Chapter 1
Scottish Highlands, 1703
Even by the standards of a Highland summer it was a wild night. Eoin landed the little boat with relief on the tiny beach which was the islandâs only safe anchorage. Hauling it clear of the foam-crested sea, he stood on the shingle, his heightened senses on full alert. Throwing back his head and closing his eyes, he blocked out the hiss of the breaking waves on the pebbles, the scrabbling and squeaking of the little night creatures, the lonesome cry of a far distant owl.
In the purplish gloaming light of a bruised sky, he was an impressive sight. Naked, save for the filleadh beg, his magnificent warriorâs body glistened with the oceanâs spray. Deeply tanned, his muscles clearly outlined under the sheen of moonlight on skin, rippling like the ebb and flow of the tide which pounded the beach, Eoin had about him an air of tightly-coiled power which signalled danger. His auburn hair, which fell in a wild tangle to his shoulders, gave him an untamed look. A smattering of darker hair covered the width of his chest, arrowing down in a thin path past the dip of his stomach to the broad leather belt with its jewelled buckle which kept his plaid in place. In the eerie light of the pending summer storm, his eyes, by daytime mossy green, had an iridescent, tawny hue.
Eoin breathed deeply and sniffed the air. He could detect them easily enough, the humans. Male. Overpoweringly male, that sharp, bitter scent. No trace of female. But then, if she was being held in some confined space, that was to be expected. He sincerely hoped she was on the island. It had been an arduous task, tracking his quarry clear across the Highlands, and it had taken longer than he had anticipated. Looking up at the night sky, he frowned. Only two more days until the full moon, which could prove a problemâbut he would worry about that when he had her in his clutches.
The castle, no more than a tower and a few rough buildings enclosed by a perimeter wall, stood on the highest point of the island. Granite-grey, the main keep was topped by battlements, though his razor-sharp night vision could detect no lookout. Behind the castle stretched moorland, desolate and rust-coloured. A bleak place. No Highlander could possibly have traced her here. It was why Laird Ogilvie had commissioned him for the task in the first place. Eoin smiled to himself. They were not expecting anyone. They were assuredly not expecting one such as he.
Moving stealthily towards the castle, he heard the faint noises of the men in their guard room. Three, certainly no more than four of them. Laughing. Relaxed. No sound from the turret. Was she imprisoned there? It was the obvious location. He was about to find out. Unbuckling his belt, Eoin unravelled his plaid, placing it behind a large rock along with his claymore and his dirk. He had no need of weapons.
He arched his back and stretched, the movement lengthening his torso, showing off the supremely masculine line of his body, the span of his shoulders, the swell of his chest as his ribcage expanded, the narrow waist, taut buttocks, lithe, athletic legs. He was also aroused. He was always aroused when upon the brink of change. For some, transformation was painful. For Eoin, it was invigorating in every way. His shaft jutted up, thick and potent against his belly. He stretched his arms higher, his eyes amber, glinting up at the moon, and threw back his head to summon his inner wolf.
His vision 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 boltsthrough his veins. He dropped down on to all fours, and it was over. Man had become wolf. With a vicious
Scottish Highlands, 1703
Even by the standards of a Highland summer it was a wild night. Eoin landed the little boat with relief on the tiny beach which was the islandâs only safe anchorage. Hauling it clear of the foam-crested sea, he stood on the shingle, his heightened senses on full alert. Throwing back his head and closing his eyes, he blocked out the hiss of the breaking waves on the pebbles, the scrabbling and squeaking of the little night creatures, the lonesome cry of a far distant owl.
In the purplish gloaming light of a bruised sky, he was an impressive sight. Naked, save for the filleadh beg, his magnificent warriorâs body glistened with the oceanâs spray. Deeply tanned, his muscles clearly outlined under the sheen of moonlight on skin, rippling like the ebb and flow of the tide which pounded the beach, Eoin had about him an air of tightly-coiled power which signalled danger. His auburn hair, which fell in a wild tangle to his shoulders, gave him an untamed look. A smattering of darker hair covered the width of his chest, arrowing down in a thin path past the dip of his stomach to the broad leather belt with its jewelled buckle which kept his plaid in place. In the eerie light of the pending summer storm, his eyes, by daytime mossy green, had an iridescent, tawny hue.
Eoin breathed deeply and sniffed the air. He could detect them easily enough, the humans. Male. Overpoweringly male, that sharp, bitter scent. No trace of female. But then, if she was being held in some confined space, that was to be expected. He sincerely hoped she was on the island. It had been an arduous task, tracking his quarry clear across the Highlands, and it had taken longer than he had anticipated. Looking up at the night sky, he frowned. Only two more days until the full moon, which could prove a problemâbut he would worry about that when he had her in his clutches.
The castle, no more than a tower and a few rough buildings enclosed by a perimeter wall, stood on the highest point of the island. Granite-grey, the main keep was topped by battlements, though his razor-sharp night vision could detect no lookout. Behind the castle stretched moorland, desolate and rust-coloured. A bleak place. No Highlander could possibly have traced her here. It was why Laird Ogilvie had commissioned him for the task in the first place. Eoin smiled to himself. They were not expecting anyone. They were assuredly not expecting one such as he.
Moving stealthily towards the castle, he heard the faint noises of the men in their guard room. Three, certainly no more than four of them. Laughing. Relaxed. No sound from the turret. Was she imprisoned there? It was the obvious location. He was about to find out. Unbuckling his belt, Eoin unravelled his plaid, placing it behind a large rock along with his claymore and his dirk. He had no need of weapons.
He arched his back and stretched, the movement lengthening his torso, showing off the supremely masculine line of his body, the span of his shoulders, the swell of his chest as his ribcage expanded, the narrow waist, taut buttocks, lithe, athletic legs. He was also aroused. He was always aroused when upon the brink of change. For some, transformation was painful. For Eoin, it was invigorating in every way. His shaft jutted up, thick and potent against his belly. He stretched his arms higher, his eyes amber, glinting up at the moon, and threw back his head to summon his inner wolf.
His vision 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 boltsthrough his veins. He dropped down on to all fours, and it was over. Man had become wolf. With a vicious
Similar Books
