his cousin. He knew what he was doing was for the greater good, but that didn’t stop the guilt that continually raged within him.

  “I always knew the king was a weakling. To give up the isles—lands that are ours by right,” Ulf was saying, anger flaring in his blue eyes. “We will take them back—damn what the treaty says.”

  “Aye,” Domhnall murmured in agreement, though his stomach churned.

  “I know it will be difficult to go against your men. But they will soon understand
that the isles are ours—and they were, long before the Scots made a claim.”

  Domhnall studied his cousin, whose eyes were now alight with greed, wondering where the kind lad he’d grown up with had gone. What had led to this greed? How could Domhnall have stopped it?

  “Are ye nae happy with yer lands on Orkney?” Domhnall asked, before he could stop himself. The Norse still held the Shetlands and Orkney, and Domhnall, along with his Scottish allies, had hoped those lands would appease them.

  Ulf stiffened at his words, his eyes going dark, and Domhnall knew he had asked the wrong question.

  “No. I want my ancestral home, the one taken from me by the Scots and their king.”

  Ulf leaned back in his chair, staring at Domhnall with narrowed eyes.

  “You’re not turning your back on your blood, are you?”

  Panic surged in Domhnall’s belly; he couldn’t have Ulf suspecting him.

  “Nae,” Domhnall said, fixing him with a glare that he hoped was convincing. “Donnae accuse me of such a thing.”

  A silence laced with tension stretched between them for several long moments until Ulf broke it. “I apologize, cousin,” Ulf said finally, his glare giving way to an apologetic smile. “I know you’ll never betray me.”

  Domhnall’s guilt once again roared to life, but he steadily held his cousin’s gaze.

  “Now,” Ulf said, leaning forward, “we discuss how we take our lands back from the Scots.”

  Domhnall waved farewell to Ulf, who stood on the shore of Leagh as Domhnall’s men guided his boat away from the isle. He only turned away when his cousin became a speck on the horizon, facing the churning waters of the ocean as his boat made its way back to Barra.

  His father had once told him that despite how violent the ocean could become, it was the most peaceful place a man could be. Their people, the old Gaels, were people of the ocean who had settled the isles that surrounded them, learning to coexist and make peace with the great waters. His mother had told him similar tales of her Norse ancestors, how they had always felt more at home at sea. Love of the ocean and seafaring linked the two sides of his bloodline.

  He was the only child of his parents, whom he’d loved fiercely. His mother had died long ago when he was still a lad, his father only years ago, leaving him as chief of their clan and laird of Farraige Castle, but he still thought of them often. What would they think of his betrayal of his cousin? Would they be proud? Disappointed? Both?

  “Leadership is nae an easy path, son,” his father had told him on his deathbed. “No decision will come easy, none will feel right. I still donnae ken if I made the right decision about events long since past.”

  “Then how do ye ever ken ye’ve made the right decision?” Domhnall had asked.

  His father had only given him a sad smile. “That’s the thing, my son. Ye never do.”

  The shouts of his men pulled him from thoughts of the past as their boat neared the shore of Barra. He followed their gazes, stiffening with surprise.

  A lass lay sprawled out on the shore, eerily still.

  Chapter 2

  At first, Astrid only felt—and heard.

  The dampness of sand on her flesh. The scent of salty ocean in the air. The crisp breeze against her skin. The crashing of waves on a shore.

  And then shouts. Masculine shouts.

  She opened her eyes to find herself lying prone on a beach, and for several tense seconds she forgot how she’d gotten there . . . until it all came back to her.

  Visions of the past in her own time, visions that had driven her to use her magical ability to travel back through time. Magic she’d long turned her back on.

  Arriving in Scotland and then driving to the fairy pools of Skye. The array of images she’d seen on the surface of the waters. The fateful leap she’d taken into the water—the leap that pulled her back through time.

  She sat up, shivering and terrified, turning to face the direction of the shouts. A group of about a half-dozen men approached her, wearing belted tunics with swords at their hilts.

  “Oh my God . . ." she whispered.

  Her hands flew to her mouth as icy fear skated through her, the full implication of where she was hitting her with the force of a ton of bricks. Unless those men were playing an elaborate prank on her, their clothing proved that she was indeed in the past. She’d traveled back in time from the relative security of the twenty-first century to the dangerous past. A past where a woman alone wasn’t safe.

  And the men approaching her were regarding her with suspicion.

  Another jolt of fear tore through her as she scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering. Had they seen her appear here—out of nowhere? If so, they’d suspect—know—she was a witch, and she knew what people did to witches in this time.

  As the men drew near, she instinctively held out her hands, trying to think of a spell—any spell—that could protect her. But her magic was rusty, and though she’d practiced a few Defensive spells before she’d left the present, fear made all of her senses, and her magical ability, go into freeze mode.

  One of the men, who she assumed was the leader, turned to order the other men back in words she couldn’t hear. The men hung back but continued to regard her with suspicion.

  The leader drew closer, his hands held up in a gesture of appeasement.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. She recognized him. It was the man she’d seen in her visions, in her dreams, even in the waters in the fairy pools of Skye before she’d taken that fateful leap.

  But the visions didn’t do him justice in the flesh; she wasn’t prepared for the physical affect he had on her. His muscular form towered over her at six and a half feet, with wavy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders, ice-blue eyes and a dusting of beard along his strong jawline. A proud, aristocratic nose along with a wide, sensual mouth only enhanced his masculinity.

  Her breath hitched in her throat and her mouth went dry, her already accelerated heartbeat increasing its thunderous pace in her chest. Hot desire chased away her fear, along with a certain calm, a deep-seated knowledge that somehow, she was safe with this man.

  Yet her sense of safety with him made no sense. Other than in her visions, she’d never seen him before. Still, she couldn’t get past the sense that she knew this man somehow. That she was meant to know this man.

  “I’ll nae hurt ye, lass.”

  Astrid jerked in surprise. The man looked like a Viking but had the voice of a Highlander, his thick accent shaping his words in an odd manner she’d never heard before. It bore some similarities to the modern Scottish brogue but was far more difficult to understand, with harsher consonants and vowels.

  The man kept his hands up, his eyes warm, but they held traces of suspicion.

  “How did ye come tae be here? Where is yer escort? Yer ship?”

  It took some time to wrap her mind around what he was saying, and when it did, panic seized her. She hadn’t thought through what she’d do once she arrived here. She’d naïvely assumed she’d have more time to prepare once she arrived in the past. How could she have known she’d run into the man from her visions so abruptly?

  She couldn’t just tell the man she’d traveled through time, could she? Her coven leader, Siobhan, had told her that there were some who were aware of witches and magic in the past, but most were not, believing it was evil if such a thing existed.

  She was just going to pray that Domhnall was aware of witches, but was in the minority who didn’t think they were evil. Only she couldn’t tell him who she really was now. Not with his suspicious men hovering behind him.

  Say something, Astrid. Anything, she thought frantically. She shivered as the ocean breeze battered her body and wrapped her arms around herself. The man’s handsome features tightened, but not with anger—with protectiveness.

  “Did someone harm ye, lass?” he practically growled. “Is that what has ye frightened so?”

  Without thinking, she gave him a jerky nod. His face remained ti
ght, and he turned to shout something to the other men. They nodded and scattered. He took another step toward her, still keeping his hands up.

  “I’m Laird Domhnall Flachnan, chieftain of the Flachnan clan of Barra,” he said gently. “Ye’re on my lands, and ye’re now under my protection.”

  Domhnall Flachnan. Again, that tug of familiarity pulled at her. But she was certain she’d never heard the name before.

  “Can ye walk, lass? I’ll take ye back tae my castle where ye can have a hot broth and change intae warm clothes. I can protect ye from whoever caused ye harm.”

  She gave him another jerky nod, but as soon as she stepped forward, her legs wobbled. He immediately moved forward and swept her up into his arms. The reaction of her body was instant—a heated awareness that went right to her center. A firestorm of electricity flared throughout her entire body.

  “I’ve got ye, lass,” he murmured. “Ye’re safe with me.”

  And even though she was hundreds of years in the past, thousands of miles from home, she believed him.

  Astrid sat on Domhnall’s horse, his muscular arms wrapped around her, as they approached a causeway that led to an honest-to-goodness, straight-out-of-a-medieval-fairytale castle. It sat perched on a rocky islet linked to Barra by the causeway, its gray stone towers gleaming in the sunlight. In her time, most castles were in ruins; to see such a striking castle in its heyday was . . . surreal.

  Astrid tried to calm her reaction to Domhnall’s touch as they neared the castle; she’d spent the brief journey from the beach to the castle trying to come up with what she was going to say, but it had proved difficult with Domhnall’s muscular arms wrapped around her. He hadn’t spoken to her during the journey, for which she was grateful. It gave her much-needed time to think. If, for whatever reason, her instincts were wrong, and he had her thrown into the dungeons for being a witch, she needed an escape plan.