swam, bones cracking and reforming, his spine lengthening. The musky tang of his feral alterego filled the night air. Soft fur coated his body, his buttocks, his thighs, becoming tauter, the expanding muscles straining his skin painfully. A shiver of pure pleasure made his fur stand up in a ridge down his back. His heart felt as if it would burst as the familiar sparks shot like lightning bolts through his veins. He dropped down on to all fours, and it was over. Man had become wolf. With a vicious snarl, Eoin sprang forward towards the castle and his prey.
Freya Ogilvie woke from a troubled sleep. The straw pallet which comprised her bed was uncomfortable and lumpy, quite unlike the feather mattress she was used to at home. The filthy blanket which was her only covering stank of horse. She was chittering. Though it was August, the keep was icy cold, the flagstone floors and rough walls of the room in which she was being held damp and dank. As usual when she woke, her head ached. The fear and despair she hid from her captors manifested itself each night in a tightly-clenched jaw.
The single rush light had gone out. Getting to her feet, she felt her way around the curve of the wall to the narrow window which granted her the only view of this desolate island which had been her home for nearly two months. It must be nigh on three since she had first been taken. Since then, there had been two visits from her loathsome captor, the impoverished Earl of Tarbert. Twice she had refused to consider his dastardly proposal. The first time had been easy, as she had been imprisoned for barely a week. On the second occasion she’d rebuffed him again, though truth be told she’d expected to have been rescued by then. The earl had been furious. She’d feared he would violate her, but at the last minute he’d thought better of it. “I will not endanger the legality of our union by forcing myself on you, but you will pay for that little bit of defiance when we are wed,” he’d said ominously, righting his plaid. “And wed we will eventually be, whether you wish it or no.”
Freya shuddered at the memory. By day she could persuade herself she would never submit. At night, locked in the turret room, whose every stone she knew intimately, she doubted her resolve. How much longer must she rot here? She massaged her throbbing temples. Sometimes she wished he would come, just so that it would be over.
Stop thinking like that! Outside, the sky had a sullen, ominous look to it. The sea was angry. A summer storm brewing. A movement at the foot of the turret far below caught her attention. The glint of an eye. Standing on tiptoe, she strained to see. Was that dark shape a shadow, or something else? Her eyes widened as it moved with liquid stealth. A wolf. A huge wolf, a magnificent beast, crouched down on its mighty haunches. She could swear it was looking up at her. As if it was assessing her.
Her mouth dried. She held the animal’s gaze. Or it held hers. She could not tear her eyes away. Surely there were no wolves on this island? The moorland was too bleak. There was not a tree or any other form of cover, save the castle. But wolf it was. Sleek, huge, beautiful. And savage. She could sense it, in the bunching of its muscles under that luxurious fur. Nature at its most perfect, and its most lethal. And its most enthralling.
Freya tried to haul herself up higher onto the window the better to see. Her calves ached with the effort. Being on the top floor of the keep, the window was not barred. As she leant out, the ground swooped up, making her dizzy. She closed her eyes until the dizziness stopped. When she looked down again, the wolf had gone.
She must have imagined it. A trick of the light, though it had seemed so palpably real. Then she heard the blood-curdling noises.
Eoin’s wolf shuffled back on its powerful haunches, its ears flattened, its eyes fierce. It leapt, impossibly high into the air, its body stretching, arching, soaring through the opening in the tower and into the guards’ room. Three of them, playing cards and drinking, their weapons carelessly discarded on the hearth. He was on the first one before he had even risen from the table, halting the scream in his throat with a vicious snap of his jaws. The other two grabbed their weapons, the blades of the dirks glinting menacingly. Overturning their chairs to use as shields, the burly Highlanders stared at the wolf in horror. They edged nervously towards him. Eoin paused, his head to one side. Though he could kill them easily, there was no real need. The Highlanders may well consider his kind savages, but they were wrong. Faol never killed unless it was strictly necessary.
The bolder of the two men lunged at him with the dirk. Eoin avoided him easily. The man lunged again, and Eoin sprang, hurling the guard bodily across the room where he landed with a dull thud, unconscious. The third guard quivered as the wolf turned to face him. Eoin was already reforming. He saw the blurring of his wolf’s body reflected in the terrified guard’s face as he changed from wolf to warrior.
“Faol! Merciful God, Faol!” The Highlander dropped his dagger and fell to his knees muttering incoherent pleas for mercy.
Eoin looked about him for something with which to tie the trio up. The heavy drape which hung at the window to prevent winter draughts would do. Yanking it free from the rail, he tore strips from it and set about securing the men, using one strip to stem the bleeding of his first victim.
“Are there any other guards?” he demanded. A terrified shake of the head satisfied him. “And the woman?”
“In the small room at the top of the keep.”
“If you’re lying…” Eoin left the threat unspoken. Tying the remnants of the window drape roughly around his waist, he strode out of the guard room. Raising his head, he caught her scent easily. Exotic. Flowery. Lighter than a Faol woman’s, but heady all the same. At last! He could hear her breathing, shallow, muffled, obviously trying not to be heard. He padded barefoot up the spiral staircase, past the next floor and onto the next. The door was locked. He could have taken the key from the guard, but two hard blows, and the sturdy lock flew open.
Freya cowered at the window as the door crashed against the wall. Expecting a predatory wolf with fierce eyes and razor-sharp teeth, instead, she was confronted by a man. Tawny-haired, with fierce eyes right enough, but a man nonetheless. A really quite magnificent man. The scream died in her throat. “Who in the name of God are you?”
Eoin eyed the heiress with surprise. Though she had been described to him as a comely wench, he had assumed the description was influenced by her fortune rather than her face. But Freya Ogilvie was indeed a comely wench. Extremely comely, despite the toll which months of incarceration had taken on her appearance. A cluster of golden curls framed a face more sensual than beautiful. Dark brown almond-shaped eyes which had a slumberous quality, under finely arched brows. A soft curve to her cheeks which somehow enhanced this latent sensuality, and a plump mouth which begged to be kissed. More curves, the swell of her bosom as it rose and fell from the torn neckline of her gown, and the sweetest curve of all, the indentation from waist to hip. A pleasingly round bottom, he was willing to bet. His shaft stiffened. Shifting always made him hungry for a woman. He had not expected to find his desires sharpened by this one.
“Who are you?” Freya said again.
“I am Eoin Tolmach.”
“Tolmach? I have never heard of that clan.” His accent was strange. Neither Highlander nor Lowlander, it was deep, sonorous and less lilting than she was accustomed to. “What do you want? What happened to the guards?”
Eoin smiled. “I took care of them.”
“I saw a wolf. I suppose you’ll tell me you took care of that too,” Freya said with a disbelieving curl of her mouth.
Eoin’s smile deepened. “I did, in a manner of speaking.”
His presence made her feel light-headed. It was too male. Something else too, something visceral. She would not let him intimidate her, though as with the wolf earlier, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. If
