LITMIR.BIZ

      Scottish Highlands, 1705

      Sorcha Tolmach, Princess of the Faol, possesses the power of the wolf and the otherworldly allure of her legendary clan. But she also longs for more freedom than she could ever find in her brother’s court. Impulsively running away to the Highlands, she doesn’t anticipate being wounded and confined to a ramshackle castle by Conall Macpherson, Laird of Kilfinnan. Sorcha senses only darkness in the rugged, forbidding man’s future—so why does she still feel a passionate yearning to become his mate?

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Epilogue

      About the Author

      Prologue

      Legend has it that one dark, stormy night many centuries ago, a small wooden craft got into difficulties off the West Highland Coast, and broke its hull on the vicious outcrop of rocks called the Beathach, or the Beast. All aboard that storm-tossed ship were lost save for one, a babe in arms, only child of the mythical Highland warrior known as The Fearless One. Still tucked up in the woven reed basket in which he had been sleeping, the child was miraculously washed ashore on the remote, uninhabited Isle of Kentarra.

      Here, he was found by a wolf pack who, instead of tearing out his throat, suckled him and reared him as one of their own, initiating him into their ways, imbuing him with their qualities. He survived and grew to be a man. A man with the spirit of the wolf residing inside him. He eventually learned how to master his inner beast. And he learned how—and when—to unleash its terrifying power.

      From this extraordinary individual evolved the Faol, with their chilling clan motto: Faiceallach! Tha mise an seo! Beware! For I am come!

      Living in uneasy symbiosis with their Highland neighbours, the Faol are feared and revered in equal measure throughout Scotland. While the men are famed for their consummate skills in battle, little is known of the reclusive Faol women, who rarely leave their remote island kingdom of Kentarra.

      Like all Faol they can take the form of a wolf. Deeply sensual and possessing an extraordinary, unearthly beauty, these highly alluring creatures are irresistible to human males. The unique ability to foretell the future is possessed only by the Alpha females of the clan. A gift, which can, on occasion, prove to be more of a curse.

      Chapter 1

      Scottish Highlands, Summer 1705

      The sun was up, a weak pale orb which merely hinted at warmth. Hard to believe it was the same one which blazed over the isle of Kentarra. Sorcha Tolmach yawned, cast aside the cloak she had wrapped around herself and sat up. Everything about the Highlands was different from the familiar landscape of home. The vast tracts of moorland and forest she had already traversed could have easily swallowed up the whole island. The jagged mountain peaks with their snowy caps were much higher than the glittering jewel-studded crags which hid the underground citadel in which she lived. Here, the people inhabited little stone cottages. A dour race they seemed, though she had taken care not to get too close to them. One thing to impulsively run off as she had done, without an escort, and to travel across this alien world quite alone. It would be quite another to openly court being discovered.

      She smiled as she thought of Eoin’s reaction to her disobedience. Her brother would be furious. As Alpha Prince, he had consistently refused to allow her to visit Grada, where her other brother Struan had his own realm, but she was tired of doing what she was told. Besides, she could look after herself. Her Faol powers were all the protection she needed from any human.

      Delicately sniffing the early-morning air, Sorcha felt her senses thrill at the very unfamiliarity of it. It was sharper, thinner, with none of the heady scents and soft humidity of Kentarra. But like an exotic perfume, the Highland blend of heather and pine and stony earth had its own illicit allure.

      There was not a soul about. The desolate tract of moor she must negotiate rose gently in front of her, clumps of rock standing stark against the ground cover of heather and fern. In the distance, her keen eyesight spotted a narrow gap which marked the entrance to a glen. It was much greener there, and when she focused she could hear the tumble of a stream.

      Quickly discarding her gown, and the white silk sark trimmed with lace she wore underneath it, which was her only other piece of clothing, Sorcha tied them into a small bundle using her cloak. Naked, she stretched her arms high and threw back her head to look up at the sun. An onlooker would have been stunned by her sheer beauty—black hair rippling almost to her waist, striking silver-grey eyes, her lush body displayed in unashamed and quite unselfconscious perfection. There was about Sorcha an air of sensuality mingled with excitement, a whiff of danger. She was a sight no man would readily forget. It was as well there was no human man to see it.

      Closing her eyes, she breathed deep and focused on her inner wolf. A sleek, silver creature she was, who liked nothing more than to run, wild and free. Here in the Highlands, away from the constraints of her brother’s court and her own position as an unclaimed Alpha princess, Sorcha could afford to let her loose. Using her powers and sensing no danger hereabouts, she summoned her alter ego.

      Her bones stretched. Her skin prickled. Her back lengthened; her thighs tautened. The pain was no more than a brief, blinding flash. The heart of her wolf beat faster than her own. The breath came quicker, shallower. She dropped to all fours, relishing the powerful rush that always accompanied her shifting, a mixture of sheer exuberance at the supple litheness of her body and a twisting, glittering desire that conjured vivid carnal fantasies. None of which she ever indulged.

      The soft Highland breeze rippled her fur. Catching her bundle in her sharp teeth, Sorcha’s wolf picked her way delicately out of the ferns in which she had taken cover and loped confidently towards the glen.

      Conall Macpherson, Laird of Kilfinnan, known to all as Black Conall, crouched down in the shelter afforded by a cluster of saplings. The tall muscular figure with his unruly hair and unkempt appearance blended seamlessly into the untamed Highland landscape. Around him in the glen, his sheep cropped contentedly at the grass. Conall picked up his musket. The long barrel was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and delicate silver filigree. Etched into the stock was the name of the man who had commissioned the expensive weapon, and the date. Rory Macpherson 1700. Five years ago. Just six months before his brother’s untimely death.

      Instinctively closing his mind to those heart-wrenching memories, Conall positioned the musket on his shoulder and trained

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