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was a tempest, a bairn in a rush basket. She wondered what her father was making of her absence. What kind of hue and cry would it have caused? Would anyone have seen her, carried off by a wolf?
    I subdued him, Struan had said. Struan Tolmach. Man. Prince. And wolf. All in one. The full extent of the differences between them yawned like a great chasm. Not just a man. More than a man, he had said.
    Images of herself, surrendering all modesty as she laid herself open to Struan’s caress, made her cheeks burn. Ten days until the moon was full and she would be sent home. She closed her eyes tightly shut and pictured Castle McKinley, the village, her father. Already it all seemed so distant. She was having trouble imagining herself back there, constantly having to bite her tongue, running after her father’s incessant demands. Or her husband’s.
    She would not marry Kenneth McIver, whatever her father said! If she could stand up to a Faol Prince, she could surely stand up to a mere Highland laird. She would be the mistress of her own fate, from now on. A knock on the door informed her that the prince required her presence below. She was still getting used to the fact that Struan was a prince, never mind a wolf-prince!
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    Struan received her in the royal breakfast chamber. She was wearing new clothes provided by the women. An olive-green gown over moss-green petticoats, a fine linen sark, silk stockings and soft leather slippers. He had noticed yesterday how chilly she found the cavern’s rock floors. Though he had seen her only a few hours previously, he had already forgotten how beautiful she was. He wished she was not. He wished he had not noticed the dark circles under her eyes, either, nor felt so guilty at the sight of them. Nor wondered what she had thought, the long night long, after he had left herbedchamber.
    â€œHelp yourself to breakfast, you must be hungry,” he said brusquely.
    The table was groaning with food, which made Iona’s mouth water. Eggs. White bread, not black as she was used to. Thick porridge and cream. A bowl of summer fruits, though it was nigh on November. There was even a ham. “It looks quite delicious,” she said enthusiastically.
    â€œI suppose you’d heard that we live off raw meat?”
    She blushed. “I supposed you’d heard we live off cold porridge and kale.” She picked up a raspberry. “Actually,” she said, “a lot of my father’s cotters do, in the winter. ’Tis a sin.” The fruit was sweet and tart as it burst in her mouth. “Where do you get these from?”
    â€œOn Kentarra there is no winter. There are hot volcanic springs that keep the climate temperate.”
    â€œIn the Highlands, sometimes it feels like there is no summer.” Iona cut herself a thick slice of ham, and took another spoonful of raspberries. “Even at Castle McKinley we don’t ever eat as well as this, not even at Christmas,” she said, smiling at Struan. He smiled back. He had a nice smile. It made him much less formidable. Alone with her, he was much less the prince, too. He was dressed differently today. A plain white shirt, a black leather waistcoat, a filleadh beg. She could almost forget he was a Faol. Almost forget what had transpired between them last night. Almost.
    She covered a piece of bread in heather honey. “That other man, Eoin. He’s your brother?”
    â€œHe is.”
    â€œAnd have you any other family?”
    â€œA sister, Sorcha. She is away from Kentarra at present. And the tribe, of course. You could say they are my family.”
    Iona’s eyes widened. “You mean you…”
    Struan laughed. “There are nigh on two hundred of us, and to my knowledge I have not sired any of them. I mean I am responsible for their welfare, in the same way as your father is, as laird of his clan. No matter what is said of us by the Highlanders, we are not savages. We are the same as