Marguerite Kaye - Claimed by the Wolf Prince

Scottish Highlands, 1700

Legend tells of a clan of fierce warriors, the Faol, who have mastered the spirit of the wolf living inside of them. They are famed for their skill in battleand for their irresistible allure to mortal women

It is an attraction fiery Iona McKinley experiences firsthand when she is taken by Prince Struan Tolmach, Lead Alpha of the Faol. His touch is thrilling and arousingbut shes destined to be claimed by another warrior. Will Struan risk losing his clan to keep Iona for himself?

When my editor first suggested that I write a paranormal Historical Undone! trilogy, I must admit I was a bit daunted. Though Id dabbled with Regency vampires in Bitten by Desire, and a little bit of shape-shifting in The Highlander and the Sea Siren, the paranormal element of each of these stories was really quite subtle.

Thinking about it though, I began to get excited at the prospect of juxtaposing a real historical world with one which existed only in my imagination. Not only was it a brilliant creative challenge, but the inherent tension of two worlds colliding offered some amazing romantic possibilities. What would it be like to have a hero from one world and a heroine from another? How would they reconcile their differences, and how would those differences enhance the sensual tension and allure burgeoning between them?

Encouraged by my amazingly supportive editor, I let my imagination run wild and created the world of the Faol, or Clan Wolf. These Highland shape-shifters live on the darkly seductive island of Kentarra off the west coast of Scotland. The trilogy is set in the early seventeen hundreds when the feudal clan system still ruled the Highlands.

I hope you enjoy this first story in the trilogy which features a feisty heroine whose circumstances make her ripe for rebellion and a dangerous hero who thinks himself immune to love and who is, as he says himself, more, much more than a man. And as if that isnt enough, the heroine is thrust into a completely alien world that is both fascinating and threatening in equal measure.

Creating the world of the Faol stretched my creative juices far beyond anything Ive ever done before, but it was a brilliant experience. I loved writing these stories. I really hope you love reading them.

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 night were lost save for one, a babe in arms and 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 howand whento unleash its terrifying power.

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

The Faol are feared and revered in equal measure throughout Scotland. Famed for their consummate skills in battle and reputed to be irresistible to mortal women, they live in uneasy symbiosis with their Highland neighbours. Their home is the remote island kingdom of Kentarra, where their unique culture is fiercely protected. The Faol rarely walk among humans, except on those occasions when a laird commissions them to deploy their prowess in battle to aid his cause. Such requests are often rejected, for the Faol are no mere mercenaries. Their code dictates that they offer their services only to just causes, and utilise the proceeds for the good of the pack.

Though the price demanded is high, those privileged few granted their services can have no doubt of victory. But woe betide the Highland laird who fails to honour his side of the bargain, for the Faol will take the thing most precious to him.

Whatever, or whoever that is.

Scottish Highlands, 1700

The rain turned to smirr as Iona McKinley set out from the castle with her basket, intending to gather the last of the wild brambles. Taking the familiar path to the woods, she pulled her arisaidh , the thick plaid shawl she wore pinned to her gown, more tightly around her. The air seemed unnaturally still, not even the sound of birdsong disturbing the silence. Her skin prickled, as if someone had walked over her grave. Or the way it does when a shadow falls across the moon.

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, but there was no one there. The cotters were all out in the fields for the annual tattie howking. Her father, the laird, was supervising them, determined as usual to make sure that no one slacked, or tried to sneak one potato more than their strict entitlement into their own basket. Laird McKinley liked to think himself a stern but fair patriarch. The villagers who were his serfs utilised other, rather stronger words to describe him. Iona, his only child, who had lived alone with him in the draughty castle since her mothers death, knew that the sad truth was that her father cared for nothing but his own comfort, his own coffers and his position as laird. He was a man who valued loyalty over love.

Which is just as well, Iona said to herself rebelliously, recalling the abrupt way he had announced she was to be wed to Kenneth McIver, a neighbouring laird at least thirty years her senior. Wheesht girl, it is a grand match , she muttered, in a fair imitation of her sire. Kenneth is not yet so decrepit that hell have any problem planting a bairn on ye, so he assures me. The very idea of it made her shudder. She had refused outright, though she knew that duty dictated she eventually accede.

A twig snapped with a sharp retort. Iona jumped and cast another anxious glance around. Still nothing, but the feeling persisted that someone was watching her. Or something.

Stop being such a big bairn! she chided herself, youre letting your imagination run away with you. She was the lairds daughter, on McKinley land. No one would dare harm her here.

But just as she reached the fork in the woods, there it was, standing in the middle of the path, gazing intently at her. Fierce grey eyes, long silky black hair, a vicious snarling mouth. A huge wolf, the biggest shed ever seen in her life. As it crouched down on its massive haunches, readying itself to spring, Iona drew in her breath to scream. The sound had barely formed in her throat when the beast pounced.

She seemed to be moving. The air had a distinct feral tang to it. She was on the back of something large, her arms around its neck. Fur brushed her cheek. Not a horse then. The animal, whatever it was, moved with a powerful loping stride. Her heart was pounding in time to the beasts sinuous, rhythmic movement. She could see the steam of its breath bloom in the cold air. It was exhilarating, the sheer speed at which they were travelling, effortlessly leaping the criss-cross of streams swollen with the melting of the first snow, which had fallen unseasonably early.