The Highlander And The Wolf Princess

He towered over her, hands on hips, his expression furious, his stance implacable. A wild-looking man in a worn shirt and plaid quite at odds with his air of authority, he glared out at her through a tangle of dark brown hair which reached down to his shoulders. His eyes were fierce, a startling blue, set deep below a brow that seemed to be formed into a permanent frown. A scar cut his left eyebrow in two. There was another little nick in the shape of a crescent on his chin. A hard face softened only by his mouth, which was full and sensual, though it didn’t look as if it did much smiling.

She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, but she could not seem to get her legs moving, and when she sought her wolf, it whimpered in distress and cowered deep inside her. Gritting her teeth, Sorcha made a painful lunge from the bed, only to find herself held fast in a pair of ruthlessly strong arms.

‘For the love of God, will you stay where you are. I mean you no harm.’

His voice was deep, harsh, as if, like his smile, it was rarely used. ‘No harm?’ Sorcha gazed at him in disbelief. She still couldn’t believe it. Above all else, she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t sensed the impending danger, any more than she sensed it now. She tried desperately to focus her powers, but there was nothing there—not even fear, which should have been. None of the usual cloud of images and symbols she had learned to interpret, to harness and to trust. What was wrong with her?

‘You shot me,’ she said.

‘I aimed at a wolf. I shot at a wolf. And yet…’ Conall shook his head, still quite unable to account for what had happened. ‘Who are you—or rather what are you? Are you some kind of evil spirit, sent to haunt me?’

‘I am real enough, as was the wolf.’

Her accent was strange, but not as strange as her words. ‘Then what happened to it?’

Despite the dull ache in her thigh, which was already fading, despite the failure of her powers, the human’s obvious bewilderment tickled Sorcha’s sense of the absurd. Perhaps she could sense no danger because there was none? ‘She’s right here,’ she said with a hint of a smile, ‘inside me.’

Her voice was like smoke. Her mouth was sinful, redolent of dangerous pleasures. Those lambent eyes, the same silver-grey as the wolf’s, gave her a fey look. Her figure was voluptuous, full breasts with dark, jutting nipples, hips rounding delightfully from her waist; she was as lovely and as luscious as a siren. And as dangerous. ‘You’re Faol,’ Conall said slowly, quite awed by the realization. ‘Clan Wolf.’

‘You know of us?’

‘Your warriors are legendary, but I’ve never heard tell of a female coming to the mainland.’

‘It is rarely permitted.’ She tried, but could not quite disguise the resentment in her voice.

‘Tell me, do you always wander about naked?’

Sorcha grabbed the sheet from the bed and wrapped it roughly around her. ‘I dropped my clothes when you shot me,’ she said tartly, confused by the way his gaze made her pulse thrum like a hummingbird’s wings.

Her skin was lightly tanned, the same colour all over. Her silky fall of hair was so long it caressed her bottom. Fascinated, and appalled by his own blatant display of interest, Conall dragged his eyes away. His shaft hardened with the unaccustomed stirrings of desire, and with it came acute awareness. Of the sweet, heady scent of her. Of the ripeness of her. The tantalizing otherness.

What the devil was he thinking? He ran his fingers through his wild tangle of hair. ‘You should be resting your wound.’

‘It’s not serious. The pain is already fading,’ Sorcha replied. The way he looked at her made her feel as she did when she shifted. Excited. An ache of wanting something intangible. She couldn’t understand it. Not only had he tried to kill her, but he was not at all handsome by Faol standards—and she had been wooed by the most handsome Faol in the pack. She licked her lips, quite innocent of the effect. ‘My leg will fare better without these bindings.’

‘Bandages,’ Conall said distractedly, fascinated by the glimpse of pink tongue on the darker pink plumpness of her lips.

‘Did you apply them?’ She imagined those calloused hands, the surprisingly well-cared-for fingers, on her skin. He was so different from a Faol man in every way. Bigger. Much more muscled. Broader. And his scent was different, too. Salty. Musky. Yet quite definitively male.

‘Yes I did. Luckily it’s a clean wound.’ Conall couldn’t take his eyes off her hand, where it unconsciously stroked her thigh. A gust of desire assailed him. She smelled of hot sun and some other elusive scent, like a wild Highland orchid.

Despite his heavy frown and the wariness he wore like a cloak, his mouth had a humorous curl to it, tilting up at the corners. She couldn’t read him or see his aura, which was as perturbing as it was unusual. It was as if he had placed a tangible barrier between them which made him opaque. Used as she was to almost complete transparency, it was frustrating, but also a challenge, something she could rarely resist. We Faol heal very quickly,’ Sorcha explained.

‘All the same, you need to rest.’ He meant to help her back to bed, but as he moved to do so, she stepped warily backwards, tripping on the sheet, and they fell together onto the bed.

It had been so long, so very long, since Conall had lain next to any woman, far less a captivating creature like this. She was so close he could feel the soft feathering of her breath on his cheek, count the thick dark lashes that framed those mesmerizing eyes, which were locked on his. ‘I should—you should rest,’ he said roughly. But he couldn’t seem to move. He didn’t want to move.

‘I’m not tired,’ Sorcha replied. Though the Faol were an innately sensual race, she had always instinctively guarded against intimacy of this sort. Seeing others’ innermost thoughts, their lives and futures laid bare, made her reluctant to be revealed herself. Knowing all, she had no wish to be known. Until now. Now, all she could think about was being closer still to this forbidding, powerful Highlander. Her body yearned for it. He made her feel safe and vulnerable at the same time. She edged a little towards him. Her toes brushed his legs. .

Conall’s erection hardened. He should move. He meant to move, and he did move, but in quite the opposite direction from that he intended, pulling her to him, so that they lay breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Her nipples were hard. His shaft was harder. Her breath was a whisper on his skin. Some irrevocable internal command compelled him to kiss her. So he did.

Sorcha had never allowed any man to kiss her, but as Conall’s lips touched hers, resistance was the furthest thing from her mind. His mouth was warm, every bit as sensuous as it looked. He tasted dark and dangerous. A rush of heat flushed her, from her neck down, her belly up, as his tongue touched hers. He pulled her hard to him and kissed her more deeply. It felt as intense as her shifting did. Her nipples peaked against the rough expanse of his chest. Her pulses began to flutter unevenly.

She was lying on top of him, the hard length of his erection pressing into her belly, his hand cupping her bottom. His breathing was as ragged and harsh as his appearance. His stubble rasped her delicate skin, yet his mouth was a delight. As he rolled her onto her back, she could almost taste the scent of their arousal, a bittersweet blend of salt and spice. Running her fingers across the span of his shoulders, she marvelled at the power in his bunched muscles. So this was what a man felt like? So different from what she had expected.

She tried to tug his shirt free from his belt, wanting to test the feel of his skin. His firm hand on her wrist halted her. His lips deserted hers. For a long moment he gazed at her in bewilderment. She had a fleeting glimpse of it then, his essence. Dark, hard, glittering like the rocks which formed Kentarra’s citadel. Then, as he rolled himself off the bed with an exclamation that sounded horribly like disgust, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Chapter 2

Conall cursed, struggling to extinguish the flame of desire that seemed unaccountably persistent. He had forgone any right to desire long since. ‘I don’t know what possessed me,’ he said brusquely, concentrating on righting his plaid.

‘Nor indeed do I.’ For the second time in less than an hour, Sorcha fought her way through the mists which engulfed her usually clear head. ‘Who are you? And what is this place you’ve brought me to?’ she asked, surprised that she had not thought to do so before.

‘You’re in Castle Kilfinnan. My home.’ Seeing the surprise on her face, Conall laughed harshly. ‘Did you take me for a poacher? Or a sheep rustler? Aye, I can see from your face that you did. They’re my sheep that wolf I took you for has been slaughtering. These are my lands. And this is my castle.’ He made an ironic bow. ‘Conall Macpherson, Laird of Kilfinnan at your service,’ he said with a twisted smile.

It made sense now, that air he had about him, a sort of natural authority. ‘Sorcha Tolmach, Princess of the Faol,’ Sorcha riposted, irked by having misjudged him, and even more irked that he had noticed.

‘A Princess! What the devil are you doing travelling about the Highlands unchaperoned?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘It most certainly is, while you’re on my lands, under my roof.’

Sorcha sighed dramatically. ‘I am going to visit my elder brother. And despite what my other brother Eoin might say, I don’t need his permission to do so.’

‘Nor anyone else’s I take it? If you’ve a vengeful husband trailing in your wake…’

Sorcha gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Faol don’t marry as you humans do. We take a life mate, but I have not yet agreed to be claimed. So you need have no fear of having to face one of our legendary warriors.’

‘I have no fear of anything nor anyone alive.’

He said it not boastfully but bleakly. She met his eyes, like chips of blue granite, and shivered. ‘I believe you,’ she said softly.

Conall shrugged. ‘So you are not married—claimed. Why is that?’

‘’Tis not for the want of trying, on my brother’s part. Since Eoin took a life mate himself, he has been overly keen on my doing so, too.’

‘But you’re set on disobeying him, are you?’

Now it was Sorcha’s turn to shrug. ‘It’s not that,’ she said, twisting the end of the sheet with her fingers. ‘It’s just that none of my suitors have been the one destined for me.’ She blushed faintly. ‘I have a gift for knowing the future. When I meet my life mate, I’ll know immediately.’

Conall raised his heavy brows. ‘You can foretell?’ he queried sceptically. ‘You’re some sort of witch?’ It would explain her effect on him.

‘My powers are not dark,’ Sorcha said indignantly.

Intrigued, Conall sat back down on the bed beside her. The mattress sank under his weight, rolling Sorcha towards him. ‘What about the past, can you see that?’ he asked, deliberately leaning even closer.

‘No.’