Bound to the Wolf Prince (5 page)

Freya sat up. Her head swam. “Why are you so angry?” she said woozily.

“You could have died, Freya! How would I have explained that to your father? I promised to return you safe!”

“I see. It's not me you're concerned about at all, is it? It's your Faol honour.” She got unsteadily to her feet. “Well, don't fret, Eoin, I'm fine. Look, not a mark on me. Well, not a
new
one, any road,” she said bitterly.

He caught her as she swayed unsteadily on her feet. His hands gripped her so tightly that she winced.

She struggled to free herself. “You're just like all the rest.” She was breathing heavily, tears sheening her eyes. “You pretend to care about me but you only care about your promise to my father.”

“Of course I care about you. If you had died I'd have felt—it has nothing to do with your father. By the gods woman, will you stop struggling and listen!” Eoin roared.

Too late. Freya wrenched herself free and toppled backwards. In the process of catching her, Eoin lost his balance and they tumbled together into the largest of the hot pools.

Freya clung frantically to Eoin as the warm water enveloped them. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, and as they rose to the surface, holding each other still, he could feel her nipples hardening. It made his gut contract. Pink mouth. Flushed cheeks. Her breasts were full, her nipples darkly inviting peaks. He trailed his fingers over the outer curve of them, down to her waist, over the sweet roundness of her hip. He could see his desire reflected in her eyes, along with his shock. For a timeless moment they gazed into each other's eyes, poised upon the brink of a precipice. Then he captured her mouth, and kissed her deeply.

He kissed her. Her eyelids. Her cheeks. Her mouth again. She kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his, her arms, her legs, tangling with his body, clinging, so sweetly clinging. He was so hard, yet he thought he might melt with desire.

Freya whimpered. The silken water, the heat of Eoin's skin, the plucking, pulsing of his kisses, the balmy mist which surrounded the pool, all melded into one. She was aflame with desire. Like the time after the Claiming ceremony, only more. She was a clock spring, wound too tight. Eoin clutched at her bottom. He braced her against the mossy bark of a fallen tree. Her gown floated around her in the water, mingling with his plaid. His kisses drugged her. Steam rose from their skin as they kissed. It merged with the steam from the pools and the salty perfume of desire which overlaid the heady scent of the flowers.

She could feel his manhood pressing against her. She wanted, as she had never wanted anything in her life, for him to enter her. To join with her. Her body arched and thrust itself at him, bold with yearning. He bent his head and sucked her nipples through the soaking fabric of her gown. Sweetness eddied through her veins. She was afraid again, but this time she fought it. Up. Up. Up. She climbed as he kissed her nipples into aching peaks. Up. Dizzy with it. “Eoin. Eoin.” His name was a plea.

For a moment, she thought he would answer her. He groaned. Then, unbelievably, he let her go. “What am I thinking of?” he said hoarsely. He lifted her bodily onto the shore where she stood dripping water, looking like a landed mermaid. He hauled himself out, tearing his eyes away from the enticing vision of the soaking robe clinging to her curves.

Cold. She was absolutely freezing. As if she had been swimming in melted snow. Freya's teeth began to chatter. “What was
I
thinking of?” Freya riposted, shocked and hurt.

“I suppose you'll blame the effects of the poison this time,” Eoin said bitterly. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to kiss her. What he should be wanting was rid of her. He didn't like the way she rippled the placid waters of his life, the way she made him want her. Need her. He didn't need anyone! And he certainly didn't like the little voice in his head that was telling him she was the thing that was missing from his life.

“It's not the plant. It's you. It must be you,” Freya said, struggling to assemble her thoughts into some coherence. “It's the way you look at me. Mesmerising. You make me…”

“I don't
make
you do anything! I'm not casting spells or employing Faol magic,” Eoin said angrily. “It's got nothing to do with my being Faol, any more than it's to do with you being an heiress. Whatever it is, we're creating it.”

Were they?
Freya eyed Eoin in complete confusion. Eoin made her feel real. He made her feel lots of things she'd never felt before but it was safer to believethat it was the Faol world, that it was Kentarra and the Faol ways, because if it was not—no! Don't think about it. “It's not us. You're beguiling me,” she said agitatedly. “If you would stop looking at me the way you do…”

“You think you would feel differently? Very well then, you give me no option but to prove you wrong.”

He pulled the sash from her dress and tied it around her eyes to form a blindfold before she'd realised what he was doing. She was completely disoriented. “Eoin, what are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

“I'm a man first, before I am a Faol. Just as you are a woman first, even if you are branded an heiress. I see that, Freya. Why can you not?”

“How can I see anything with this blindfold on?” Freya stood, aware of a change in the atmosphere between them, the sense that something irrevocable was about to happen. Blindfolded, she was forced to confront what she had been trying to avoid for days now. She wanted him, just exactly as he said, for himself. She wanted Eoin. And Eoin wanted Freya. “Eoin, I don't think…”

“Don't think. Just feel. Don't look, just experience.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He tasted so familiar, and yet so different. No longer a stranger, yet all the more tantalising for what she knew of him. No longer formidable, yet all the more potent. His kiss was exactly what she had been longing for and so much more. The darkness enhanced every caress. It attenuated the whisper of his breath, the friction of his skin on hers, the scent of him, strongly masculine, and of her too, sweetly feminine. She really did feel as if her bones would melt.

He kissed her mouth, her neck. When she moaned softly, he kissed the swell of her breasts along the neckline of her gown. She let her fingers act as her eyes, exploring the ripple of muscles along his shoulders, the ridge of his spine, stepping along his ribcage. He tipped her down onto the ground and pulled her damp gown apart, fastening his lips on her nipples. Sweet agony.
Oh God, such sweet agony.

Eoin groaned. His fingers stroked her thigh, parting her sex. Inside her now, finally connecting with the throbbing, swelling focus of her tension, with the folds around it which he stroked, circled, dipped and slid, stroked. More. He kissed her, his tongue sliding in and out of her mouth as his fingers slid in and out of her sex. More. It felt as though she had been waiting for this moment forever, since that first night, since that first time she saw him, wanting, waiting for this moment. Coiling tight.
Burning darkly. Climbing higher and higher with it. She couldn't wait any longer. She let go so abruptly it felt like a jolt, before she was diving, soaring, out of control, clutching at his shoulders, on and on and on, flying high, higher than the clouds above them.

“Eoin. Oh my God, Eoin. Please. Oh God, please.”

It was already more than he had intended. He had meant—he didn't know now what he had meant. That she wanted him, only him, completely him he could not doubt now, but nor could he stop, for he wanted her too. Only Freya. Completely Freya. He couldn't stop. And she was tugging on his shoulders, kissing him, tugging him closer, wrapping her legs around him, and she felt so perfect, as if she had been made for him.

His shaft was hard, solid, hot against her sex. He was gloriously naked, she knew. She wanted to see, but she could only touch. Satin skin sheathing hard muscle, heavy and tight against her palm. She heard the sharp intake of his breath, felt his chest heave. She pressed her face to his chest and drank in the scent of him. His shaft nudged at her still-throbbing sex.

“Freya, are you sure,” Eoin said urgently. “I meant only to show you…”

“You have. It is magic but it is our own personal magic. Now show me it all,” she said, digging her nails into his buttocks.

Such an invitation. He was quite beyond resistance. Wrapping her legs around his waist, he entered her. Such delight. The deliciously sweet pull of her muscles drew him in, deeper, higher. He tipped her towards him and thrust a little higher. She moaned and pushed herself against him. He held her still and pulsed, tiny movements inside her, as he kissed her, his tongue echoing the pulsing rhythm. He could feel her climax building in her again.

He kissed her more deeply. He arched his back, pulled back, then thrust. Thrust again. She sank her teeth into his shoulder. Her heels dug into his buttocks. Thrust. Harder this time, and harder still. He tilted her against him and felt her spasm, the tightness of her muscles as she clamped around him sending him over the edge. With a wild cry, Eoin came, spending himself, emptying himself, and at the same time filling himself, for the first time in his life, so lost that he could not tell which was he and which was her. For the first time in his life, he knew what it was like to be at one with another.

He pushed back her heavy fall of hair and nuzzled the sensitive skin at the crook of her neck. He untied the blindfold. She blinked her big brown eyes and smiled at him, the smile of a sated, contented woman. It squeezed his heart. Looking at her, he felt as if he was in free fall.

 

They did not speak on the journey back. They were not capable of speaking. Stunned, they made their way to the city. Freya immediately retired to her bedchamber where she lay wide awake, gazing into the darkness, reliving her extraordinary blindfold experience. He was right. Eoin was right. It wasn't magic. It wasn't anything to do with Kentarra or his being a Faol or even his being a prince. It was him. He was right, and she'd known it for days. Ever since she had met him really. Lack of trust, lack of confidence, call it what you will, had stopped her acknowledging the one simple, inescapable fact. She didn't just want him. She didn't just need him. She loved him.

For a brief moment she felt as if her heart were soaring. She could have sworn she felt wings unfurl across her shoulders, fluttering as if readying to take flight. She loved him. She was in love with him. She was in love with Eoin Tolmach. And Eoin? Into the darkness she smiled, and hugged herself tight. He hadn't said it, but surely his actions spoke for him. The obstacles between them were huge, but they weren't
insurmountable. She loved him. If he did not love her yet, surely once he knew how she felt—surely?

Floating on a dream of happiness, Freya drifted into an exhausted sleep.

 

Her bliss did not survive the night. A note brought to her early the next morning informed her that Eoin had gone to fetch her father. She felt, almost literally, as if she had been dropped from a height.
My people, my kingdom need and deserve my complete attention, and I cannot allow anything, or anyone, to compromise that. I must, with a heavy heart, discharge my duty,
he wrote.

A tear slid down Freya's cheek as she read it. Her brand throbbed.
It is time for you to return to your own world, and for me to focus my attention on mine.

Another tear crept down her cheek, and another. Furiously, she brushed them away. The rosy-hued world she had created cracked and shattered. What a fool she had been. She had known all along that Eoin was wedded to his kingdom. It was one of the things she admired in him most, his willingness to sacrifice his life, if necessary, for his people. Though these last few days he had seemed to relish her company, a few days didn't constitute a lifetime. What a fool she had been to think otherwise.

Freya sniffed resolutely. Though he would not love her, Eoin had still given her the gift of herself. She would not repay such generosity with weeping and wailing. When her father arrived, she would leave with dignity. She loved Eoin, she would not make things difficult for him. She could do that much for him.

 

Through the long journey across sea and land, Eoin fought with his conscience and his heart. Five days and four nights after he left, he tied the boat up at the jetty with a heavy heart. When she was gone he would recover, in time. This deep-rooted certainty that he would be a lesser man without her would fade in the light of reality. It was her staying which would diminish his focus, not her leaving.

And as he helped Laird Ogilvie onto the shore, Eoin reminded himself of another fact. He was honour-bound to return Freya. Even if he wanted to he could not ask her to stay.

Laird Ogilvie, a man who relied upon his considerable bulk to give him presence, leaned heavily on his silver-topped stick. He had been handsome in his youth, but fine living and far too much fine claret had taken their toll on his appearance. His skin was mottled, his leg gouty. He cast a nervous eye around him. “Thought we'd be dashed to death on those damned rocks.” He squinted up at the soaring cliffs glinting in the morning sun. “A mighty strange place ye have here. It has an unsettling air about it.” He shuddered. “Let us get this business over with. I've a mind not to tarry long.”

“That suits me perfectly well,” Eoin said tersely, nodding to one of his pack. “Summon the people to the throne room immediately. Make sure the laird's daughter is present.”

Fifteen minutes later he stood before the assembled Faol, still dressed in his simple plaid, his hair wild from the long sea journey. Freya, determined to see this ordeal through with what little dignity she could garner, stood next to her father, trying desperately to maintain her resolve not to cry. Stealing a glance at Eoin, she looked hurriedly away. He was so heart-stoppingly, blood-heatingly, bone-tinglingly familiar. She couldn't bear it.

“My people,” Eoin began, “as you know, I made a contract on our behalf to return Laird Ogilvie's daughter to him. I have completed this task, as he is here to avow.” He paused to clear his throat, trying to ignore the plaintive calling that was her scent, her presence, her being. “Freya,” he said, finally turning towards her, “the time
has come for…”

Eoin swallowed. “The time has come for…” Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. He could sense her trepidation. His resolve, so firmly held in check, shattered like glass. Why had it taken him so long to realise what was so obvious? “You will forgive me,” he said hurriedly, “I must speak briefly with Freya.”

Grabbing her hand, he hurried towards a small antechamber.

“Eoin, what on earth…”

“Freya. Freya. Freya.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Her scent enveloped him. The shape of her body was so achingly familiar it felt as if he had come home. The prospect of being without her was like imagining being without Kentarra. Worse. If he had to choose, he would, just like Struan, choose his woman first. Freya, his soul mate. His life mate. The woman who filled the space in his life he hadn't even known existed until he met her. “I love you so much.”

She must be hearing things. She must be imagining things. Freya stared at him blankly. “What did you just say?”

“I love you.” He pressed her close, his hands roaming over her neck, her back, her arms, her waist. “I love you. I tried to resist but I had no choice but to love you. I see that now.”

He loved her! Her heart soared, she had that feeling of fluttering wings again, but she was afraid to take flight. There were so many unanswered questions. “You love me?” she repeated wonderingly. “Really? You really love me?”

“All the way here I've been telling myself I could give you up, but I can't. With you by my side I can be a better person, a better prince, not a weaker one, I see that now. If only you'll be by my side, Freya, I'll find a way. We'll find a way. If only you can just…”

She had never seen him lost for words. She had never seen that heart-rending desperation on his face before. He had never looked at her so tenderly, nor seemed so unsure of himself. “Oh Eoin,” Freya cried, throwing her arms around his neck, “I love you so much.”

“Freya. By the gods, Freya, I didn't dare hope. Are you certain? It would require you to be bound?”

She was laughing and crying at the same time. “I couldn't be more sure. I love you. I'd do anything for you.”

“You would be changed.”

“Darling, it won't change me—or if it does, it will be for the better. Whatever I become, I'll still be me. There
was
no me before I met you. I love Kentarra. I love your people. If they will take me, then I will be honoured to be Bound. To them and to you.”

“As my life mate?”

“Darling Eoin, I want nothing else.”

Their kiss was a pledge. A promise of a lifetime's kisses to come, and an avowal of love. Though they burned with the fire of newfound love, Eoin put her gently from him. “There remains the issue of your father. Let me speak with him, then we must face our people together.”

When Eoin resumed the circle fifteen minutes later, his voice was proud, unwavering. He was every inch the Prince of the Faol. “My people,” he said, “Freya will not, after all, be returning to her homelands.”