Claimed by the Wolf Prince (3 page)

Dark. It was pitch-black, darker even than the night now, for she had been blindfolded. Struan had abandoned her. She had only herself to rely on. “I am a McKinley,” Iona muttered. “I am a McKinley.”

The women hurried her on, nudging and pushing her up the path until the air changed and Iona sensed that she was in an enclosed space. Her boots rang on stone. Stairs, endless amounts of narrow stairs. To her immense relief there was a rope to cling to. At the top, she was guided along a passageway. A heavy door clanged shut behind her, and light dazzled her eyes as the blindfold was removed.

She was in a room like no other. A chamber with a vast vaulted ceiling of bare rock, the rock walls hung with heavy tapestries. It was warm, a huge fire burned in a hearth, which seemed to be hewn into the rock itself. Was she in some sort of cave, or grotto? “What is this place?” she asked, her eyes darting from one woman to the other.

One of them, older than the others, with rich chestnut hair, reached out to touch Iona's own copper tresses. “You are in the kingdom of the Faol, Highlander,” she said softly. “Your new home.”

Iona hugged her arms tightly around herself and tried to back away, but the women drew closer. Their scent was stronger now, overpowering. Hands reached out to touch her, rubbing the rough cotton of her sark, the wool of her petticoats, between long, delicate fingers. “Such coarse material,” a dusky, almond-eyed beauty declared with a curl of her lip. “I wonder you can bear it next to your skin.”

The gowns of the Faol women were of a downy silklike material in vibrant, jewel-like colours. Ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green. “Feels nice, doesn't it?” the chestnut-haired woman said, capturing Iona's hand and placing it on her bodice, laughing when Iona blushed wildly, snatched her fingers away in shock at the contact with the woman's bare flesh.

“Let her be, Lillias.” The dusky beauty's smile was cruel. “Poor little Highland creature, you're not like us, are you?”

“Yes, let us see what mortal woman look like under their clothes,” one of the other women said, descending upon Iona purposely. “I have heard that their skin is as hard as a stag's horn.”

“Unlike their Highland men,” one said maliciously.

“It is no wonder then, that they find our warriors so irresistible,” a statuesque blonde said, with a sultry smile. “As well for us, that we have more than enough allure to keep our men in thrall,” she added, running her hands down her full breasts.

Distracted and intimidated by the shocking sensuality of the women, Iona was stripped down to her undergarments. The women cooed their surprise at her body, looking at her unblemished skin, her unmistakably feminine curves, with something more than admiration. When they made to remove her sark and corsets, she tried to cover herself, and found that her modesty only provoked gales of laughter. Too proud to protest further, Iona surrendered to the women's ministrations. As they bathed her and washed her hair, anointed her in oils and rubbed sweet-smelling lotions into her skin, their touches, which were almost caresses, both soothed and stimulated her. She had never before experienced such intimacy. It shocked her, a clandestine pleasure. It made her think of other intimacies. Other pleasures. It made her think of Struan. Who
had abandoned her.

They dressed her in a rich silk sark, plain white, with satin ribbons at the neck and cuffs. It was her only garment. A bell began to toll.
Clang. Clang.
Clang.
A summoning. Or a death knell. It stopped abruptly. The women, who had been whispering together, got to their feet. Lillias cast an eye over Iona, nodded her satisfaction to the other women, and they once more encircled her. The mood changed, no longer playful but sombre. No longer sensual, no longer intimate, but ominous. Lillias opened the door. No blindfold this time. The circle of women led her out to a long corridor. On shaky legs, her bare feet icy on the rock floor, her heart beating wildly, Iona was led inexorably towards her fate.

They must be deep inside the cliffs beneath which they had landed. The place was a honeycomb of chambers and passageways, like a vast beehive. Glimpses from inside her escort cordon showed rock walls glittering with semiprecious stone rising steeply up and up. They were in a corridor tunnelled into the rock, with solid oak doors set at regular intervals. Down a level, then out onto a wide open ledge, the cliff on one side, a dizzying drop down on the other. On, the women led her, until they reached a huge curving staircase, at the top of which they paused.

The chamber below was enormous, a cathedral-like cavern with a vaulted ceiling hundreds of feet high. Huge fingers of rock hung from the ceiling and thrust up from the perimeter of the cavern floor. The striated rock, glistening with quartz and mineral deposits, glittered and gleamed as if streaked with diamonds in the flickering light of the hundreds of braziers. It was warm and dry. Beneath her feet, there was a carpet, soft and bright, in the same jewel colours as the Faol women's dresses. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt nauseous.

They started to descend slowly to the chamber where the Faol people were gathered. There looked to be about two hundred of them, standing in silence, forming a circle. A uniformly striking people they were, and all had about them that same quality Iona had first noticed in Struan. Nature in its most primitive and beautiful form. The kind of beauty that makes you catch your breath. A stillness. A sense of danger, and with it a pull of excitement. Elemental. The word could have been created for them.

A gap opened in the circle for them. Directly in the centre of the cavern stood a throne. Suspended above it, on a thick silver cord that descended from the highest point in the cavern's roof, was a huge globe. Lit from the inside, its ghostly light cast a myriad of shadows across the glittering surfaces of the cavern. The moon, Iona realised. The full moon.

The throne was a massive wooden construction with red velvet hangings. The carpet upon which she stood led directly towards the steps at its foot. A bell pealed once. The Faol people, all save the cordon of women, dropped to their knees as a tall figure, flanked by two wolves, entered the cavern from a fissure in the rock.

Her guard obscured the man's face from Iona as he took his seat. A circle of gold sat on his black mane of hair like a crown. Gold there was, too, on the buckle of his broad belt, from which hung a claymore with a jewelled hilt. And on the amulet that hung around his neck. An amulet that looked horribly familiar. The Faol women stepped back, giving Iona an unobstructed view of the throne and the man upon it. A man who looked just as familiar as the amulet.

It could not be him. It could not possibly be him
. “Struan?” Iona took a faltering step forward.

“Make obeisance to the prince.” A hand forced Iona to her knees, pushing her head down.

“Struan?”

“
Prince
Struan Tolmach. Lead Alpha of the Faol. Make obeisance.”

She could see his feet, still bare, his ankles clad in more gold amulets, making his way towards her. It
was
Struan, but he seemed utterly different. Remote. His expression more forbidding. His stance prouder. More—less?—human.
Oh, God
.

“Get up.”

Still he did not look at her. Iona scrabbled to her feet, tripping over the long silken sark. “What is happening, Struan?”

“Highness, you will address me as Highness.” Struan's tone was clipped,
stripped of emotion. He sensed Iona's hurt. Saw her recoil. He could see her slender body, her curves, clearly outlined under the silken claiming gown. He willed himself not to be aroused. Her hair fell in a long straight swathe down her back. It made her look younger, more vulnerable. As if she were not already vulnerable enough!

Struan stood behind her, turning her to face his people. Internally, a battle raged between his twin spirits. Externally, he was the implacable, formidable pack leader they expected. He addressed them now. “As you know, we were betrayed by the Highlander, Laird McKinley. Custom decrees that he pay with the thing most precious to him. I present his daughter.”

A low growling sound emanated from the assembled crowd, which chilled Iona's blood. Only Struan's grip on her shoulders and her pride held her upright. She gazed out at the banks of Faol staring at her. The warriors among them were, like Struan—Prince Struan—bare-chested, their fearsome claymores strapped across their shoulders. The women were richly dressed, alluring, like highly groomed animals. There could be no mistaking the Faol for ordinary human beings. The pelts they wore gave to each a disconcerting feral quality.

“My father will come for me,” Iona declared, relieved that her voice held only the faintest waver as it echoed eerily. “He will pay in full, and you will have to let me go.”

“It is too late for that.”

The voice came from the left. A man, almost as striking as Struan, detached himself from the crowd. His hair was a rich auburn, his eyes almost the same green as her own. The same aura of danger and excitement clung to him. He was younger than Struan, but he was nonetheless a man who commanded attention.

“On behalf of your people, I thank you, Prince Struan,” he said, bowing low. “You have served us well, as ever. You may now surrender your burden.” He fixed Struan with a smile. “Welcome back, brother,” he whispered.

Iona shrank against Struan as the other man made to take her by the arm. Instinctively, Struan shielded her from his brother's grasp. “Tell me Eoin, who has been selected?”

“Lulach,” Eoin replied, giving him a puzzled look. “It is a year since his mate died.”

“Lulach. One of our finest warriors,” Struan said. It was a sound choice, and a fair one. He would have expected no less from his people. So Lulach was to lay claim to her.

“Brother?”

Struan's arm had curled protectively around Iona's waist. She was trembling against him. He had to let her go, but he could not. It felt wrong for her to belong to anyone but him. Which was very wrong. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to control his wildly conflicting emotions. Pack loyalty warred with another, more insistent voice.

“No!” His voice thundered out, reverberating forcefully round the cavern, causing his people to stare in astonishment. He almost laughed. How much more astonished they would be were they privy to his own chaotic thoughts. “I have decided. She will not be claimed by anyone before the Binding. In the meantime, the female stays with me.”

A hiss and a few snarls greeted this outrageous statement. Struan's grip on Iona tightened. “Since I came to power, have I not always done my duty?” he demanded. “Have I ever before asked for reward?” He looked at each of the Faol in turn. It would not do to show any hesitation, for the pack were still capable of turning on him. “I am not
asking now, I am demanding that you accede to my wishes.”

“No!” A giant of a man stepped forward. “She is mine by right, as is the custom. I will not accede.”

“Lulach! Would you dare challenge my authority?”

Quivering with anger, Lulach was already shifting between warrior and beast. His inner wolf was chocolate-brown in colour, like the man's long mane of hair. “You are my prince, but you are not in your right mind,” he snarled. “She is to blame, she must have turned your head with mortal witchcraft! She will not hex me. I will teach her the ways of the Faol.”

Iona watched, torn between fascination and terror as Lulach's body blurred, his masculine shape reforming into a large, snarling wolf that dropped onto all fours. Menace turned to blatant threat as he advanced, fangs bared, the fur along his back standing straight up in a ruff. The low growling noise from the gathered Faol grew louder. The air had the sparking tension of an approaching storm. She could hardly believe what she was seeing.

Lulach hunkered down. Iona's blood ran cold. She was the focus of the brutal intent in his eyes. The wolf was about to attack her. His powerful thighs bulged as he prepared to spring.
Run! Run! Run!
But she was frozen to the spot.

“Enough, Lulach!” Struan's voice was cold, furious. The force with which he pushed her aside almost threw her to the floor. She staggered, turning just in time to see the enormous wolf leap forward. The wolf from the home woods. The wolf that had carried her through the forest. Struan's wolf.

The two huge beasts fought furiously, a blur of fur and snapping fangs and low growls, but it was obvious from the start that, mighty warrior as Lulach may be, he was no match for Struan, who was more powerful, more relentless, possessed of a fearsome, dominant life-force that would not be denied. His jaws clamped around the neck of the brown wolf, dragging the beast to the ground, where it lay cowering and trembling. Iona screwed her eyes tight shut, unable to watch what must surely follow, the savage tearing of Lulach's throat.

“Are there others among you who wish to challenge my authority?”

She peeked out through her lashes. Struan, fists clenched, was standing over the prostrate warrior. Struan. Not the wolf. Struan, his chest heaving, his gaze stern, victorious, triumphant.

“Well?” he demanded. Silence reigned, though he could sense the unrest in the pack. Was he being a complete fool? Too late to worry about that. “Then it is agreed.” Reluctant nods, but it was enough. He hauled Lulach, who was licking a long, bloody tear on his forearm, to his feet. “You are a brave and skilled warrior. I bear you no grudge. Do you now accept my decision?”

Lulach nodded. “You bested me, Prince Struan. So be it.” As he resumed his place in the circle, Iona saw that his wound had already begun to heal.

“It is ten days until the full moon,” Struan declared. “We will meet then for the ritual. Until then, let us adjourn.” He took the throne for the formal farewells, but he kept his hand on his claymore and his eye on Iona until just the two of them and his brother were left.

“Struan, what are you thinking?” Eoin said angrily. “This is madness. You're playing with fire. By the gods, you nearly lost control of the pack there.”

“But I did not. I retain their loyalty. And yours, too, I hope, little brother. It is not for you to question my actions, either.”

Eoin raised a brow at the harsh tone. “I see,” he said. “Very well then, take her. Enjoy her. But make sure you do not enjoy her too much. We Alpha Faol can only
take another Faol to mate, you know that.”

“As the head of the clan, I know that better even than you.”

“Then why…”

“Because it occurred to me, brother, that there is something unworthy in our custom. Bad enough that I had to bring her here against her will. If she stays, let her at least choose her own mate.”

“Struan, our rules are set in stone. You cannot…”

“I will not discuss it anymore, Eoin. Not even with you.”

“Then I must leave you,” Eoin said pointedly. “I have other business to attend to.”

His steps rang out as he crossed the vaulted cavern and exited through the same fissure in the rock through which Struan had entered.

“What just happened?” Iona asked.

Struan shook his head. “I'm not quite sure,” he admitted with a crooked smile, surprising them both.

“You stopped them giving me to Lulach. Why?”

“Because I thought you deserved the right to choose.”

“So you intend to send me home instead,” Iona said, surprised by the sinking feeling in her stomach. It was what she wanted, wasn't it?

“No. You must stay, at least until the full moon. Tomorrow I'll show you my kingdom. When you see for yourself the life we have here, you might choose to stay.”

Iona shook her head mutinously. “This is not my home, I don't belong here.”

Struan touched her cheek, blocking out the unwelcome alternative. It might not come to that, though it seemed unlikely that such a rebellious mind could be tamed. “You remind me of myself, Iona McKinley. I was never one who took to being told what to do.”

“You are a prince. You can do as you please.”

“Would that were so. It is difficult to question what I must uphold.”

“That is a poor excuse, worthy of my father.
It is the way of things,
he says, when it suits his purpose,” Iona said bitterly. “What kind of ruler cannot change the rules?”

“How dare you criticise things you know nothing of! You have no idea of how hard it has been, the battles that have been fought—what we need is stability, not change.”

His expression was fiery, his tone angry, but Iona refused to be intimidated. Right now, if Struan had not intervened, she would be with Lulach. Relief, a feeling of having nothing to lose, combined with the reckless excitement Struan seemed always to rouse in her, made her defiant. “Then why did you not just hand me over to Lulach?”

“I should have. I know I should have. But I did not. If you must have it, I saved you from Lulach because I wanted you for myself. Are you satisfied now?”

“Oh!” The unexpected admission deprived her of words. Such raw desire in his voice, it grated on her skin. The memory of their kiss lay between them, simmering, seductive. “I am not so beautiful as the Faol women.”

Struan let his palm follow the river of copper down her neck, the curve of her back, to the base of her spine. “You are not in any way like any Faol woman. None of them make me feel as you do.”

She couldn't move. His touch kindled a fire in her belly. She was unable to resist touching his hair, it felt like a swathe of silk running through her fingers.

“There is something in you that draws me to you,” Struan said. “You feel it, too,
I know you do.”

She could not deny it, but she was not yet prepared to admit it. Through the thin silk of the sark, she could feel her nipples pucker, the hard buds brazenly visible through the material. “You are descended from wolves,” she whispered. “Why should I be drawn to you? You are less than a man.”