Claimed By The Wolf Prince. Marguerite Kaye

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      As his anger flared, the savage life-force contained within the man showed fleetingly, and Iona felt it again. A sort of edgy elation. All her senses were on alert. The world seemed to shrink, leaving just the two of them, cloaked in his all-pervasive aura. Her head swam. She prided herself on her intuition, but as she stared at the imposing Faol warrior she realised she had no clue at all as to his intentions. The instinct to flee was sudden and irresistible.

      Wrenching herself free from his grip, she made for the protection of the forest. She was fast, but not fast enough. She didn’t see him move, she didn’t hear him come after her, but she sensed him, a dark lunging presence behind her. He caught her, picked her up effortlessly and carried her back down the beach.

      It was pointless to resist. She almost didn’t want to. Of a surety, he was taking her to Kentarra. Iona had heard talk of the strange mythical island, its wild beauty, its savage customs, and a part of her longed to see for herself if the rumours were true. Back home, her father would be waiting, no doubt furious at her for being captured. Back home, too, awaited her future husband, the very thought of whom made her shiver with disgust. Kenneth McIver could not carry her as if she were as light as a feather. His touch would not give her butterflies, make her skin heat and tingle with anticipation as if she were about to hurl herself from some impossible height. Kenneth McIver would not make her feel like this man did. This man? This Faol. This…“What is your name?”

      “You may call me Struan.”

      He set her onto her feet by a small wooden boat. Determined not to let him see the effect he was having on her senses, Iona concentrated on righting her sodden clothing. “What will happen to me?”

      “You’ll come to no harm, providing you comply.” Struan watched her as she shook out her petticoats, straightened the sleeves of her sark. Her eyes were the colour of the emerald on his amulet. Her skin was like rich buttermilk. A sprinkling of freckles across that tilted nose. And she had curves, despite her slimness. She was really quite beautiful, for a mere human. She would not be easily tamed, for she seemed quite impervious to the Faol in him. He ran a finger over the soft downy skin of her cheek.

      Iona jerked her head away. She’d overheard the women talk while doing the washing at the lochside once, giggling while they described the Faols’ legendary skills as lovers. Their reputed size. And potency. She blushed at the memory. “You’re wasting your time,” she said, meeting his fierce grey eyes defiantly. “Your Faol tricks won’t work on me.”

      Struan laughed softly. She did seem strangely immune. “So it appears, but I relish a challenge.” He was aroused now, aroused enough to forget all about the fact that he had no right to claim her.

      “You’re not interested in me,” Iona said breathlessly. “The only attraction I have is as payment for a debt.”

      Struan touched the fluttering pulse at her throat with his thumb. “You do yourself an injustice, Iona McKinley,” he said huskily.

      Iona couldn’t seem to move. His eyes glittered like flint. No one had looked at her quite like that before, as if he saw deep inside her. He was close now. Breast-to-breast, thigh-to-thigh, they stood. Heat emanated from him in waves. Her own heat, too, tightening in her belly, pooling between her thighs. She ached for him to touch her. A myth come to life. Unreal. And yet deeply, viscerally real. She wanted him to kiss her, just so she could discover for herself what danger tasted like. “You don’t want me. You want revenge.”

      “Not revenge—justice. On Kentarra you will be claimed. You will become one of us, bound to the clan. If,” Struan added, “you are willing.” He stroked the soft skin of her neck.

      “I will never be willing.” Iona’s breath was coming in shallow, sharp gasps. His touch was beguiling. Thrilling. Arousing. Everything it should not be. Everything she wanted it to be. “I have no wish to become Faol,” she said raggedly.

      Struan lowered his head, his lips lingering where his fingers had caressed. She tasted of fresh air and summer flowers. She tasted of rain. And human female…a strange, not to say illicit, spice. He nipped the lobe of her ear, his breath warm on the shell of it. “It is an honour granted to few,” he whispered.

      Iona’s hand curled onto his shoulder. Her nipples were hard against her stays. “I am content as I am,” she said, unable to stop herself from nuzzling his throat, grazing her teeth on the salty skin.

      “That is because you don’t know any better.” He stroked the soft outer curve of her breast. “Once you have experienced the Faol, everything else pales by comparison.” Then he put his arms around her, moulding her to him, and his lips claimed hers.

      Chapter Two

      He tasted just exactly as she had imagined—of man, of myth and danger, and something more elemental. His tongue touched hers, and Iona gasped, for no man had taken such liberties with her in all her one and twenty years. Sweetness flooded her, heated her. Her lips parted wider. Of their own accord, her arms wrapped themselves around him. The solid, sinewy length of his body threw her senses into wild disarray. His kiss deepened, and she moaned.

      With a harsh cry, Struan pushed her away. His chest heaved. The air was heavy with the scent of their arousal. He was stunned by how close he had come to losing control. The urge to lay her down on the sand and thrust into her, claiming her for his own without finesse, was almost too much to resist. He had no right to claim her, but she felt so good it was difficult to even remember that fact, let alone act upon it.

      Breathing heavily, he pushed back the fall of hair over his brow, lifting his head to test the wind direction. “We must make haste. The tide is on the turn, and there is a storm brewing,” he said, focusing on the need to make sail, determinedly ignoring the siren call of this vulnerable, bewitching female.

      Iona shivered violently. What was happening to her? So contrary to her perilous situation, her body’s response was, and yet so fierce. Behind her, the forest looked impenetrable. Even if she could escape—which she severely doubted—she had no idea how to get home, nor any means of transport. She really was a prisoner, at the mercy of the legendary Faol—for the time-being, at least. Until her father paid up, as surely he would, when he realised she had been taken. And then she would be released. Surely.

      She eyed the broiling sea nervously. The McKinleys were not fisher-folk. “I take it there is no point throwing myself upon your mercy and begging you to release me?”

      “None whatsoever. Your foolish father broke faith with us, and all the Highlands must see that he is duly punished.” Looking at her, holding herself tight as if she would break if she let go, Struan felt a foolish urge to do as she asked. This was not her doing. The laird deserved to pay the price, not his innocent daughter.

      He straightened his shoulders and touched his fingers to his amulet. It wasn’t the first time he’d had cause to question the ancient ways, but for now he must be content to uphold them. It was too soon after his election as Alpha to contemplate change, nor to allow emotion to interfere with duty. He would not tolerate such weakness in the members of his pack. Of a certainty he must not display it himself. “Come,” he said curtly, holding out his hand, “there is no more to be said. With luck, we’ll be on Kentarra by nightfall.”

      White horses foamed on the crest of a heavy swell as Struan pushed the little clinker-built sgoth out to sea, leaping lithely aboard as the water lifted the hull from the sand. The wind tugged the sail as soon as he released it, making the boat surge forward.

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