By Emma Holly
Within the Scottish wooden, a extended family of immortal shape-shifting wolves takes in an orphan woman, Gillian, as one among their very own. but if she matures right into a appealing lady and falls for an insignificant mortal, her woodland relatives and new lover are plunged right into a fiery, passionate fight to say Gillian's center, physique, and soul...
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She checked herself: face, body, fingers. She felt too tall for a moment, too naked and earthbound. And then she was Gillian again, the runaway upyr. Too impatient to wait, she tore the bothersome stitches from her eyes. The tiny wounds healed in a heartbeat. No matter. She would replace the threads before she changed back. She knew where the man kept his tools and had the strength of will to use them. Far better, after all, to make her captor cut them off. Intrigued to be once more in the abode of men, she gazed about.
Her surprise made her realize she had not expected to find this well-peopled world. Humanity had healed while she hid away in the forest. Uninterested in her musing, the bird turned to admire the sturdy, high-perched keep. This, Gillian gathered, was an eyrie she could approve. Aimery used the arm that held his reins to point. "There," he said. " Gillian had traveled far indeed if this imposing stronghold could welcome her. As always, Aimery experienced a mix of feelings on coming home. To see the outward evidence of Fitz Clare strength, theirs since the time of their great-grandfather, made his heart swell in his breast.
Shoeless, he trod the old path toward the druid clearing. Between boulder and oak it wound, packed by centuries of feet. His legs were tireless, as if he had the strength of twenty men. I trespass, Aimery thought. This is my brother's wood. But it did not seem so. The trees seemed to belong more to themselves than to any man. Then he saw the woman, standing slim and straight before the ancient stone. She wore nothing, not a stitch. Against the lichen-stained granite her skin glowed like ivory before a flame.