Bound to the Wolf Prince (2 page)

Freya paled. “No! There is no need.”

But he was already on his knees before her.

“No! Do you imagine the Earl of Tarbert has more than one heiress held captive?” She tried to free herself, but he had her foot held firmly in his hand. Embarrassment and mortification flamed her cheeks. Though she had been but a bairn when it had happened, the mark still filled her with repugnance. Each time some would-be husband or his kin examined her foot, she felt diminished. It defined her, that mark. That, and the full coffers which went with it.

Eoin untied her garter and rolled down her stocking. Like the rest of her, her leg was delightfully shaped. Curved calf, slender ankle, fine-boned little toes. Perfection, marred only by the ugly red scar. The outline of a coffer key branded into the skin, just as her father had described. He touched his finger to it.

Freya flinched. “Are you convinced now?”

“Why would they do this to you?”

“Brand me like a prize heifer, you mean? To help identify me, were I taken as a babe,” Freya said scornfully. “My nurse told me once that I was lucky, she'd heard tell of another bairn who'd had the tip of her finger bitten off to mark her identity.”

“Marking of any kind is a barbaric act unworthy of any civilised society,” Eoin said with undisguised ferocity. In the three years since he had been Prince of the Faol, he had ensured that their own practice of Marking had been abandoned. He lifted her foot to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the scar. She tasted just as he'd expected, of flowers and sunshine and human female. His tongue traced the outline of the coffer key.

Freya was shocked into stillness. No one had ever touched her there before, certainly not in such a way. His lips were soft on her skin. His fingers were stroking her calf. “What are you doing?”

Good question! Reluctantly, Eoin got to his feet. There were other, more pressing matters to attend to. “Here, put this back on, we must make haste,” he said, picking up her stocking and shoe.

It was what she had dreamed of since she'd been brought here. Rescue. Escape. But Freya stood her ground. He did not frighten her, this Faol warrior, but something about him made her afraid of herself. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes you are,” Eoin said, throwing her bodily over his shoulder.

“Put me down! I demand you put me down at once, I'm not a sack of potatoes.” Freya felt, rather than heard, his laugh in the shaking of his shoulders. She beat her fists against his bare back. “Put me down!”

“As you wish,” Eoin said, dropping her unceremoniously at his feet. “I take it you want me to leave you here?”

“No! Of course not,” Freya said, annoyed at having her bluff called. “You said you would return me to my father.”

“I will, all in good time, but I have weightier matters at home to attend to which require my presence on Kentarra. If you are to accompany me to my world, you would do well to learn a little respect.”

He was already making his way down the turret stairs, travelling at some speed in his bare feet. “What do you mean, your world?” Freya asked, trailing in his wake.

Eoin paused at the door of the guard's room to kick a dirk in the direction of the men. “Wait a while before you release yourselves,” he said curtly, “and do not even think of following us.”

Outside, the sky was almost black. Rain was falling in big fat drops. The wind whipped the sea into a broiling mass of white-crested waves. Freya eyed the conditions with some trepidation. “We surely can't sail in this weather. What are we going to do? Why did you give them a knife? They'll come after us. Why did you…”

“Do you always ask so many questions? If you were mine I'd be tempted to lock you in a tower myself.” With an exasperated sigh, Eoin threw her once more over his shoulder, setting off towards the beach, stopping only to retrieve his plaid and his weapons from their hiding place behind the rock. His long legs covered the short distance effortlessly. Seconds later Freya found herself sitting inside the boat.

Eoin pushed the craft down from the shingle into the water. A huge wave caught it and tugged it into the depths but somehow he managed to leap aboard, soaking wet, laughing as he undid the sail and took the tiller. “We will be drowned, for sure,” Freya said, gripping the side of the boat as it tilted and rocked, dipped and heaved.

Eoin grinned and pulled the sodden piece of cloth which had stood in place of his plaid from around his waist and threw it overboard. For a brief moment he was gloriously naked, before he clad himself again in his own
filleadh beg.
“Come sit with me here, you'll be safe enough,” he said, pulling her to him at the helm.

“Safe!” Freya exclaimed. “Is that some kind of a jest?” She didn't like the way her body was reacting to his nearness. She didn't feel at all safe, though she was beginning to think that the sea posed less danger than the man at her side. She tried to edge away, but the narrowness of the seat constrained her. Though the tiller was between them, his thigh touched hers. It was cold in the force of the wind but she could feel heat emanate from his near-naked body.

Eoin scanned the horizon, his night-sight probing the haar-encrusted outlook. “Kentarra is more than a day's sail from here. Perhaps you'd prefer to ride out the storm on dry land?”

“Of course I would, but where? There is no land anywhere near.”

Eoin smiled with satisfaction as his eyes alighted on the tiny islet, no more than a dot on the horizon. “You just need to know where to look,” he said, adjusting the tiller and the sail.

 

It was tiny, no more than a large outcrop of rock, but a small stand of trees on the summit offered the prospect of some welcome shelter. They beached the boat and clambered up the steeply shelving shore, then Eoin gathered some wood and made a fire, by which Freya huddled gratefully, spreading her skirts to dry.

Beside her, Eoin was quite unaffected by the weather. Leaning back on his elbows, he looked at Freya afresh. Three months, she had been away from her kinfolk, yet she seemed remarkably self-possessed. “Did they harm you?” he asked.

Freya shrugged. “When they first captured me they threatened to, if I did not submit. But the Earl of Tarbert knows as well as I do that a marriage without consent can easily be annulled.”

“You seem well versed in the laws of matrimony.”

“As an heiress, I've little choice. I'm twenty years old, and I feel like I've spent my life being pursued, by both fair means and foul. A bride with a bounty such as mine is irresistible, it seems.”

“You do yourself an injustice if you think your money is your only attraction,” Eoin said softly.

“I would be a fool if I thought otherwise. I have yet to meet a man whose interest in me would survive my penury.”

“I can't believe that.”

“No? Would you believe someone who declared they'd fallen in love with you after an hour? Who claimed to be so madly in love that they would have you elope, lest your father object? Who actually forgot, halfway through his proposal, what your name was? Aye, you can laugh,” Freya said with a reluctant smile, “but it's true. He called me Flora.”

“Freya suits you better.”

“It was my mother's name. My fortune is hers too, it passed to me when she died during my birth. My father has made it his life's mission to keep it in the Ogilvie clan, producing an endless succession of kin claiming eternal devotion.”

Eoin leaned over and touched her cheek. “Perhaps if you gave one of these suitors a chance, they'd prove themselves worthy.”

Freya's mouth puckered. “Do you think I've not thought of that? Three months, I've been stuck in that tower, do you think I've not had ample time for reflection?” She rubbed her foot. Under her stocking, she could feel the mark burning. “But they all know my situation before I meet them. How could I ever be sure that they wanted me for myself?”

Eoin himself had never been anything other than sought after, even before his brother Struan dramatically abdicated and left Kentarra. Since then, his Alpha status ensured that he was the object of every Faol female's attentions. Strangely, though he had previously been much inclined to partake of whatever delights were offered, his new status had quenched his desires. Partly, this was because he took his duties as prince extremely seriously, but it was also true that he found such automatic attraction tedious. Where was the challenge when success was guaranteed? Freya's confession struck a chord. “It must be dispiriting,” he said, almost to himself, “to be so distrustful.”

“Yes, but it's better to be safe than sorry, isn't it?” Freya said forlornly. “Even if it does leave you feeling isolated.”

Another chord struck, though it was not one Eoin wished to acknowledge. Kentarra and his people required his full attention. If he was lonely sometimes, well then, it was the price he had to pay for being a prince. Beside him, Freya's skin was bright with the cold and the spray. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, down her back, over her breasts, which were clearly outlined under the clinging damp of her robe. The way she held out her hands to warm them at the fire, the flush on her cheeks, the way she sat back, throwing her head back to look at the moon, everything about her was overtly sensual. This human female would provide a worthy
challenge—were he seeking one—which he wasn't. Which didn't mean he couldn't tease her a little. Rolling towards her, he took Freya completely unawares, pulling her down on top of him.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm warming you up.”

His eyes were fascinating. Amber—but was there a hint of green? Hypnotic. His mouth was just inches from hers. His fingers tangled in her hair. His body was solid underneath her. “I'm not cold,” Freya said, shivering. She should move. She braced her hands on his chest to lever herself up. Soft hair. Hard muscle. She shivered again.

Eoin trailed his fingers down her back, to the perfect curve of her bottom. In the firelight, her eyes were flecked with gold. Her scent was like an exotic perfume. “Your clothes are soaking wet.”

“They'll dry soon enough.” She should move, but she felt too heavy. She couldn't seem to catch her breath. She couldn't seem to break eye contact. Eoin's fingers were stroking her neck under her hair. His other hand was splayed over her rump. What was he doing to her? She really should move.

Eoin nestled her closer. “They'll dry much quicker if you take them off,” he said wickedly.

“I'm fine just the way I am.”

“Never a truer word spoken,” Eoin replied. Then he succumbed to temptation and kissed her.

Freya had been kissed before. Kisses had been stolen from her, planted on her like unwanted presents, plucked from her like unripe fruit, but she had never been kissed like this. A giving which was at the same time a taking. A possession which was also a submission. Eoin's kisses had the dark potency of an elixir, the allure of the illicit. Faol. Man. Wolf. He tasted of fire and smoke. Of peril and possibilities. Of the unknown, and the unknowable. He tasted of desire. She felt it too. Desire. Warm and sweet as heather honey, trickling through her veins. His tongue flicked along the soft skin on the inside of her mouth, then it touched hers. Sparks of feeling like the spray of the ocean. Freya's heart bumped, fluttered, bumped. She couldn't breathe. She didn't want to.

The scent of their arousal clung around them like a sea mist. Bittersweet, vanilla and spice. The rush of pleasure she gave him was reminiscent of the visceral thrill of shape-shifting. He was ravenous. She was ravishing. Drinking deeper of her, Eoin thrust his tongue into her mouth, rolling her over onto her back, nuzzling the crook of her neck, licking into the valley between her breasts, his breathing ragged. “Delightful,” he murmured, his hands tracing the curve, tugging at the laces at the front of her robe. “Delicious,” he said, as the laces loosened allowing her breasts to spill over her stays. He loosed these too, pleasure settling weightily in his groin as he saw how tightly-budded were her nipples. He rolled his tongue around them, first one then the other. His fingers stroked down, seeking the hem of her robe.

Freya had been called beautiful times without number, but never delightful, nor delicious. Eoin's touch was making her ache with possibilities. A longing, a yearning for something she could not define consumed her. Many a man had tried to take liberties with her, but none had made her want to grant them, though perhaps this man was simply more adept at wooing than her other suitors. Perhaps he had only rescued her in order to claim her fortune! With an enormous effort, she wriggled free. “Stop that! Do you think I don't know what you're up to?”

“I see. You have me down as just another fortune-hunter ready to seduce you in order to secure your gold.” He had intended it as a joke, but the look on her face told
him that was exactly what she was thinking. Anger took hold, fuelled by frustration. Eoin pushed his thick tangle of hair back from his brow. “I haven't the remotest interest in your paltry fortune. We Faol have riches beyond any human imagining. 'Tis a poor opinion you have of yourself, and of me, to think otherwise.”

“Not a poor opinion, more a deep-seated certainty resulting from bitter experience,” Freya said, furiously righting her clothing.

Her obvious hurt mollified his anger somewhat. Eoin pulled her to her feet, ignoring her protests and wrapping his arms around her. “Freya, you are wrong, you know, at least in this instance. Trust me.”

She wanted to. She longed to trust someone. Nigh on twenty years of looking round corners, of questioning every remark made to her, examining every motive, had left her weary. “What proof can you offer me?”

Eoin dropped his hold. “Proof? I am Eoin Tolmach, Alpha of the Faol. Who are you to question me, a noble prince!”

Eoin seemed to have grown. Freya took a wary step away from him, but he grabbed her arm. The motto of the Faol leapt to mind.
Beware! For I am come!
She wished she had heeded it. Though her instincts were to throw herself upon his mercy, she could not back down. “Would a noble prince examine a woman's foot like a drover examining a prize filly at a horse fair?”

It struck him anew how barbaric the act had been, to mark an innocent child in such a manner. “I regret that, but I had to be certain. Enough talk. Try to get some rest.”

Freya watched him stride away. Wearily, she took off her worn shoes and placed them by the fire, rubbing the soles of her feet. Her stockings were wet, but she had no desire at all to reveal what they covered. Her petticoats were damp. She was cold and dirty and hungry and utterly exhausted.

At the edge of the beach, Eoin had his back to her. He was looking up at the moon. He really was a Foal. And a prince? She believed that too, though he had not explained why he had chosen to take on her father's commission himself rather than delegate it to one of his warriors. Man. Wolf. Prince. Faol. Above all man. Such a man. She remembered what it was that had stopped her coming willingly with him. Fear of herself. He made her want to abandon all constraint. He made her reckless. A lifetime of cautious reserve had served her well, yet Eoin Tolmach made her want to cast it all to the winds.

The sky had cleared. The storm had passed. She could see him clearly, bathed in the light of the moon. Her pulses quickened at the memory of his touch, his kiss. He
had
wanted her. She
had
wanted him. Or was it just that he'd made her think she did? For a few precious moments, Eoin Tolmach had made her feel as if she was as irresistible as the Faol were reputed to be. She had never before felt so—so unravelled. Whatever his reasons, whatever it was she had felt, she should be pleased she had stopped things before it was too late. Holding this thought to her like a comfort blanket, Freya eventually dozed off.

Eoin did not sleep, but occupied himself the long night with keeping the fire going, fighting the desire to warm Freya himself by holding her, just holding her in his arms while she slept. This protective urge was not alien to him. As pack leader he was fiercely defensive of his people, but Freya was not of Clan Wolf. Save for his promise to her father, she was nothing to him. Or should be nothing.