Title: Dalriada

Author: Harry Rey

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/22/2026

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 333

Genre: Historical Fantasy, MM romance, historical, fantasy, action/adventure, barbarians, Celts, Gaels, Roman soldiers, screenplay writers, folklore, goddess, illness, interracial/intercultural, road trip, reunited, tattoos, time travel

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Description

TV writer Alex is having a bad day. Dumped by his soap star ex and on the verge of being fired for being too American to write for a British period drama, London has never felt more isolating for a Black, gay history graduate from Chicago’s South Side.

When his Scottish flatmate drags him to her home on the Isle of Mull, Alex expects a distraction. Instead, after a whisky-soaked night, he meets Fergus, a flame-haired fisherman who speaks only ancient Gaelic. After a stormy night of passion, Alex wakes in ancient Dalriada, a kingdom that has not yet found its missing king.

War is coming to fifth-century Scotland. The Roman general Valerius is closing in, and Fergus may be the leader Dalriada needs to survive. Alex has a different problem. Without his HIV medication, time itself is killing him. To have any chance of getting home, Alex must face a vengeful Celtic goddess and choose between the man he is falling for, and the future of a kingdom.

Excerpt

Dalriada
Harry F. Rey © 2026
All Rights Reserved

The Last King of Scotland

King James I of England and VI of Scotland stroked his lover’s beard, twisting the pointed edge beneath his chin, the whiskers not yet fully formed on the young man’s flushed face.

“Your Majesty,” George said with a whimper. “I am but your lowly cupbearer.” The dogs barked in the castle grounds. Beyond the window, the men of court readied their bows for the day’s hunt.

“Pray silence,” said James, grabbing George’s perfectly cushioned buttocks encased in cream riding tights. “From henceforth, you will be Sir George Villiers. No longer a commoner, but my faithful servant. A Gentleman of the Bedchamber, no less.”

“My king,” George whispered, “the chance to spend one more night with you is a blessed—”

“My only sweet and dear child, I am the one who is blessed.” Their noses touched, breath intermingling in the scent of English roses scattered around the king’s own room, fresh morning air drifting in from the Buckinghamshire hillsides. James stroked young George’s cheek with his bejewelled hand. “That I may have sweet bedchamber boys to play with me. God so love me, as I desire only to live in this world for your sake—”

“This is not going on TV!” Clarissa yelled, scrunching up the script outline I’d just handed her and chucking it into the straw-lined stable. An annoyed horse neighed, as if he were also personally offended by my writing. She sipped from a lipstick-stained foam cup, wild hair an angry mess, made worse from the biting wind sweeping in from the moors. The air whipped with fury through the set, rattling outdoor lighting fixtures and playing havoc with Anne of Denmark’s precisely blow-dried hair petals. “Why does it always smell like shit out here?”

Clarissa turned on the heel of her boot; I didn’t mention she’d stepped in horse shit. She marched towards the stately home, anorak flapping in the wind. This grand Buckinghamshire mansion was an open sore of a mobile television set with a staff of dozens. I was distracted by Anne of Denmark sparking a cigarette while copious amounts of hairspray surrounded her like noxious gas. Clarissa marched straight inside, and I ran from the explosion waiting to happen.

“If I could have one moment, Clarissa.” She openly shuddered. I knew my American accent grated on her Northern English nerves because she’d told me as much the first day I’d joined the writing staff. On a freelance basis, just in case an American writer (in other words, Black) wouldn’t be a good cultural fit for a British historical epic. “But those are King James’s exact words. He wrote them to George—”

“Enough!” The yell was so loud even the rig handlers in the next room glanced through the gilded window frames. The set ground to a halt to watch Clarissa claim her next victim. The make-up artists with cases strapped to their necks like popcorn sellers, the costume designers rolling sixteenth-century dresses down the corridor, even the painted eyes of royal portraits gazing down watched us in voyeuristic delight. “For the last time, I am not going to give the first king of Great Britain a gay love scene on national television. Maybe in your HBOs this sort of thing will fly.” Clarissa patted her pockets, looking for the paper she’d already chucked into the stable. So instead, she gestured with her coffee cup. “But this production is a historically accurate—”

“But it is accurate!” I started stronger than I finished. “James and George were lovers.” The assembled staff waiting for us to clear out of the corridor so they could get back to work took a collective gasp. I was arguing back with Clarissa. No one argued back with Clarissa. Not even when she contradicted herself. One just figured out how to put King James on a horse while also not having to send him back to hair and make-up for an hour. (The answer to that conundrum was mounted hair dryer operatives.) She could yell about my writing. She could scream that my accent gave her a migraine. She could even drop her smuggled menthol cigarettes into my salad. But she could not, would not, question the accuracy of my research. I was a medieval history major for fuck’s sake. With a minor in Latin.

“It…it’s all true.” I gulped but steeled myself. The day of my reckoning had come. “They were lovers,” I said, sucking a breath through gritted teeth. “It’s undeniable.”

The coffee cup whistled an inch from my ear and splattered against the ornate wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t give a flying fuck if there’s a statue of those two buggering outside Marble Arch. This is Sunday night fucking television.”

“But—”

“But you can see me in my office first thing in the morning. I’ve had enough with this bloody gay agenda turning everything queer.” She turned and marched off, muttering furiously but spurring the set back into life like scene transitions in a Muppet movie. Something was dripping down the back of my neck. Not sweat but coffee. Splashback.

“You better clean that up, mate,” came the gruff voice of a passing cleaner. He kicked the coffee cup as I suddenly gasped at the stain dripping down ancient mahogany. I covered it with my body and a sheepish grin, trying to wipe off the no doubt thousands of pounds in damage Clarissa had just caused. Of course, the hoodie I’d chosen to wear today was beige, leaving a coffee-and-mahogany stain on my sleeve.

Now I was stuck on the moors in East Wherever-shire, barely an hour into an endless day, knowing perfectly well I was going to be fired tomorrow. How come in England there’s two pubs on every corner, three in every one-horse village, but never a drink to be found when you need one?

*****

As TV writers, we spend all our time trying to get onto a set, but I’d never been more relieved to get off one. I spent the rest of the day avoiding Clarissa and took the first ride I could back to London and suffered through the oh-so-fun Thursday night Tube back to Croydon, where my flatmate, Siobhan, was dressing for a night out.

“Won’t you be cold?” I asked like the concerned friend of two years I certainly was. “I mean, I know it’s June, but it can’t be more than fifty degrees—”

“Celsius please, Alec.” She always sounded several octaves more Scottish after pre-gaming, adding a c to the end of my name. I helped myself to the dregs of vodka left in the bottle on the kitchen table and added some flat, electric-orange Scottish soda Siobhan was addicted to, but that tasted nothing like orange soda. She finished her mascara in the reflection on the microwave.

“If ah didnae hauv a jaeket wi me Hogmanay in Edinburgh in the hail an’ sleet, ahm certainly no gonnae hauv wan the noo.”

“But it’s freezing outside!”

“Auch, May’s done wi.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? It’s nine point four degrees centigrade outside—” So my quick conversion app said. “And probably going to rain.”

“Ye can cast a clout once May’s oot, Alec.”

“What does that mean?”

She popped her mascara brush away and tottered toward the table on spectacular heels. There was one everlasting truth about Siobhan, she looked phenomenal in a strapless dress. When public relations-type girls dress for battle, they go all in. Whether it was a limited-edition luxury car or an armoured personnel carrier at an arms show in Dubai, Siobhan could climb on top and sell the hell out of it. As long as they didn’t ask her to open her mouth. Then it was like when the girl from Brave has a sleepover with all the other Disney princesses.

“Go and hauv yerself a nice wee bath. And don’t forget, we’ve got those West End tickets tomorrow night. Cannae wait to see that Aladdin.”

“I remember. And I’ll be around. I’m getting fired tomorrow.”

“Oh, dinnae be daft.” She grabbed her tiny purse from the hall table and headed for the door. “Yer a braw writer. Now away and calm the fuck doon.” The door slammed shut.

“Wait,” I called out. “Is braw good or bad?” But Siobhan was gone, and I was alone.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Harry F. Rey is an author and lover of gay themed stories with a powerful punch with influences ranging from Alan Hollinghurst to Isaac Asimov to George R.R. Martin. He loves all things sci-fi and supernatural, and always with a gay twist. Harry is originally from the UK but lives in Jerusalem, Israel with his husband.