snatched her hand away as if she had been scalded. “You don’t frighten me,” she declared, and it was true. He was so formidable she doubted not what he said, but his air of danger excited rather than scared her. She could scarcely believe she was actually in the presence of a wolf-clan warrior. “My father would surely have told me if he had employed you to fight for him.”
“And risk alerting his enemy?” Struan mused with a curl of his lip. “Not even he would be so foolish.”
“And what about the MacEwans? If they had offered you more, would you have fought for them?”
Struan threw back his head contemptuously. “We do not sell our prowess to the highest bidder. We fight only for those who have just cause. Faol warriors are supreme. Why should we not use our talents for the benefit of our clan? How dare you presume to judge us!”
As his anger flared, the savage life-force contained within the man showed fleetingly, and Iona felt it again. A sort of edgy elation. All her senses were on alert. The world seemed to shrink, leaving just the two of them, cloaked in his all-pervasive aura. Her head swam. She prided herself on her intuition, but as she stared at the imposing Faol warrior she realised she had no clue at all as to his intentions. The instinct to flee was sudden and irresistible.
Wrenching herself free from his grip, she made for the protection of the forest. She was fast, but not fast enough. She didn’t see him move, she didn’t hear him come after her, but she sensed him, a dark lunging presence behind her. He caught her, picked her up effortlessly and carried her back down the beach.
It was pointless to resist. She almost didn’t want to. Of a surety, he was taking her to Kentarra. Iona had heard talk of the strange mythical island, its wild beauty, its savage customs, and a part of her longed to see for herself if the rumours were true. Back home, her father would be waiting, no doubt furious at her for being captured. Back home, too, awaited her future husband, the very thought of whom made her shiver with disgust. Kenneth McIver could not carry her as if she were as light as a feather. His touch would not give her butterflies, make her skin heat and tingle with anticipation as if she were about to hurl herself from some impossible height. Kenneth McIver would not make her feel like this man did. This man? This Faol. This…“What is your name?”
“You may call me Struan.”
He set her onto her feet by a small wooden boat. Determined not to let him see the effect he was having on her senses, Iona concentrated on righting her sodden clothing. “What will happen to me?”
“You’ll come to no harm, providing you comply.” Struan watched her as she shook out her petticoats, straightened the sleeves of her sark. Her eyes were the colour of the emerald on his amulet. Her skin was like rich buttermilk. A sprinkling of freckles across that tilted nose. And she had curves, despite her slimness. She was really quite beautiful, for a mere human. She would not be easily tamed, for she seemed quite impervious to the Faol in him. He ran a finger over the soft downy skin of her cheek.
Iona jerked her head away. She’d overheard the women talk while doing the washing at the lochside once, giggling while they described the Faols’ legendary skills as lovers. Their reputed size. And potency. She blushed at the memory. “You’re wasting your time,” she said, meeting his fierce grey eyes defiantly. “Your Faol tricks won’t work on me.”
Struan laughed softly. She did seem strangely immune. “So it appears, but I relish a challenge.” He was aroused now, aroused enough to forget all about the fact that he had no right to claim her.
“You’re not interested in me,” Iona said breathlessly. “The only attraction I have is as payment for a debt.”
Struan touched the fluttering pulse at her throat with his thumb. “You do yourself an injustice, Iona McKinley,” he said huskily.
Iona couldn’t seem to move. His eyes glittered like flint. No one had looked at her quite like that before, as if he saw deep inside her. He was close now. Breast-to-breast, thigh-to-thigh, they stood. Heat emanated from him in waves. Her own heat, too, tightening in her belly, pooling between her thighs. She ached for him to touch her. A myth come to life. Unreal. And yet deeply, viscerally real. She wanted him to kiss her, just so she could discover for herself what danger tasted like. “You don’t want me. You want revenge.”
“Not revenge—justice. On Kentarra you will be claimed. You will become one of us, bound to the clan. If,” Struan added, “you are willing.” He stroked the soft skin of her neck.
“I will never be willing.” Iona’s breath was coming in shallow, sharp gasps. His touch was beguiling. Thrilling. Arousing. Everything it should not be. Everything she wanted it to be. “I have no wish to become Faol,” she said raggedly.
Struan lowered his head, his lips lingering where his fingers had caressed. She tasted of fresh air and summer flowers. She tasted of rain. And human female…a strange, not to say illicit, spice. He nipped the lobe of her ear, his breath warm on the shell of it. “It is an honour granted to few,” he whispered.
Iona’s hand curled onto his shoulder. Her nipples were hard against her stays. “I am content as I am,” she said, unable to stop herself from nuzzling his throat, grazing her teeth on the salty skin.
“That is because you don’t know any better.” He stroked the soft outer curve of her breast. “Once you have experienced the Faol, everything else pales by comparison.” Then he put his arms around her, moulding her to him, and his lips claimed hers.
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