Bound to the Wolf Prince (4 page)

His eyes were blazing. She shivered at the heat in them, at the desire in them, the almost tangible wanting. She could see the outline of his manhood clearly through his golden robe. She could almost feel its potency, though he made no attempt to pull her to him. She felt as if he was looking deep inside her, seeing things she had no idea were there. She had no urge at all to cover herself. She wanted him to see. She wanted
him to tell her what he saw. What she was. Who she was.

Eoin nuzzled the valley between her breasts. He sucked each of her nipples once more, drawing a new tension between her thighs. “You don't let anyone see how feminine you are, how much of a woman you are,” he murmured, tipping her back again on the altar, trailing kisses down her belly, his hands feathering across the sweep of her hips, down to the tender flesh at the top of her thighs. Then he picked up her left foot, nuzzling his mouth against the hated mark.

“No!” She struggled to free herself.

Eoin held her firmly. “You think this is what defines you,” he said harshly, “but it is not. Cast it from your mind.”

He kissed her brand again, and then her calf. His fingers stroked her thighs. Higher. He cupped her sex and Freya heard herself moaning.

He wrestled with the urge to plunge into her. She was wet. Hot. Tender. Dark pink folds, engorged for him. He hadn't felt so aroused in a long time. Maybe ever. He ran a finger along the mound of her, shivering when she quivered, his shaft tightening as she arched against him. Then he dipped his head, and licked deep.

“Oh!” Freya arched up. Sweet, sweet, sweet. His mouth, his lips, his tongue, supping on her as if she was a feast. Above her, the crystal moon spun. Higher still, the cavern's glinting fingers of rock, the roof high, high, high up, added to the giddy feeling. She was unbelievably hot where he touched her, icy cold where he did not. Her lips burned. Her nipples burned. Her sex throbbed and tightened, curling, tensing. She could smell her arousal, spiciness mingling with the saltiness of his. His fingers edged inside her, slowly, slowly, slowly deeper, parting her, as his tongue and his lips stroked her.

Her muscles clenched with aching anticipation. She wanted to surrender herself to this feeling, this man. She wanted to drop her guard, reveal herself for the first time in her life. She desperately wanted to trust him. Even more, she wanted to trust herself, but her instincts, honed by a lifetime of bitter experience, screamed no. Her brand began to throb as if beating out a warning.

She couldn't.

She simply couldn't do it.

“No! No, stop.” Freya sat up abruptly, pushing Eoin away while trying to pull her torn clothing around her. She was on the silver altar, in the middle of the Faol throne room with the prince of the Faol, and she had just—my God, she couldn't believe what she had almost done!

Eoin's eyes were heavy with desire. He looked confused. Dazed. Exactly as she felt. No! He couldn't possibly feel as she did. “I don't know what possessed me. Maybe it was the after-effects of the Claiming,” she said, frantic to say something, anything to cover her embarrassment.

Eoin levered himself away from the altar. He was aching, throbbing with unfulfilled desires. His body was clamouring to return to hers. His mind was barely functioning. He pushed back the tangle of hair from his brow. “You are blaming the ritual?”

“No. Yes. I don't know! There was something in the air, I could almost taste it.” There was a distance between them that felt wrong. Freya shook her head in an effort to clear it. Her body thrummed with frustration. She felt as if she had fallen to earth far too abruptly.

“You don't still think I'm after your gold, do you?” Eoin said angrily.

“No! No, of course I don't.”

“Is it so difficult for you to believe that I just might want you for yourself? That you just might want me for the same reason? It has nothing to do with Kentarra, with our rituals. It's just…”
What?
Truth be told, he was tempted to blame it on witchcraft himself, this attraction which hummed like a physical thing between them. He was Prince of the Faol, he could have any woman he desired, yet for some reason, he wanted only this one. This mortal female whom he was honour-bound to return intact to her father. And who didn't seem to want him. Or wouldn't let herself perhaps. Eoin's chest heaved. He wanted her too much. Challenge, frustration, witchcraft, he didn't care what it was. She was a threat to his majestic isolation. He had been perfectly content before—well, most of the time. Her last-minute change of heart had been a good thing. A very good thing. He should be grateful to her for saving him from himself. Eoin pushed his hair back from his forehead and sighed. “It would be best if you went to bed, Freya.”

“Eoin, I…”

“Just go to bed. We'll talk in the morning.”

Defeated, confused, torn between an urge to flee and an urge to throw herself back into his arms, Freya slid down from the silver altar and made her way up the huge central staircase. The braziers which lit the honeycombed cavern were burning low. Outside it must be nearly dawn.

Eoin watched her go. There was an unaccustomed heavy feeling in his heart. All very well being wed to his kingdom, but his kingdom did not keep his bed warm. But then, look what happened to Struan, when he found someone to warm his bed. He cursed. Two days he had known her, and already Freya Ogilvie was proving an unwelcome distraction. If ever he had needed proof that he needed to rule alone, unencumbered by emotional ties, now he had it. He should not have brought her here. The needs of the Faol were his. He had need of no other complications!

In the unfamiliar chamber, Freya lay wide awake. Though the mattress was softer than any she had lain on before, though the sheets were finer, the blankets warmer, she had spent more comfortable nights on the straw pallet in her prison turret. What on earth had made her behave so shamelessly?

Last night she had resisted him. Tonight, she simply hadn't wanted to. True, the
Claiming ritual, the sensual air which permeated Kentarra and its people were arousing, but she knew in her heart that it wasn't just that. What then? She didn't know, but it was still there, that unfamiliar, disturbing, unsettling feeling. With a heavy sigh, she burrowed under the soft sheets and resolutely closed her eyes. It was this place. This island. These people. Definitely not one particular man.

 

“I'm very anxious, as no doubt you are, to see you returned to your father,” Eoin said next morning, having summoned Freya to the royal breakfast chamber, “but I'm afraid it must wait a few more days.” It was the truth, but it was also a lie. Even though he knew she must, he didn't want her to go just yet. He was not prevaricating, it was simply that circumstances dictated he could not immediately do as he ought. So Eoin had reasoned as he watched dawn break over the horizon.

Freya looked up from her study of the breakfast fare. The long table was piled high with delicious foods, exotic fruits and delicately smoked fish that she had never seen before, creamy cheeses, honey that tasted like nectar, all served on polished silver plate. She had spent a restless night, disturbed by heated dreams, confused by the turmoil of emotions which raged through her exhausted mind.

She wished she had had the courage to overcome her ingrained distrust last night and abandon herself to the moment. Eoin was right, she'd allowed her brand to define her, and it had to stop. She had to stop thinking of herself as the Ogilvie heiress, and discover who Freya really was. Here on Kentarra, in this strange world so very different from her own, where noone knew her nor expected anything from her, perhaps that might be possible. She didn't want to go home just yet, she realised. And now here was Eoin, telling her she might have her wish, albeit temporarily.

“You want me to stay here on Kentarra?” Freya said hopefully.

“It's not a question of what I want, merely what must be,” Eoin said. “Last night's ceremony marked a major change in Faol custom. I need to make sure there are no repercussions among the pack.” Instinctively, he knew that her staying would complicate things but, unusually, on this occasion he was loath to heed his instincts. “A few more days, a week at most,” he said, unsure which of them he was trying to convince.

Freya selected a peach. She'd only ever had a peach once before, and compared to this soft, blushing fruit, it had been a hard, green thing. “I'm more than happy to stay here for a while. If you want me—after last night…” She broke off, blushing wildly, not really knowing what she had meant to say.

“There will be no repeat of last night, if that's what you are worried about,” Eoin said firmly. He had wanted women before but the attraction always palled. Freya was no different. She was a commission not quite fulfilled, and as such, she was off limits. It was his duty to remember that and he prided himself on always fulfilling his duty.

“I'm not—I mean that's not what I—I just meant…” She broke off, intimidated by his manner. He was so remote today. Much more Faol than man. She should be relieved, but there was a part of her that wanted to shake him, to break through his reserve and demand to know if he felt as confused as she did.

Eoin pushed his goblet of heather ale to one side. “Since we have time, I could show you the island, if you like. Kentarra is very beautiful, although it's not always all that it seems.”

“Like the Faol,” Freya said, wiping a trickle of juice from her lips. She looked up and caught his eyes upon her. A blaze of heat shot like an arrow between them.

“Eoin, I must speak to you, immediately!” The voice belonged to a young Faol woman. Like all her clan, she was strikingly beautiful, and despite her youth—she
looked to be about eighteen—she had about her that combination of allure and danger which set her apart as other-worldly.

“Sorcha.” Eoin was almost relieved by the interruption. “Forgive my sister's rudeness, Freya.”

“Eoin, Struan and Iona have had a child. Iona gave birth while you were away. A boy, with our powers, you will be pleased to know. May I visit them?”

“I've told you, you can go when I can take the time to escort you.”

“And when will that be? Never, Eoin. Three years I've been waiting. And Grada is supposed to be so beautiful.”

“Nowhere is as beautiful as Kentarra.”

“No, but Struan says…”

“You forget yourself, Sorcha.” Eoin pushed back his chair. “How dare you question my authority!”

To Freya's eyes, Eoin looked as if he had grown again. He seemed always to do so when angry. She wondered at his sister, glaring up at him defiantly, seemingly quite unaffected by this display of raw power. Even as she watched, an exquisite silver wolf swam into view.

“Stop that at once,” Eoin said coldly.

The wolf narrowed its eyes, her hackles rose, then Sorcha reappeared. She glared at Eoin defiantly for a long moment, chewing her lip. Then she shrugged, and turned towards Freya. “You must be Laird Ogilvie's daughter,” she said. “I heard my brother had found you.” Her smile faded abruptly.

“What is it? What is wrong?” Freya exclaimed. Sorcha was staring at her, her eyes wide, her hand covering her mouth, as if she had seen a ghost. Freya shivered.

“What
is
it?”

“I don't know,” Sorcha said. “It looks like—I thought for a moment it was — it's nothing.” She poured herself a goblet of juice, holding the silver ewer carefully with both hands. Until now, her second sight had been confined to routine matters such as predicting the sex of a child or the coming of a storm. She drew Freya a sidelong look. The creature was still there, though the Highland female obviously had no idea of its presence. Not a part of her then, but some sort of portent, or an omen, perhaps. It was perplexing. She had no idea what it signified. She turned to Eoin and caught a fleeting glimpse of his wolf, which was unusual. He was obviously unsettled about something. She had no intentions of upsetting him any further. “Don't mind me,” she said airily, “I'm always seeing things.”

“One of these days you might even see sense,” Eoin said grimly.

Abandoning her breakfast, Sorcha made for the door. Whatever the apparition signified, one thing seemed certain. There was change in the air.

 

For the next few days, Eoin managed to maintain his remote princely demeanour. Freya told herself she was glad. He was obviously set on maintaining the barriers he had built around himself. Even if she did want to break them down—and she didn't!—what was the point? She would be going home soon. There was no place for her here on Kentarra, though the more she experienced it the more she grew to wish that there could be. Freya had discovered that everything here on Kentarra was brighter, more colourful, more intense than home which seemed flat, dull and grey in comparison.

After two days, having proved to himself that he was perfectly capable of resisting her, Eoin relaxed. He began to seek Freya out more often. Since she was not Faol, he could talk to her of things he would not share with his people. It was an unexpected relief to have someone to confide in, someone to listen and challenge and
question and sympathise. He felt—less lonely. Two more days passed, and her company had become a habit he was reluctant to break. She blossomed in his presence. He relaxed in hers. To a point. The allure between them bound them both like a rope, pulling them ever tighter, closer, fraying the resistance of their wills. It took six days before it finally snapped.

 

They had climbed high up on the cliff top, intending to visit the hot springs, having gained the plateau by means of a spiral staircase cut into the rock, emerging through an elaborate grilled trap door, blinking in the brilliant sunlight. From this, the highest point on Kentarra, the circle of azure-blue sea which surrounded the island could clearly be seen, the border marked by a white crest of waves like a ruff on a garment, beyond which the ocean was pewter-grey.

Eoin wore only a plaid, his tanned torso exposed to the elements. Freya had chosen a gown the same colour as the Kentarra sea, made of some frothy, gauzy material, from the well-stocked wardrobe she had been provided with. There were slippers too, though no stockings. Her long, wildly curly hair was tied back in a simple braid which was already coming undone in the light breeze.

The springs were located on the north side of the island, in a valley made steamy from the heat and water vapour, and consisted of deep pools set in a series of steps, the hottest at the top, where the water foamed forcefully out of the rock. The vegetation was unbelievably lush. Ferns like huge fans, orchids like trumpets, blowsy roses, and any number of exotic flowers and plants with blooms of scarlet, purple and black, which Freya had never seen before. The air was heady with strange floral scents, the rush of the geyser, the misty haze of the damp steam.

A bush the size and shape of a gorse, with red pod-like buds caught her attention. She stooped down to smell it, jumping back when a pink petal like a tongue shot out. “Oh!” she exclaimed.

“Be extremely careful,” Eoin exclaimed. “I warned you all is not what it seems here on Kentarra.”

It was too late. Stumbling, Freya clutched at the bush. A white-hot pain shot up her arm. “It stung me,” she said, looking at the bright spots of her blood trickling onto the grass in astonishment.

“Quickly, give me your arm. The venom is lethal.”

Eoin pushed back the fall of lace at her elbow and put his mouth over the tiny puncture made by the plant. Freya was already feeling dizzy. Her knees folded up under her. “What is happening to me?”

“Freya! Keep your eyes open. Freya,” Eoin said urgently, “look at me. Look at me. Don't close your eyes.”

She struggled to do as he bid her, though her lids felt leaden. His eyes were so green today, like the moss at her feet. His mouth was warm on her arm, though the rest of her was starting to get very cold. He was saying her name, though she could barely hear him. His eyes blazed at her. She could feel him sucking the poison, lapping at her skin. “Eoin,” she said hazily, “I…”

 

The noon sun woke her, its rays penetrating the misty valley, piercing her lids. She was lying on the grass beside the hot springs. Eoin was sitting beside her, looking at her as if—as if—“I'm all right, “ Freya said weakly. “It'll take more than a wee sting to see me off.”

“That was no
wee sting
,” Eoin exclaimed. Seeing her there, pale as wax, had jolted him completely out of his complacency. While she was unconscious, he had been frantic. Now that she was safe, his panic turned to fury. “How could you have been so careless?”