Claimed by the Wolf Prince (5 page)

The women were sitting in the morning sunshine, drinking in the gentle warmth of its rays. As Struan and Iona approached, the gurgle of their laughter faded, but their smiles grew as they got gracefully to their feet and made their curtsies to their prince.

“Highness.”

“Prince Struan.”

“Kirstin, Lillias, ladies. This is Iona, Laird McKinley's daughter, as you know.”

The women eyed Iona with fresh interest. Kirstin looked even more striking in the light of day, her hair night-black, her skin alabaster, her cherry-red lips set in a seductive smile. “Poor Lulach is still licking his wounds. It must be a fine feeling to have a prince fight for your favours,” she said, her voice husky. Her long fingers trailed possessively over Struan's arm, white as milk against his tan. Her figure was voluptuous, the soft swell of her full breasts rising and falling gently at the low neckline of her gown.

A gust of something horribly like jealousy assailed Iona. Looking up at Struan, she was pleased to see that he wasn't eyeing Kirstin's quivering breasts, nor even her lusciously pouted lips. He was looking at Iona.

As were the other women, she noticed nervously. Ten pairs of beautiful Faol eyes, their expressions speculative. Iona could feel the blush stealing up her neck. Bad enough, to be so intimidated by the sheer power of their beauty, their easy grace, but the Faol women were a little too knowing.

“So, our prince has decided to keep you for himself,” Lillias said with a sly smile at Struan. “Lucky you. He's a potent one, is our Prince Struan. Any one of us would have grabbed the chance to be in your skin last night.”

Her remark provoked a gale of laughter.

“Come, Highlander,” another of the Faol women said, “we are all desperate to know what you possess that we don't. Prince Struan was ever picky, even before he took the crown. Kirstin here has grown tired of waiting on him claiming her.”

“Then Kirstin will grow more weary still,” Struan snapped. “When I take a mate, the choice will be mine. I will do the claiming.” His gaze swept over the group. “Enough of this foolishness. Stop now before you incur my wrath.”

“Yes, Highness.” Kirstin, visibly chastened, threw Iona a malicious look. As Struan nodded curtly and turned away, Iona looked back, just in time to see the beautiful face blur into that of a small, snarling wolf. She gasped with shock, but as Struan looked down at her enquiringly, the wolf disappeared. Kirstin smiled malevolently. Iona shuddered. There was one Faol, at least, who would never accept her. Attractive as they were, tactile and sensuous, the Faol women were also more than capable of ensuring that outsiders remained just that.

“It's as well…I've no intentions of staying here,” she said as they made their way down to the jetty, for they were going to sail round the island. “Those women would never accept me as one of their own.”

“They will, if I decree it should be so.”

“Oh, aye, they will be all smiles to your face, Prince Struan, but I doubt they'll be so pleasant when your back is turned. That one—that Kirstin—she hates me.”

“She would come to accept you in time.”

Iona shook her head. “No. You're wrong,” she said decisively.

She hadn't meant to, but once again it seemed she had unwittingly overstepped the mark. Struan's brows snapped together. “You must never contradict me in public. On this island my word is law. Do I make myself clear?”

It was the haughty way he looked at her. That combination of power and
authority. Truth be told, it made her want to prostate herself, but it also had the contrary effect of making her want to challenge him. But Iona had learnt, in the short period of their acquaintance, that she could challenge the man but not the prince. “Yes, Highness,” she said, curtsying in imitation of the women.

She didn't know how he managed it, but he was standing too close. She could feel the heat emanating from his body. Her skin felt tight, as if it were stretching towards him.

“I have another command for you,” he said, his voice managing to be both beguiling and harsh.

It was there again, that tingle of excitement mixed with a fear of the unknown. Her breathing was erratic. “Yes, Highness?”

“Kiss me,” he said, pulling her roughly to him. His arms went around her, and his mouth took hers in a hard, hot kiss.

Their bodies were afire in a moment, their tongues clashing, their hands frantic as they sought to be closer and closer still. Iona was braced against the cliff into which the path was cut. She could feel the solid heft of Struan's erection pressing into her. She moaned as he brushed the sides of her breasts through her gown, her nipples budding hard in response, her sex throbbing. He kissed her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks, then her mouth again. His lips were warm against the pulse of her throat. The scent of their arousal made her senses swim. She clutched at his hair, his shoulders, his buttocks, brazenly arching her sex against his.

She didn't hear the men approaching in the distance, but Struan obviously did. With a curse, he put her from him, hastily tucking his shirt back into his belt. She barely registered their surprised glances, not-quite-hidden smiles, as she tried to adjust her own clothing, to calm her jumping pulses and throbbing senses.

“Maybe you are a witch after all as Lulach claimed, Iona McKinley,” Struan said with a lopsided smile.

“And you're not the only one falling under a spell, Struan Tolmach,” Iona thought shakily.

 

Kentarra proved to be as beautiful and seductive as its inhabitants. And as wild, and dangerous, too. The vibrant flowers were not all poisonous, but some were. The wolves that lurked in the forest shadows seemed harmless only in Struan's presence. Beyond the harbour, beyond some invisible line that circled the sea around the isle, the waters seemed perpetually stormy. Though the climate was balmy, there was often the oppressive feel of thunder in the air. Over the next few days, as Struan showed her his domain, Iona was in turns enchanted and unsettled.

But it was not really the island that enchanted her. It was its prince. Or at least, it was the man Struan became when he cast off his princely responsibilities, as he increasingly did, to spend time alone with her. He made her laugh. He had an eye for the foibles of man, which matched her own wry—and rarely expressed—sense of the ridiculous. He made her feel special, listening to her as if her every word was important. He made her happy, that was it. She had never been so happy, so free to be herself in the company of another. Struan saw things in her she hadn't even known were there. And it seemed to be the same for him. His eyes sought hers, even in company. She saw reflected in his face, what she felt. Wanting, made stronger for its continual denial. Becoming, through that denial, a yearning so intense it was almost impossible not to surrender to it.

Iona had never come close to falling in love, but she knew she was dangerously so now. The days were not long enough for all they had to say to each other. Every moment not spent together felt wasted. Each night, as they returned to the palace
carved out of the rock, she looked up at the moon with a sense of dread as it tracked its way across the night sky, growing slowly but surely fatter, eating into the time they had left, marking out the limits of the idyll that was their time together. Only four days left. Only two.

 

“Struan.”

“Iona. You have that ominous look about you.”

“What look?” They were sitting on the edge of the hot springs, which formed a series of pools on the northern side of Kentarra. Tall, lush trees and ferns, huge orchids and blowsy roses bloomed along the banks.

Struan touched her cheek. As ever, she shivered in response. As ever, he drew quickly away. It was like this all the time now. Touch. Respond. Retreat. Touch. Respond. Retreat. Until they kissed, and their passion exploded. Until Struan wrenched himself free once again.

“The look that says you're about to ask something you shouldn't, but are going to ask anyway.”

Iona chuckled. “Well, I am. It's just…can you all change into a wolf, even the women?”

Struan nodded. “All true Faol.”

“What about those who have been bound?”

“Yes. They become like us, share our powers.”

Iona lifted up a fistful of sand and let it fall through her fingers. “What does it feel like?”

“It's not a separate being, it's part of us. Some can control their wolf more easily than others. For some it happens when they are angry, or tired, or when they are aroused.”

“And you?”

Struan leant back on his hands. He wore no shirt today, just his plaid and his belt. As ever, when she allowed herself to dwell on him, Iona felt a rush of pleasure. She wanted to rub her cheek against the soft hair on his chest. She wanted him to kiss her. She was always wanting him to kiss her.

“I have mastered my wolf,” Struan said.

“
I
subdued him,
you said. I didn't understand what you meant at the time.”

“Do you remember me carrying you through the forest?”

“I thought I was dreaming.”

“Did it frighten you?”

Iona bit her lip. “No. I—the truth is, I find it— I would like to know what it's like.”

“You find it exciting?”

“Is that shocking?”

“No. Surprising. But then, everything about you is surprising.”

“Struan, would you— Can you show me…”

He found the idea deeply arousing. He found Iona's obvious fascination even more so. Her eyes were shining. He got to his feet, pulling her with him, and unbelted his plaid.

Iona's heart bumped, skipped a beat, then hammered furiously in her breast as she looked at him, magnificently naked. Long legs, powerful thighs, the same tanned biscuit colour all over. He was erect. Hugely erect, his shaft jutting up towards his stomach. He pulled her tight to him. Silken heat. Potent.

“Touch me,” he said, placing her hand on his chest. “Feel me.”

She smoothed her palms over his skin, closing skimming over his shoulders, his
rolling muscles, feeling them bunch under her. Struan groaned. She felt him arch his back. Under her hands, his skin grew silky soft hairs. A faint stretching noise, like a rope being pulled taut. His thighs bulged. His neck thickened. The sinews in his arms stood out like thick cords, straining with effort. With a huge roar, it was completed, the transformation of man to wolf. The massive beast dropped onto all fours in front of her. Silky ears, the gleam of fangs, but the eyes were the same, fierce and grey and intelligent. Struan.

She touched his silken coat. She stroked him, breathing deep of his familiar scent, which was feral but also man.

Struan.

Wolf.

Struan.

It excited her. She ran her hand down his knotted spine, up to his mighty neck, and as she did so, he transformed beneath her touch. Wolf became man. Naked man. She did not want to, but Iona averted her eyes, and Struan hurriedly belted his plaid back into place. “Does it hurt, when it happens?” she asked, fascinated by what she had just witnessed.

“It feels like your skin is too tight. There's a second or two when you feel your bones might shatter, and then you feel all that raw animal power surge through you. You're still yourself, but enhanced.”

More than a man,
Iona remembered. She believed him now.

Struan scanned the sky, where the moon was already beginning to rise. A moon much fatter than he cared to see. Less than twenty-four hours before it had completed its inexorable progress to fullness. “Tomorrow will be our last day,” he said abruptly. “It is probably for the best.”

“Yes,” Iona said bravely, though she felt her heart was being squeezed tight in a mighty fist. She didn't want to go back. She couldn't bear the thought of never seeing him again. Five minutes apart was hard enough. What would it be like, the rest of her life stretching out in front of her with no hope of being with him? Iona cast a resentful glance at the moon. She didn't want to go, but she could not possibly stay. Could she?

Out walking in the forest the next day, Struan suddenly stopped in his tracks. “What is it?” Iona asked.

“A deer, a big stag by the look of it,” he said, pointing at the ground.

Iona looked but could see nothing.

“The signs are there if you know how to look for them.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Perhaps.”

Iona's eyes gleamed. “I'd love that. What do I do?”

“Breathe.” Struan held her tight against him. “Breathe, drink in every sound, every smallest movement, every scent and taste each as I do.”

She did as he told her, breathing deep, and to her amazement there was the woody scent of pine and sodden bracken, the distinctively sharp tang of shrew and vole, the sweeter, almost rotten stench of a pine marten. All her senses seemed magnified, and it was exhilarating. She had never felt more alive. She sensed, too, Struan's growing visceral need to hunt.

They stalked the stag for miles through the forest and then across the moorland. She could see farther than she had ever seen before. She could hear everything, every creature in the undergrowth, the flutter of wings overhead. It was magical. She never wanted it to end, but it did, when the stag trapped its front forelock on a fallen tree. Struan leapt upon his quarry, transforming in an instant to a mighty wolf in order to deliver the traditional
coup de grâce
by tearing out its throat.

The stag lay panting, its haunches drenched in sweat, its big chocolate-brown eyes defiant but already resigned to death, but at the last instant, Struan hesitated. Iona had made no sound, no move to stop him, but he sensed it. Not horror, nor fear, but pity. Regaining his human form, he released the stag, watched it get shakily to its feet. Hunter and hunted exchanged a long meaningful glance before the stag bounded off over the moor.

“Thank you,” Iona said, kissing his cheek.

“What for?”

“You know fine well.”

 

It was late in the day as they made their way back. The sun was setting, the moon was rising. Almost full. Struan eyed it furiously, wishing there was some way of delaying the inevitable. He needed more time, but it had run out.

Beside him, Iona had tried not to think about what lay ahead so as not to spoil their last moments together but she could not sustain it.

“If I went through the Binding, would the Faol accept me, then?”
Was she really contemplating surrendering herself to the Faol just to be with him?

Though they tried to hide it, his people—especially the women—had remained hostile to Iona. A product of his having taken her from Lulach, Struan suspected. “In time, perhaps. If you took another as a mate,” he said, though very idea of it made him wince.

Iona shuddered. “I don't want another mate.”

Struan frowned.
Why could not things be more straightforward?
“You know that I cannot take any but a pure-born Alpha Faol for a life-mate.” Struan broke off abruptly. He wanted to howl at the Fates, which had so cruelly conspired to separate them, trap them in different worlds. “It's not possible.”

She knew he was right, but it seemed so wrong. She would be unhappy on Kentarra, but how much more unhappy would she be back in her old life? “It's so unfair!” Tears, the first she had allowed herself to shed, glittered on her lashes.

“Iona. My brave Iona, don't cry. It is for the best that you go back to the Highlands, you know that. Let us not talk about it anymore.” He would find a way to avoid the Marking. He must! Struan pulled her close, wrapping his arms so tightly around her she could scarcely breathe. He kissed her. Her lips were cold, but he warmed them. She tasted so sweet. She tasted of all that he could never have, and everything that he had every wanted. When he would have torn himself away, she clung to him. He kissed her again and again, desperate kisses.

Above them, the moon rose, and the rain began to fall. Clouds gathered ominously, black and smoky grey, like great hulking beasts waiting to pounce.

“There's going to be a storm. It's common enough at the full moon here,” Struan said, looking at the sky with a frown. Even as he spoke, a fork of lightning lit up the sky, followed just a few seconds later by the first ominous rumbling of thunder and big fat drops of rain. “We need to find shelter, quickly,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her back to the forest.

Iona stumbled. Already, the rain had plastered her hair to her head. Another fork of lightning tore across the sky. This time the thunder sounded closer. Struan picked her up, holding her high against his chest. They gained the forest as the next fork of lightning struck. The air buzzed and crackled, the rain and the thunder crashed. Deeper they went, where the trees were so closely packed and the canopy of foliage so dense that the rain barely penetrated.

Struan set Iona on her feet. “We can wait it out here,” he said, putting his pelt cloak on the ground, and pulling her down on to it with him.

She clung to him, shivering. “I would have us wait here forever,” she whispered. “secure in our own private world.”

Her breath was warm on his ear. “For tonight, at least,” Struan said, stroking her cheek. Her face was damp with tears and rain. He wiped them tenderly away, and then he kissed her. His tongue thrust against hers, and she arched up, with a moaning cry that heated his blood. He was hard, and she was so soft, and he wanted her so much, he doubted he'd be able to stop if he kissed her again. “Iona,” he said urgently, “I don't think…”

“Struan, I am done with thinking. It achieves nothing. I want you. You want me. I will be gone tomorrow. Surely that is enough.”

It would never be enough. He knew it, even as he kissed her again, stroking her face, her neck, the swell of her breasts. He would want her for eternity, but tonight was all they had. Honour, scruples, all concern for the future, he cast to the winds for the moment. She was right. They had but one chance. They must grasp it.

Lightning illuminated the sky above, silhouetting the pair of them, their faces stark with desire, their eyes dark pools of need. As the thunder followed almost instantaneously, they fell upon each other without restraint, kissing, touching, stroking, tearing at clothes. Struan's
filleadh beg
fell to the ground as he undid his belt. He tore his shirt over his head, and as he did so, the sky lit up again, and Iona drew in her breath at his masculine beauty, the hard planes of him, the muscled contours, the solid length of his manhood.

She reached out to touch, to stroke, made bold by desperation. Silky, the skin was, heavy he was as she cupped him, felt the weight of him fill her hands. Her belly clenched in anticipation. Struan's groan as she caressed him left her in no doubt of the depth of his desire.

Struan knelt down beside her again and removed the rest of her clothing, kissing her breasts, her belly, her thighs, her knees, as her petticoats, her sark and finally her stockings were stripped gently from her. He pulled her to him, crushing her breast
against the hair on his chest, his erection pressing insistently against her belly.

He murmured her name as he kissed her slowly, lingeringly, on the mouth, on her neck, working his way down. Too slow. This was no time for languor, she was on fire. “Struan,” she said, a harsh plea, as she nipped the skin at his shoulder with her teeth. “Struan.” She writhed under him, digging her nails into his back.

He stroked her breasts. Her nipples were hard. His mouth was warm on them, his tongue hot, his touch exquisite, but it was not what she wanted, needed, would die without. Above them, the elements raged as lightning once more arced across the night sky. Between them a tempest of feeling. Iona skimmed her fingers over the tip of Struan's shaft, drawing another wild moan of delight from him.

Raging need, like the raging storm, made her shameless. She touched him again, arching up to rub her sex against him. His mouth found hers, ravaged hers, as his fingers dipped into her, sank inside, high inside, stroking and thrusting, his tongue tangling with hers, his thumb caressing the swelling mound at the centre of her heat, until she dug her heels into the ground, her entire body tense, tight, taut, and cried out her release.

He thrust into her then, slowly and deliberately, easing his way past her maidenhood, which the pulsing of her climax made painless. Higher he pushed, desperately fighting the urge to thrust harshly into the hot, wet tightness of her, which was so much more delightful than he had imagined.

Sheathed in her now, he kissed her again, relishing the way she clung to him, raking her nails on his back, his buttocks, relishing the way she was marking him for her own.

He withdrew slowly, then plunged into her, possessing her, tilting her up to fill her more, his own harsh panting cries merging and mingling with her higher-pitched ones, melding with the crash of the thunder, higher inside and higher yet, until she cried out, until he could hold back no more, and poured himself into her, saying her name over and over like a talisman. All the pent-up passion of the last ten days exploded. The fullness of the moon meant this was no time for holding back. Something truly elemental had occurred between them.

Hot tears seared Iona's cheeks. She was complete, and soon she would be split asunder. She had never been so happy, soon she would never be so devastated. He had claimed her, and she was his forever, and yet she could never be his. The truth slammed into her with the force of an avalanche. She was in love with Struan Tolmach. She was deeply, irrevocably, eternally in love. She had been falling in love with him right from the moment she met him, and nothing could have prevented it. She loved him, and tomorrow she would leave him forever. She loved him. Tomorrow would be the end. But tonight was theirs.

“Whether we are together or no,” she said, running her fingers through his hair, “I will be yours always, Struan.”

He swallowed hard, knowing he should deny her, but he could not. “Iona, I can't…”

“I love you, Struan. Don't let's talk about what we can't do, not now. I love you. I just needed you to know.”

“Iona. If I could change things…”

“But you cannot. I love you. For tonight, let it be enough.”

 

Though the storm eventually passed they did not leave the forest, but spent this, their first and only night together, talking, touching, joining. Languorously now that the first sating had passed, they supped on each other, licking and tasting every part of their bodies, savouring every crease, every dip and swell, as if the taste would be
forever preserved. The sweetness of her sex filled Struan's mouth as Iona came. The sweetness of her cries filled his heart. When she took him in her mouth, he felt as if his life-force were being drawn into her, and he came with an explosive force that cast him into another dimension of feeling. Their coupling had about it a primordial rightness, as if it were ordained. Rocking her gently to another climax as she sat astride him, Struan could have sworn that the world stopped for them.

Iona shuddered, crying out her pleasure, throwing back her head to the sky in ecstasy, the pulsing and throbbing of her sex causing Struan to cry out his own completion as she collapsed on top of him, her nipples hard against his chest, her mouth soft against his lips.

They lay thus, listening to the night creatures rustling in the undergrowth around them. They slept entwined, cocooned in Struan's cloak, as the moon gave way to the sun and the dawn broke. They joined again, for the last time, as the dew settled around them, as the tawny owl returned to its perch in the tree and the capercaillie roused itself for the daily forage. By the time they made their slow, desolate way back to the caverns, the day was well advanced.

 

Eoin was there to meet them. “Where have you been?” He clutched at his brother's arm. “Struan, is she to undergo a Binding?”

Struan shook his head.

“Then Marking it must be. You know there is no other way.”

Struan cast his mind back, over the brief period of his reign. It had brought the clan together, but it had torn him apart. He realised it then. He had been deeply unhappy. And lonely. The years ahead would be lonelier still, now he had had a taste of what it would be like not to be so alone. He looked at Iona, her beautiful face distraught at their impending parting, the scent of their coupling still on them both. There must be another way. There must!

“Come,” Eoin said briskly, “We must prepare for the ceremony, we have little time.”

 

Alone in her chamber, Iona was tended by the Faol women, who were silent and grave, remote, on edge, no longer softly beautiful but glittering, like the hard awesome beauty of the cathedral cavern.

“What is happening?” Iona asked them, trying desperately to keep the quiver from her voice.

“Don't you know?” Kirstin looked surprised. “Has not Struan…”

“Hush now,” Lillias said to her. “It is for the prince to know and us to find out.”

They bathed Iona. They braided her hair. She tried not to think about the coming ordeal. She couldn't bear to contemplate what would follow. Her departure from Kentarra. She would leave her heart behind, even if she kept her soul. The gown they dressed her in was a rich velvet affair, black, braided with silver, the hem adorned with tiny silver bells.

“You know it ends tonight, don't you?” Kirstin said maliciously. “You know the spell you have cast on Struan is broken? He was always meant for me.” Her inner wolf, small but lithe, with silky black hair, appeared suddenly before Iona, its eyes menacing, but she refused to shrink from its gaze.

“Kirstin!” Lillias said sharply, and the transformation was reversed.

The bell began to toll. The women led Iona out along the echoing tunnels and passageways of the caverns, past the throne room where the silver moon suspended over the chair cast a surreally bright light, out through the rock fissure that formed the main entrance, and into the night.