Bound to the Wolf Prince (6 page)

There was a gasp of surprise as Eoin held out his hand for Freya to join him by the throne. As she looked out at the circle of Faol, she saw the hazy signs of some melding into their wolf, as they often did when perturbed. Her heart was beating so
loudly she feared it could be heard.

“Though honour-bound to surrender her, I cannot.” Eoin continued. “Fortunately, Laird Ogilvie is a man of great foresight.”

The laird was seated, for his gout and the sea journey had sapped his strength, just as the awesome sight of the Faol people in the majestic cavern of the throne room had sapped his normal arrogance, but he nodded his agreement.

“His wish has always been for his daughter to make an advantageous match. What better then than an alliance with the Faol people?” Eoin said.

The incontrovertible evidence of Freya's persistent refusal to marry any man of her father's choice, allied with the undeniable benefits of having a Faol prince as a son-in-law, had prevailed with the laird who was, as Eoin averred, a man of some foresight. The promise of a large sum of gold, the equivalent of a significant portion of Freya's fortune, did not hinder matters either. And though it was not in his nature to be a fond parent, he had no wish to be a cruel one either. The love she bore the Faol prince shone too truly upon her countenance for him to deny. “Indeed,” the laird agreed.

“Laird Ogilvie,” Eoin said, looking expectantly at the old man. “I return your daughter Freya, as I am contracted to do.”

On cue, Freya's father spoke. “Prince Eoin. I thank you for honourably completing your contract. Daughter, you are now free to stay here on Kentarra with my blessing.”

There was a small silence, as if the Faol were holding their breath. Then Sorcha led the cheering. In her excitement she allowed her wolf to appear, and almost burst into laughter as she saw Laird Ogilvie collapse onto his seat, his eyes looking as though they would pop out of his head.

Full moon. The Faol people gathered in a circle on the beach, itself a crescent shape of white sand, the waves shushing gently onto the shore. A bonfire blazed at the centre. The air was heavy with expectation and excitement, for tonight would be a double ceremony. A Binding and a Claiming. In their long history, no Faolhad ever seen such a combination.

Eoin was nervous. In the ten days since her father's departure from Kentarra, Freya had been kept apart from him. The cleansing which always preceded a Binding. As he descended the precarious stairs cut into the rock face which gave access to the beach, he tried to concentrate on his two roles —or was it three? Officiator. Binder. Claimed. But all he could think of was Freya.

Her arrival caused a stir. The black velvet Binding gown hugged her waist, the silver braid which trimmed the low neckline glimmered against the fullness of her breasts. The wide sleeves trailed to the ground. The hem tinkled, for it was adorned with rows of tiny silver bells. She was barefoot. Her long golden hair rippled down her back, held with a coronet of black and silver flowers. She looked all she should. Beautiful. Regal. Desirable. Only Eoin could see, from the glitter in her eyes, from the way she clasped her hands together tightly, that she was nervous and determined not to show it. His heart swelled with pride.

The circle parted and she joined him. Sorcha held the black crystals out in the silver bowl. Eoin cast them onto the fire. It blazed, white and fierce. He took the silver cord from its chest, saying the ancient words. Behind him, his people were chanting with him.

The Binding would change her irrevocably, but Freya had been absolutely resolute. “I want to be everything to you, and I can't be that unless I am a true Faol,” she had insisted. “It's what I want, believe me.”

He had, though it had cost him several sleepless nights as the moon grew fatter and closer to completion. He tied the silver cord tighter around Freya's wrists. She held his gaze confidently, utterly trusting. She repeated the words carefully, hardly a quiver in her voice. He dropped the second handful of crystals into the fire. This time it blazed ominously, purple flames licking into indigo. He held the elixir to her mouth and she drank. At the same time, he made the cut in both their breasts.

His people began to change. The air was thick now with the sweet, cloying scent of desire and the bitter one of arousal. He wrapped the trailing cord which bound her wrists around his own. “To those who are bound, let all be true,” Eoin cried, the conclusion of the first ritual. “The end of two and the birth of one,” he declared, the conclusion of the second. All around him his people shimmered and changed. He pressed Freya to him, breast to breast, blood mingling with blood, and kissed her.

Her skin felt as if it was too tight for her. Her bones ached. A shooting pain, so sharp and sudden she thought she would faint with it, made her gasp. Her blood flashed fever hot, then icy cold. She was dimly aware of Eoin's arms around her, even more dimly aware of the Faol people turning as one into a pack. Howling. The moon seemed to grow, drop down towards her. Her back arched. Stretching, stretching, then a whooshing noise. A massive surge of power, and at the same time the sudden, overwhelming surge of arousal. She curled her shoulders and felt them. Her wings. Looking down she saw that she was in the sky, hovering above Eoin's wolf. She was an eagle. Not a wolf, but an eagle!

In the crowd below, Sorcha smiled. An eagle, the sign of majesty, just like the one she had seen perched on Freya's shoulder. Her powers of foretelling were
stronger than she had imagined, she thought smugly.

Without knowing how she did it, Freya had become herself again, and was in Eoin's arms, his mouth was on hers, and all around her there were cheers and howls and more cheers. “An eagle,” Eoin whispered, “the sign of majesty.” He laughed, a deep, throaty sound filled with love and admiration. “An eagle. My own Freya, you were quite right. You are one of us, but you will always be you.”

He kissed her passionately, his mouth warm and possessive, clinging to her and claiming her. The air was redolent with arousal. The Faol people were already making their way back to the city. They were alone on the beach. Kissing. Touching. Stroking.

He led her to the Claiming bed, which was set in a small cavern in the rocks, the walls studded with stones which looked like impossibly large diamonds, throwing the shadows back and forward between them. It was warm there, and softly lit. The bed itself was a silver frame, the covers black velvet and silver lace, strewn with petals which delightfully perfumed the cavern.

“I now claim you for my own life mate,” Eoin said, slipping off his robe.

“I now claim you for my life mate,” Freya repeated, her voice no more than a whisper.

The front of her gown was held together with a row of tiny buttons. Eoin kissed a trail down her skin as he undid each one, until she too was naked. He kissed her mouth. His tongue touched hers, and set her afire. She moaned, desperate to have him inside her, but he laid her gently on the bed, determined to take his time, determined that tonight would be more, better than ever before.

He rolled her onto her front and kissed her from head to toe. He rolled her onto her back and kissed her. His kisses set her skin tingling, her pulses racing, wherever they fell. When he kissed her thighs, she closed her eyes. Stars glittered behind her lids as his tongue licked into the damp folds of her sex. They burst when he stroked her to a climax. As she shuddered and clutched at him, finally he entered her in one powerful thrust. Wild now, she wrapped her legs around his waist and arched up. He kissed her mouth and thrust harder. She could feel the effort he was making to control himself in the heaving of his chest, in the tension which made the sinews in his arms stand out.

She didn't want him to control himself. She arched again, and bit down on his shoulder, digging her nails into his back. He moaned. His thrusts became more purposeful. She felt him swelling, thick and potent inside her. She tightened, her breath coming sharp and fast, her breasts aching against the abrasion of his chest. She tumbled for the second time into a climax as he exploded inside her.

He kissed her again, tenderly this time, then disentangled himself. “Look, my love,” he said, touching her foot.

“What is it?”

“See for yourself.”

The brand had disappeared!
“Truly a new beginning,” she whispered, as high inside she felt something settling.

Eoin felt it too. “And a new life,” he added, gazing down adoringly at the woman he loved.

Look for the first installment in the Legend of the Faol series,
Claimed by the Wolf Prince
, available now wherever ebooks are sold.

Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Harlequin Historical UNDONE titles on sale now:

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Claimed by the Wolf Prince
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Born and educated in Scotland,
Marguerite Kay
originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practice, a decision which was a relief, both to her and the Scottish legal Establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living, a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite's fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.