“That spirit of yours may well have helped you survive captivity, but it manifests itself as something dangerously close to impertinence,” Eoin said with something which might be construed as a smile. “Being Alpha is the greatest honour that can ever be bestowed on a Faol. But I was a warrior, you see. It was all I’d ever aspired to be. Taking on the responsibility of prince, and under such traumatic circumstances, was something I grew to relish, but it’s not the life I would have chosen for myself. Those first two years were difficult, though the last has been much more settled.”
“And consequently you’ve become a little bored.”
Eoin frowned. “No, of course not.”
“Why else come in search of me? You’ve felt the need of a fresh challenge. Is that how you see me, as a challenge?”
He didn’t like her use of the very word he himself had latched onto. Eoin rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Throughout his search for Freya, the conviction that there was something missing from his life had refused to leave him. “I have you safe now, that’s all that matters. I can return home content that I have succeeded in my mission. There’s nowhere to match Kentarra, of that I am certain, and no finer people than the Faol, as you will find out for yourself very shortly.”
“Must I address you as Highness?” Freya asked, besieged by a sudden flutter of nerves. Though the prospect of visiting Kentarra was enticing, the closer they came to the island, the more her excitement was laced with a distinct undertone of apprehension. “Will you have me for breakfast if I fail to bow sufficiently low?” she asked flippantly.
Eoin’s smile was positively wolfish. “I can think of no finer dish on which to dine.”
It was happening again. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t look away. “I think I’ll maybe learn to bow and scrape a bit instead,” Freya said shakily.
Eoin’s smile faded. “Just remember, you are about to enter a world quite different from your own.”
Freya shivered. On Kentarra, land of the mysterious Faol, it was not her money which would brand her as different, but her very nature.
Chapter 3
It was now late afternoon. A rolling bank of fog descended upon them from nowhere, sweeping across the blue sky like a curtain. Eoin headed straight for it. And through it. As they emerged from the mist, the Isle of Kentarra was revealed in all its glory. A vast wall of sheer cliffs rose dramatically from the pounding, frothing sea, encircled by a vicious bracelet of reefs, inside which the water was azure-blue and flat calm. Behind the cliffs, which glinted iridescently in the sunlight, the island sloped gently to the sea on the other side, the plateau heavily wooded, the lower slopes verdant and lush.
“It’s like a huge jewel set in the ocean,” Freya said, but Eoin wasn’t listening. He was steering the boat straight towards the rocks. For a terrible moment, she feared they would be dashed to their deaths. She closed her eyes as the noise of the sea swelled alarmingly, then opened them when it died to a whisper to find that they had sailed through an opening so small she had not even noticed it.
“Welcome to Kentarra,” Eoin said proudly. “My kingdom.”
To her astonishment, Freya found the Faol lived in an amazing city carved into the cliffs. She had never imagined such wonders. A huge honeycomb of tunnels and passageways connected vast cathedral-like caverns which served as communal spaces, off which were a multitude of smaller living chambers. The roughly-hewn rock walls were studded with semi-precious stones, amethyst and agates, quartz and onyx, moonstones and amber, which glittered and winked against a background of what looked like highly polished jet. It felt like being inside an enormous jewellery box.
She was taken to a sleeping chamber, a curious cave-like room hung with tapestries, by the Faol woman whom Eoin had assigned to look after her. Beitris was, from what Freya had seen, typical of the females here, stunningly beautiful, combining a subtle air of sensuality with a wary alertness. The Faol were slightly wild, slightly menacing and completely fascinating, much like the wolves into which they could apparently shift.
“What is this,” Freya asked, pointing to a strange device like a tap built into a niche in the wall. When Beitris turned it, warm water sluiced from a crack in the rock into a shallow pool. “Like a waterfall,” Freya exclaimed delightedly.
“The water comes from the volcanic hot springs which help keep Kentarra temperate. We have only spring and summer here, no winter nor even autumn,” Beitris explained. “This indoor waterfall is for bathing. Here, let me help you out of those dirty clothes.”
“Tell me about Prince Eoin,” Freya asked as she began to undo her robe.
Beitris stiffened slightly. “What do you want to know?”
“Just—I don’t know, what is he like?”
“He is a much respected leader,” Beitris replied. “He was a bit wild and impetuous when he was younger, but since he came to power he’s changed, matured beyond recognition almost. Mind you, that’s hardly surprising, he had his work cut out for him, taking over from Prince Struan. He had to fight to retain his Alpha status several times, but no one could defeat him, and even those among us who were at first critical have come to admire him.”
“He told me he’s made changes. Tonight’s ritual…”
“An Alpha and a pack member.” Beitris shook her head, smiling. “It would have been unthinkable even a year ago. Now, we must hurry. Let’s get you undressed, for the bell will be summoning us soon.”
“I can manage for myself, thank you,” Freya said, pulling her stockinged leg out of Beitris’s grasp. She never allowed anyone to see her bare foot if she could help it.
“As you wish,” Beitris said disappointedly. “I have never seen a human body. I confess I was looking forward to seeing yours,” she said with a frank look which made Freya blush furiously.
“I’d heard mortals were shy about such natural things. How strange!” Beitris said with an impish grin. “There’s a gown laid out for you on the bed. When the bell tolls, you must come down to the throne chamber.”
“How will I know what to do?”
Beitris chuckled. “You are human, you are permitted to do nothing but observe. It is a rare privilege our prince is granting you. You should be flattered.”
When Beitris left, Freya finished undressing and stood under the warm cascade, soaping herself over and over, washing away the grime of her captivity. She was free. She really was free. As the water sluiced over her body, the tension which had been keeping her shoulders rigid for weeks begin to ease. She could almost see the weeks of worry and fear washing away with the suds. Stretching up her arms, she let the water trickle over her face, down the valley between her breasts, relishing its gentle caress. She was free. And what’s more, she was here, on the Isle of Kentarra, home of the Faol, about to see a ritual few humans had ever witnessed.
The dress left for her was of scarlet silk, trimmed with knots of satin ribbons, the white sark which she wore under it having an extravagant fall of lace at the décolleté and the sleeves. There was lace too, spun like gossamer, on her petticoats. Rich as Freya was, she had never worn clothes so elegant or so beautiful. Turning in front of a long mirror, she saw an exotic stranger. The robe was laced tight at the waist, emphasising the curve of her hip. She wore no stays, and her breasts rose almost indecently from the low neckline, looking fuller than in her own normal attire. She leaned forward and caught the merest hint of pink nipple. A long lock of golden hair fell over the white skin of her bosom. Her face was flushed from the hot spring water. Her lips looked fuller too. In fact, her whole appearance had about it something ripe, wanton.
The bell began to toll. Freya realised with dismay that Beitris had taken her stockings and shoes. The Faol dress was ankle length, but still she could see the outline of the coffer key on her foot. The bell stopped abruptly. Telling herself that no one here would be in the least interested in her brand, Freya opened the door and followed the hurrying figure of another Fa
ol heading to the throne room.
Down she went, through a maze of tunnels and passageways, down flights of stairs carved into the side of the enormous cliff. The throne room was awe-inspiringly huge, with a ceiling she had to crane her neck to see. Thick columns of rock-like fingers pointed up from the floor and down from the roof, glittering like icicles, so laden were they with quartz, jet and other stones she could not identify. The empty throne sat in the middle of the cavern, a spherical moon made of glass spinning above it, suspended from a silver rope. In front of it was a low altar which seemed to be constructed entirely of silver. The Faol people were gathered in a circle around it. Underfoot, Freya was relieved to feel the soft of a red carpet. None of the Faol wore shoes, she noticed, but all were magnificently dressed, the women in the same scarlet she wore, the men in soft wool plaids, silver buckles set with stones, their naked torsos strapped with weapons, claymores and dirks, all highly polished, all unsheathed, the blades honed to vicious fineness, the hilts decorated with more jewels.
A Faol woman beckoned Freya, moving to allow her to join the circle. As the moon above the throne began to spin, the circle of Faol parted to allow two people to enter it, a man and a woman dressed in white robes, the complete lack of adornment a stark contrast to the others. The woman had long black hair, deep ruby-red lips, a voluptuous appearance compared even to the other Faol. The man was slightly older, his chocolate-brown hair peppered with grey, though his body was as finely honed as his sword.
A booming noise sounded, and everyone dropped to their knees, Freya following suit when her skirts were tugged sharply. Though all bowed their heads, she couldn’t help glancing up. That sharp intake of breath must have been hers. She had thought him magnificent before, now she had no words for him. Majestic, maybe? She couldn’t believe she had ever questioned his princely status.
Eoin wore a golden full-length robe. The wide sleeves, the hem of the gown, and the neckline, which was slashed open to reveal his tanned chest, were trimmed with pearls and emeralds. A heavy cloak of the same rippling gold trailed out behind him, the cape formed of thick black fur pelts. His coronet was gold too, a magnificent emerald forming the centrepiece, and on his wrists and ankles more gold glistened.
He took his place behind the altar. The Faol people got to their feet, and Eoin began to chant, alien words in a strange guttural language, his voice low, the words curling themselves like smoke, whispering round the cavern. There was a glint of a blade as he picked up a tiny dagger. First Lulach, then Kirstin bared their breasts. Eoin made a tiny cut in each. The blood bloomed crimson on their white satin robes. The Faol people took up the chant as Eoin twined the couple’s hands together with a silver rope.
“The end of two and the birth of one,” he announced. Lulach and Kirstin embraced, the blood from their cuts mingling. A tension, like the tingling warning of a lightning storm, so fierce it was almost tangible, filled the huge cavern. Freya felt as if the breath was being crushed from her chest. She tried to speak, but could not. In front of her astounded gaze, Lulach and Kirstin merged and morphed into the shape of one enormous wolf. Its shadow flickered huge and black on the rocky surface of the cavern.
Behind them, she saw Eoin too flicker into the wolf which had come to her rescue, and all around her the Faol people were doing the same. Like the shapes formed by passing clouds, she could see first man then wolf then man, woman then wolf then woman. It was spectacular and terrifying and the most exciting thing she had ever seen. The tension increased as Lulach and Kirstin re-emerged into their human form, still embracing, kissing with unashamed passion. The air crackled with desire now, glittering hard and sharp like the pattern of ice on the grass on a winter’s morn.
Freya touched a hand to her breasts. Her nipples were hard. Her fingers felt cool against the exposed skin of her bosom, which burned. Looking over at Eoin, she saw he was watching her, an expression of raw desire blazing from his tawny eyes.
The ritual was over. Lulach and Kirstin were escorted out to the claiming bed, which was set out under the true full moon in the sacred place where they would remain undisturbed. Watching the Faol tribe as they paired off and made their way through the honeycomb of caverns to their own quarters, Freya could be in no doubt as to their intentions.
“Well, what did you make of the Claiming?”
Eoin was standing beside her. They were the only ones left in the throne room. Freya shook her head wonderingly. “The wolves. I’ve never seen such a—noone would ever believe it.”
“Were you frightened?”
“No. I should have been, but—I don’t know why, but I wasn’t.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It was exciting. Strangely beautiful.”
“Like you.” Eoin ran one long finger down her forearm, making the hairs stand on end.
She didn’t know how he had come to be so close. Had she moved, or he? She had an absurd wish, that she might be the golden robe he wore, silkily caressing and clinging to his skin. “There are far more beautiful women here on Kentarra than I.”
“But none that I am more tempted to devour.”
“Is that the wolf in you talking?” Freya asked, struggling to catch her breath. His eyes seemed to glow. They were mesmerising.
Eoin let his fingers drift over her neck, down the quivering slope of her breasts. “Wolves are only interested in slaking their lust. I, on the other hand, wish to give you pleasure.” It hadn’t occurred to him till then, but that is exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted her to see how beautiful she was. And how brave. And how strong. And how desirable. He wanted to give her something that no one else had. He wanted it so much he didn’t ask himself why, but dipped his head and drank in the scent of her which rose like perfume from her skin. “Let me pleasure you, Freya. Let me show you what real pleasure can be.”
She hesitated. In her world, it would be wrong, so wrong. But then in her world, she was branded. A commodity, not a person. And she was not in her world, but his. The sensual, arousing world of the Faol. She touched Eoin’s hair, felt the lifeforce coursing through him. All-powerful, all-consuming. “Yes,” she said. “Show me, Eoin. Please show me.”
His lips were warm and firm, his tongue enticing as it thrust into her mouth. He picked her up and carried her to the silver altar, casting his cloak down on top of it, placing her upon it, kissing her, stroking her hair, licking his way into the sensitive corners of her mouth, tangling his tongue with hers. Her nipples thrust through the silk of her gown, begging for his attention. He opened her laces, then impatiently tore her silken undergarment apart, cupping her breasts in his hands, stroking, circling.
His touch made Freya pulse and shiver. It set up streaking paths of heat out, down, to her belly, between her thighs. She clutched at his hair. At his neck. At his shoulders. He took her hands, pushed his golden robe aside and thrust her fingers inside. She rubbed the flat of her palm across his chest, relishing the hard muscle, heating skin, raised nipples. She pressed hot kisses to his chest. He kissed the soft underside of her breasts. She moaned as his mouth sucked deep on her nipples, sucked and licked, sucked and licked. “Please, please, please,” she said, hardly knowing what she asked for, not caring, certain that he would know.
Eoin laid her gently back. He was aching with desire now, his shaft harder and tighter than he had ever known, yet still all he wanted was her pleasure. It was strange, but it was also deeply exciting. He wanted so much for her. It mattered. He didn’t think why. It just did. Her hair spilled down onto the cavern floor. Her breasts were ripe, glorious mounds he could spend forever tending. He tore at her clothing, ripping the scarlet gown and the white sark in two, laying her open on the altar for him, feasting his eyes on her.
“Magnificent,” he said, stroking her hip, tugging her closer, tipping her towards him to cup her bottom. “Look at me, Freya. See how beautiful you are to me.”
His eyes were blazing. She shivered at the heat in them, at the desire in them, the almost tangible wanting. She could see the outl
ine 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.
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