Claimed by the Wolf Prince (4 page)

Struan's laugh was more like a low growl. He leaned towards her, to nuzzle the pulse at her throat, and felt the direct connection between her scent and his shaft. He was immediately hard. Full. Potent. “I think you will find that I am much, much more than a man.”

She knew she was playing with fire, but she could not resist fanning the flames. She could see, from the way his pupils were dilated, that he felt the same. Her skin was all goose bumps. Her lips tingled with the memory of his kiss. He was as intoxicating as a fine malt. “A proud boast,” Iona said, “but I doubt you can back it up.”

Too late, she heard the implied challenge in her words.
Had she meant it?
She didn't stop to think, but fled, up the stairs, along a corridor, aware all the time of him behind her, so close his breath was warm on her neck. Faster she ran. Heart pounding, chest heaving with effort, she threw herself at the door of an unknown chamber, trying to slam it shut before he could reach her, knowing she would fail.

Struan leant against the inside of the door, his eyes glittering against the black oak. Iona backed across the cavern—a bed chamber—until her knees hit the edge of the bed. He followed her slowly, matching her step for step, their eyes locked. She was burning hot and icy cold, shivering with anticipation and desire. She tossed back her hair, unwittingly throwing her breasts into silhouette through the sark.

His breath was warm on her ear. Her skin prickled in response. Her legs started to buckle and she fell back onto the bed. He fell on top of her. She could feel his erection pressing into her belly. Heat engulfed her. And then his mouth took hers.

She was on her back, Struan beside her, his lithe body pressed against hers. She panted for air, little gasps, but still he kissed her, and still she kissed him back.

He rolled on top of her. Skin. Heat. Man. She arched up against him. Softness yielding to hardness. Her stomach clenched. Still kissing her, he moulded her breast with his hand, his thumb grazing the nipple through the silk sark, making her moan with pleasure.

The claiming gown was rucked up around her knees and one of her legs was jammed between his. She could feel the rough, masculine skin rasp on the smooth feminine skin of her calf. She was feverish. His thumb on her nipple was too much and yet not enough. She resented the barrier, however flimsy, of the fine silk garment between them.

Struan's hand tightened on her breast. Impatient now, for the taste of her, he ripped the sark from the neck to the hem and laid her bare, catching his breath at her utter perfection. Her breasts were small but full. Dark pink nipples thrusting for his attention. He suckled one and stroked the other, relishing the way she writhed beneath him. His tongue flicked over and round, circling. He nipped her playfully with his teeth, first one nipple then the other.

A rush of shocking pleasure, like a dousing in an icy mountain stream, made Iona cry out. She was shaking with delight, aching with anticipation. A yearning, a longing, gripped her. Her body thrust itself shamelessly at him, her hands roamed feverishly over his skin, his sinewy arms, the tensely knotted muscles of his back.

“Struan,” she gasped, as his mouth tugged, warm and supple, on her nipple, and another rush of pleasure shivered through her. A trail of kisses down her body, lingering on the soft skin on the inside of her thighs. She cried out when his mouth finally sank into the damp heat between her legs.

He parted the soft folds. She was wet for him, and he was hard for her. He licked her, growling with satisfaction as she arched under his ministrations, teasing her by avoiding that most sensitive part, swollen, ripe, ready for his caress. She tasted as exotic as she smelled. He suspected he would be her first. The realisation thrilled him.

He licked her again, a long, languorous stroke of his tongue that made her squirm with pleasure. He slipped his finger inside and found her as tight and welcoming as he had imagined. He was just as ready as she. His shaft was pulsing. He licked again, and thrust a little higher inside her. Again, touching the swollen nub of her at the same time, and again.

She came with a force which ripped an animal-like cry from her throat. Panting hard, she was tossed up into some sort of crimsoning sky of rapture, which cocooned her pulsing, throbbing body, until he stroked her again, and she was thrust higher still, so high that she thought she would tear apart. Carnal need made her cling to him, rub herself against him, licking the salt from his chest, his throat, nipping at the pulse there, thrusting her body wantonly at him in the demand for completion.

Struan held her through the storm of her climax, relishing the sheer masculine satisfaction of knowing that he had brought her to this. The urge to thrust into her, to pour his seed into her, was so overwhelming that it terrified him. Once he had given himself to her, he would be lost forever. He knew it with a terrible certainty.

He was Prince of the Faol. She was not meant for him, though he felt that no one could ever be more right for him. If he took her now, he could ruin them both. With a hoarse cry, Struan tore himself free from her embrace, from her intoxicating scent, from her intoxicating presence.

Iona sat up, clutching her tattered sark around her. “Struan?” He was looking at her strangely. The scarlet flag of shame replaced the flush of desire that coloured her throat. “Did I do something wrong?”

He looked at her, smudged lips, tangled hair, eyes dark with the remnants of desire. He touched the emerald on his amulet. Duty and desire. Who would have thought they could wage such vicious war? “You did nothing wrong. It is I who— I would be taking advantage. Iona, you heard what Eoin said. You cannot be mine.” He touched her hair, kissed the tip of her tilted-up nose. “If I cannot have you I would not spoil you, nor take your innocence.”

Exhaustion hit Struan with the force of a hammer. He wanted nothing more than to curl up by her side, to hold her against his heart and sleep. This, more even than his desire to claim her, disturbed him deeply. What he would do if she refused to be bound, he didn't want to think about. What he would do if she were bound and claimed by another, he didn't want to think about either. “In the morning I will show you my kingdom.” Struan touched her fiery crown of hair. “Then it will be up to you, to decide whether or not to fall under Kentarra's spell. Till morning, Iona.”

As the door closed behind him, Iona pulled the bedclothes tightly around her and curled up under them. Struan was an honourable man, that much was clear. She valued him for it, but she couldn't help wishing that he wasn't quite so noble. She could not help wishing he had spoiled her well and truly for Kenneth McIver.

The mattress was feather-soft. The sheets were crisp, scalloped with lace, not a darn nor a sign of wear on them. The blankets were lamb's wool. The bed seemed to wrap itself around her, cocooning her. As the events of the last twenty-four hours finally caught up with her, Iona fell into a deep sleep.

 

She awoke at dawn and, wrapping a blanket around her, wandered round the chamber, admiring the tapestries. Scenes of battle mostly, but in one there was a tempest, a bairn in a rush basket. She wondered what her father was making of her absence. What kind of hue and cry would it have caused? Would anyone have seen her, carried off by a wolf?

I subdued him,
Struan had said. Struan Tolmach. Man. Prince. And wolf. All in one. The full extent of the differences between them yawned like a great chasm.
Not just a man. More than a man,
he had said.

Images of herself, surrendering all modesty as she laid herself open to Struan's caress, made her cheeks burn. Ten days until the moon was full and she would be sent home. She closed her eyes tightly shut and pictured Castle McKinley, the village, her father. Already it all seemed so distant. She was having trouble imagining herself back there, constantly having to bite her tongue, running after her father's incessant demands. Or her husband's.

She would not marry Kenneth McIver, whatever her father said! If she could stand up to a Faol Prince, she could surely stand up to a mere Highland laird. She would be the mistress of her own fate, from now on. A knock on the door informed her that the prince required her presence below. She was still getting used to the fact that Struan was a prince, never mind a wolf-prince!

 

Struan received her in the royal breakfast chamber. She was wearing new clothes provided by the women. An olive-green gown over moss-green petticoats, a fine linen sark, silk stockings and soft leather slippers. He had noticed yesterday how chilly she found the cavern's rock floors. Though he had seen her only a few hours previously, he had already forgotten how beautiful she was. He wished she was not. He wished he had not noticed the dark circles under her eyes, either, nor felt so guilty at the sight of them. Nor wondered what she had thought, the long night long, after he had left her
bedchamber.

“Help yourself to breakfast, you must be hungry,” he said brusquely.

The table was groaning with food, which made Iona's mouth water. Eggs. White bread, not black as she was used to. Thick porridge and cream. A bowl of summer fruits, though it was nigh on November. There was even a ham. “It looks quite delicious,” she said enthusiastically.

“I suppose you'd heard that we live off raw meat?”

She blushed. “I supposed you'd heard we live off cold porridge and kale.” She picked up a raspberry. “Actually,” she said, “a lot of my father's cotters do, in the winter. 'Tis a sin.” The fruit was sweet and tart as it burst in her mouth. “Where do you get these from?”

“On Kentarra there is no winter. There are hot volcanic springs that keep the climate temperate.”

“In the Highlands, sometimes it feels like there is no summer.” Iona cut herself a thick slice of ham, and took another spoonful of raspberries. “Even at Castle McKinley we don't ever eat as well as this, not even at Christmas,” she said, smiling at Struan. He smiled back. He had a nice smile. It made him much less formidable. Alone with her, he was much less the prince, too. He was dressed differently today. A plain white shirt, a black leather waistcoat, a
filleadh beg.
She could almost forget he was a Faol. Almost forget what had transpired between them last night. Almost.

She covered a piece of bread in heather honey. “That other man, Eoin. He's your brother?”

“He is.”

“And have you any other family?”

“A sister, Sorcha. She is away from Kentarra at present. And the tribe, of course. You could say they are my family.”

Iona's eyes widened. “You mean you…”

Struan laughed. “There are nigh on two hundred of us, and to my knowledge I have not sired any of them. I mean I am responsible for their welfare, in the same way as your father is, as laird of his clan. No matter what is said of us by the Highlanders, we are not savages. We are the same as men, more or less.”

Iona took a sip of buttermilk. “I recall you leaned towards
more
rather than
less,
yesterday
.
”

Struan chuckled. “You have a quick wit. These last few months, I feel as if I have not laughed near enough.”

“Why not?”

“Power is a sobering weight to bear.”

“Why bear it then?”

For a moment, she thought she had gone too far. His eyes darkened. His posture stiffened. She could not see, but she could sense his hackles rising. She waited, holding his gaze, willing herself not to back down.

Finally, Struan shrugged. “You make a habit of asking impertinent questions, Iona. Have a care that you do not overstep the mark, I will not tolerate such insubordination in public. I bear it because I was the one who managed to pull the clan together when we could easily have been torn asunder. Our last Alpha was killed, murdered by one of our own who craved the throne. It was a dark episode in our history.”

“What happened?”

Struan frowned heavily. “I fought him for control of the clan and won. With him out of the way I managed to convince the opposing factions that our strength was
in unity. I believe in the bond of the pack but there are aspects of our life here that I have always questioned.”

“Then change them.”

This time, she was in no doubt that she had gone too far. Struan thumped his fist on the table so hard that the heavy bowl of exotic fruits jumped. “Enough! What I do or do not do is none of your concern. If you wish to be granted the honour of a Binding, you would do well to remember that.”

“I have no intentions of becoming a Faol, I'm perfectly happy being myself, thank you very much,” Iona said, gripping the table to stop herself from flinching from his angry glare.

She had guts. He couldn't help admiring her, and what he most admired he would not change in her, though it left them both with a sword hanging over them. It was nine days hence. He would not think about it now. “You have a temper to match your hair. Your kin must be enjoying the respite.”

Iona smiled raggedly. “My mother died when I was a babe. There is only my father, and he takes no heed of me.”

“You've no husband in waiting?”

“Aye, but he's going to have a very long wait. That's something I decided last night. I'll choose my own husband. Or choose not to have one at all.”

“My people choose their own mates, too, but we Alphas can only choose an Alpha female. It is the way of things here.
Another
of our ways.” Struan picked up the spoon he used for his porridge, a sturdy thing made of horn, and tapped it on the table. “Our rituals have been in existence for hundreds of years.”

“Like the Binding?”

Struan nodded. As was the alternative. If she refused to be bound she must undergo Marking, which involved a special silver bracelet being placed around a human wrist and permanently branded into the flesh, marking out the wearer as discarded property of the Faol. Such poor creatures were consigned to a shadowy existence as outcasts, forever tainted. Shunned by superstitious Highlanders and rejected by the Faol, they were consigned to life on the margins of both worlds, where they frequently went quite mad. He didn't want to think about what that would do to Iona. Struan's spoon snapped in two. “If you are finished your breakfast, I will show you round the island.”

“What is it you're not telling me?”

Struan threw back his shoulders. His imperious look, she had named it. She countered with a glare of her own.

Struan sighed. “Iona, nothing will be decided until the full moon. Let us wait until then.” Though what he was waiting for, he had no idea. Inspiration to strike, some alternative solution to suddenly present itself…? “Come,” he said, holding out his hand, “I would have you see my kingdom.”