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cried out when his mouth finally sank into the damp heat between her legs.
    He parted the soft folds. She was wet for him, and he was hard for her. He licked her, growling with satisfaction as she arched under his ministrations, teasing her by avoiding that most sensitive part, swollen, ripe, ready for his caress. She tasted as exotic as she smelled. He suspected he would be her first. The realisation thrilled him.
    He licked her again, a long, languorous stroke of his tongue that made her squirm with pleasure. He slipped his finger inside and found her as tight and welcoming as he had imagined. He was just as ready as she. His shaft was pulsing. He licked again, and thrust a little higher inside her. Again, touching the swollen nub of her at the same time, and again.
    She came with a force which ripped an animal-like cry from her throat. Panting hard, she was tossed up into some sort of crimsoning sky of rapture, which cocooned her pulsing, throbbing body, until he stroked her again, and she was thrust higher still, so high that she thought she would tear apart. Carnal need made her cling to him, rub herself against him, licking the salt from his chest, his throat, nipping at the pulse there, thrusting her body wantonly at him in the demand for completion.
    Struan held her through the storm of her climax, relishing the sheer masculine satisfaction of knowing that he had brought her to this. The urge to thrust into her, to pour his seed into her, was so overwhelming that it terrified him. Once he had given himself to her, he would be lost forever. He knew it with a terrible certainty.
    He was Prince of the Faol. She was not meant for him, though he felt that no one could ever be more right for him. If he took her now, he could ruin them both. With a hoarse cry, Struan tore himself free from her embrace, from her intoxicating scent, from her intoxicating presence.
    Iona sat up, clutching her tattered sark around her. “Struan?” He was looking at her strangely. The scarlet flag of shame replaced the flush of desire that coloured her throat. “Did I do something wrong?”
    He looked at her, smudged lips, tangled hair, eyes dark with the remnants of desire. He touched the emerald on his amulet. Duty and desire. Who would have thought they could wage such vicious war? “You did nothing wrong. It is I who— I would be taking advantage. Iona, you heard what Eoin said. You cannot be mine.” He touched her hair, kissed the tip of her tilted-up nose. “If I cannot have you I would not spoil you, nor take your innocence.”
    Exhaustion hit Struan with the force of a hammer. He wanted nothing more than to curl up by her side, to hold her against his heart and sleep. This, more even than his desire to claim her, disturbed him deeply. What he would do if she refused to be bound, he didn’t want to think about. What he would do if she were bound and claimed by another, he didn’t want to think about either. “In the morning I will show you my kingdom.” Struan touched her fiery crown of hair. “Then it will be up to you, to decide whether or not to fall under Kentarra’s spell. Till morning, Iona.”
    As the door closed behind him, Iona pulled the bedclothes tightly around her and curled up under them. Struan was an honourable man, that much was clear. She valued him for it, but she couldn’t help wishing that he wasn’t quite so noble. She could not help wishing he had spoiled her well and truly for Kenneth McIver.
    The mattress was feather-soft. The sheets were crisp, scalloped with lace, not a darn nor a sign of wear on them. The blankets were lamb’s wool. The bed seemed to wrap itself around her, cocooning her. As the events of the last twenty-four hours finally caught up with her, Iona fell into a deep sleep.
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    She awoke at dawn and, wrapping a blanket around her, wandered round the chamber, admiring the tapestries. Scenes of battle mostly, but in one there