HuntressUnleashed

Clare
Murray

Scotland, 1714

When an Alpha werewolf shows up naked on her doorstep,
Caitrin Flint must come to terms with who she really is—and deal with the lust
that’s driving her into Eagan MacCulloch’s brawny arms. But there’s another
werewolf on the prowl, aided by dark magic, who will stop at nothing to make
Caitrin his mate. When the dark wolf strikes, Caitrin must embrace both
Huntress and werewolf skills to keep herself and her sexy Highlander safe.

A
Romantica®
historical paranormal erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Clare Murray

Scotland, 1714

The last wolf in Scotland had been slain over thirty years ago.
So when she found fifteen of the sheep with their entrails torn out, Caitrin
Flint knew the killer was one of
them
.

She gestured for the collies to lie down near the fence. Not
that their paw prints could ever be confused with a werewolf’s, but she needed
some time to puzzle out what might have happened at the scene.

Five minutes later she rose and stared bleakly at the
horizon. After a hard winter, a werewolf on her doorstep was the last thing she
needed. Two of them was even worse. She sidestepped, following the second trail
toward the fence. It diverged from the first set of prints, heading south.

Whoever owned the smaller set of prints seemed to have done
all the killing. They might belong to a beta male or perhaps a large female.
The second set was definitely male. Oddly enough, the larger werewolf hadn’t
participated in the killing. He’d circled the site before heading in the
opposite direction, leaving the dead sheep untouched.

“Could have at least eaten some,” Cait grumbled. “All that
mutton gone to waste.” She kicked at the bloodstained dirt dispiritedly. What
was she going to do now? Hunt werewolves?

She didn’t even have any experience hunting werewolves
because Da had expressly forbidden her to do so, sending her straight back to
the cottage if he even suspected one of them was in the area. He never
explained why. Still, she thought she might know.

It was because Caitrin Flint was no true Huntress. She was
good at tracking, certainly, but when it came to the actual killing…well, Da
had always performed that necessary task, sending her away before he slashed
the beast’s throat.

And as Da grew older he’d needed her help to gather fuel for
a bonfire. They always burned the bodies to ash, removing the charred bones for
burial at another site. Da always said it was a good thing that the vampires
tended to stay in mainland Europe. Hunting most supernatural creatures was
straightforward—the bad ones went mad, indulging in increasingly violent
killing sprees until someone tracked them down and killed them. Vampires, on
the other hand, had clan loyalties
and
bloodthirsty killing sprees,
rendering them a touch more complicated.

Her father never told her where the good werewolves kept
themselves.

Cait studied the tracks again. Three years—it had been three
years since she’d acknowledged more than a passing reference to the paranormal.
Three years of burying her head in the sand, running her own little croft,
driving sheep to the market, living simply, frugally. Occasionally she’d visit
the local hedge witch, a good friend of hers, to beg a potion to turn away
suitors from town. Mostly she was left alone. She preferred it that way, with
no real complications.

No real joy either.

Cait shook her head. Joy was overrated. Besides, the dogs
kept her company. She sure as hell didn’t need werewolves in her part of
Scotland.

Rising, she walked in a wide arc around the slaughtered
sheep. If she tried really hard, she could almost pretend she was just tracking
for Da, calling out directions and picking up all the tiny clues. Da had said
Cait was the best tracker he’d met, even if she was his own daughter. Shame
that her gifts didn’t extend to actually killing anything.

Caitrin turned back to the second trail, the one that led
south. Those prints were among the largest she’d seen. Chilly tendrils of
anxiety penetrated the focus of tracking. Was it truly an Alpha? An insane
Alpha on the loose was more dangerous than half a clan of vamps, according to
hunters like Da.

She knelt, placing her hand atop one of the larger prints,
suddenly curious to see a werewolf print up close without Da yanking her away.
Her hand fit neatly with plenty of room to spare.

As the earth pressed against her palm, a shock of energy
travelled up her arm, leaving her gasping, half writhing as the strangest
sensation spread throughout her body, settling quickly, hotly in her groin. The
feeling of her heel pressing against her thigh was suddenly maddening.

Aching sweetly in a most unfamiliar way, Cait withdrew her
hand and sat very still. In a few moments she was back to normal. Almost. She
dipped a surreptitious hand down her trousers, adjusting damp underclothes.

How the hell had that bolt of lust been hidden inside that
paw print? More importantly, why was it affecting her now, when she’d been
chaste and happy for twenty-three years?

Surprises and mysteries were overrated as well. Caitrin
rose, scowling. First things first—she needed to round up the remnants of the
flock. The dogs could go searching while she followed the northern trail long
enough to see where the wolf was headed.

“Bannock, Frost, to me!” The collies leaped up, eagerly
waving black-and-white plumed tails. “Sheep. Bring them.”

Caitrin gestured to the hills where the rest of the herd had
fled. Yet the dogs circled, whining, as she hopped over the fence and headed in
the opposite direction.

“Sheep.” She emphasized the word, pointing sternly.

Turning her back upon the dogs, Caitrin set off once more.
Fourteen paces later, a wet nose bumped tentatively against her calf.

“Oh for—very well. I’ll leave the trail getting cold and
help you with the sheep. Is that what you want?”

The collies responded with joyous tail wagging, bounding
across the field far ahead now that Caitrin was following. It was strange that
the dogs refused to leave her—they were perfectly capable of finding the
straying sheep by themselves and herding them down to the croft. She was
nothing more than a third wheel, trailing behind as the dogs salvaged the rest
of the flock over the next few hours.

Yet she felt some measure of relief at putting off the
track—no, it was far more than tracking, she reminded herself, it was a
hunt
.
A hunt that would end in death, hopefully administered by her. There could be
no hiding behind Da this time.

She’d have to keep the sheep in the barn overnight until the
werewolves were dealt with. It was growing late, the sun dipping toward the
horizon, turning the sky red.

“Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” Caitrin muttered,
opening the door of the little stone crofthouse.

Tomorrow would dawn clear and bright, giving her no excuse
for delaying the hunt further.

* * * * *

Eagan kept his distance from the croft, intrigued by the
witchwards set upon the land. They were the work of true talent, not a mere
hedge witch. Through the wards he wasn’t able to scent much.

Under cover of dark, he had spent some time nosing up and
down the road that ran into town. With the wards that warned unnecessary
visitors away there wasn’t much footfall in this area. He could scent the girl,
of course, underlaid by a less strong scent of witch.

The girl was the reason he lingered. Her scent was
tantalizing, scorching his nose with a lust he hadn’t felt for nearly a
century.

His staying here meant putting off his original purpose.
Duty warred with instinct and instinct won out in the end.

Her scent was Hunter, yet not wholly. There was another part
of her, a dormant power he couldn’t quite work out. It called to him strongly.
He lay on his stomach, fully in wolf form, watching the candlelight flickering
in the small window. The nights remained cool, even frosty in some parts, as if
Scotland was trying to deny spring’s hold. Through his thick black coat he felt
no chill. He settled comfortably into the heather for a night’s vigil.

One of the werewolves was close. Caitrin could almost taste
his presence. She had most of the skills of a Hunter—minus the urge to kill her
prey, of course—although they were somewhat diluted. Da had always been
slightly disappointed by that. Most Hunters had at least one son they could
fully train. Cait, however, was an only child, a daughter. Da had done his best
by her, but all his training wasn’t enough to turn her into a real Huntress.

She did possess the Sense, the ability to recognize the
paranormal as it approached. There was such a presence near the cottage now,
although it was currently keeping its distance. Was it the killer?

Caitrin shuddered, pulling the quilt up to her chin. As if
to reassure her, Bannock and Frost were sleeping at the side of the bed, their
muzzles as close to her as they could politely get.

Oddly enough, she had barely Sensed the werewolf who had
slain her sheep. The attack had occurred in the hours before dawn. She had
woken feeling uneasy, then spooned oatmeal into her mouth out of force of habit
rather than hunger. Like an annoying itch on the underside of her scalp, the
Sense continued to faintly tingle for an hour or two after the paranormal being
was gone. The more powerful the being, the stronger the itch. Yet this one was
muted, subdued somehow, as if something—or someone—was trying to obscure its
presence.

Caitrin wriggled against the pillow, trying to rub the
tingle away. Whenever she moved, the dogs raised their heads to watch her.
Eventually she slipped into a fitful doze, dreaming of her mother, who had died
of fever when Cait was twelve. She dreamed of Da’s terrible grief and rage, the
two long days she’d spent alone while he’d gone off, blaming himself for her
death.

She lay still for a while upon waking, troubled by memories,
listening to the dogs’ soft breath as they slept dreamless sleep. They awoke,
of course, the moment she pulled the covers back.

It was still dark but a soft faint glow at the horizon
hinted at dawn. The werewolf remained nearby, poking and stirring her head with
its unwanted proximity. Cait concentrated, tamping down the Sense’s warning as
much as possible while she stoked the fire to make a cup of nettle tea. A true
Huntress, of course, would relish the tingle, allowing it to drive them toward
a kill. It was one more reminder that she was different, less.

She sat at the wooden table by the kitchen window to watch
the sky grow progressively lighter, sipping her tea with little enthusiasm. By
the time she’d drained the cup the werewolf was on the move, lurking just
outside her property. Her tingling scalp was beginning to give her a headache.

The first witchward jangled a warning deep in her bones as
unwanted Other crossed its runes. She shuddered, reaching for Da’s sword as she
surged to her feet. Forged from blessed iron, etched with ancient runes, washed
with the blood of its maker, the sword was a force to be reckoned with.

Caitrin hated reckoning with the sword.

It whispered promises of power, encouraging her to track,
find, kill.

The second and third witchwards snapped simultaneously.
Frost and Bannock paced to her side, growls rising in their throats. Cait used
every ounce of will to move away from the table. Hiding wouldn’t save her from
a mad werewolf.

The fourth witchward was the strongest one, renewed every
year across the threshold of the little croft cottage. Caitrin could choose to
cower inside for as long as the ward held…or she could be brave for once and
step outside to meet whatever was coming.

The latter choice won by the tiniest of margins.
Surprisingly, both dogs chose to accompany her. Tails down, hackles bristling,
they glued themselves to either side of her as she opened the door. Cait had
expected them to hide under the bed—the mere smell of a werewolf unsettled the
average dog. Unless this wasn’t a werewolf. Her Sense wasn’t strong enough to
sort the paranormal into specific categories.

Gusts of wind clawed at her bare skin, slamming the wooden
door of the cottage shut behind her. As she stood waiting, Cait wondered if her
father had ever fought in his nightclothes. Come to think of it, he probably
had.

Steeling herself, she sought the intruder. It was a
werewolf, loping across the front pasture. Pitch black with eyes of amber, he
was the most powerful beast she’d ever seen. Definitely an Alpha, an old one
from the way he’d snapped those wards. She frowned. An Alpha should have no
problems mating or running his own Pack. Why was he here? Why had he been
snooping around her slain sheep?

Furthermore, why was she feeling…attracted to him?

She drew herself up, ignoring the twinge in her groin, the
slow-spreading heat. The wolf pulled up, eyed her arrogantly.
As if I were a
snack to be devoured upon his whim and not a Huntress!
Indignant, she
leveled the sword at his throat.

An experienced glance took in the runes, actually
reading
them. Then he paced a step backward and began to shift. Black fur tufted,
rippled, transformed into tanned skin. There was a brief moment when he was all
out of proportion, rearing up on hind legs, his muzzle grimacing into an
angled, human face.

Less than a minute later the werewolf stood before her in
human form. Amber eyes were now the dark green of a secret forest, chestnut
hair replaced black fur. His austere face was handsome and intimidating all at
once.

He was also completely naked.

Cait moistened her lips involuntarily, raking a quick,
curious gaze down and up…and down again. His lips quirked at her frank
appraisal.

“Never seen aught like me, lass? I’m no’ surprised.” His
voice, pleasantly smooth and deep, held a strong Gaelic brogue, marking him as
a Highlander. Boldly, arrogantly, he took a step forward.

Caitrin changed the angle of the sword, adopting the
fiercest expression she knew. He paused in his advance. Good. He respected the
weapon, if not necessarily her ability to wield the thing.

“I will grant you a head start, wolf.” She injected her
voice with ice, speaking the way her Da would speak to what he considered prey.
“Half an hour. Go now, before I lose my patience.”

The man threw his head back and laughed. White teeth flashed
as he continued to grin at her. “I’ve no’ been addressed as
wolf
since I
was a wee lad getting up to mischief. I’m Eagan MacCulloch.”

Caitrin said nothing. Watched his green eyes darken.

“What are ye, lass?”

“Huntress,” she said defiantly.

“Nay. Ye would have been following that kill trail the
moment ye clapped eyes on those dead sheep.”

Caitrin regarded him as impassively as she could. Shame and
relief warred within her—shame that she had delayed tracking the killer, relief
that this Alpha wasn’t the killer. Even with Da’s sword, she knew a fight would
heavily favor the werewolf.

He was moving again! This time Cait took a step backward. “I
told you to be gone, wolf. MacCulloch.”

“You’re in danger, lass. The other werewolf is close. I can
no’ leave you to die.”

Caitrin shrugged. “Anything hunting a Huntress deserves what
they get.”

“This opponent will savage ye, lass. He’s no’ a normal
werewolf.”

“Is he the one who killed my fifteen sheep?” she demanded.

“Aye, the very one.”

“Good. If he stays around, that saves me having to track
him.” Although she fought to keep her pulse and breathing steady, Eagan
regarded her for a long moment. Could he smell her anxiety? No, he was all
brawn and wolf brain…and surely she had too much control to betray how nervous
she was.

He took two steps forward, within easy striking distance of
the sword. Caitrin blushed, gulped, raised the weapon to throat level again.
How on earth did he
walk
with that between his legs?

Eagan was scenting her, nostrils flaring, green eyes focused
intently upon her body. She shifted uncomfortably, gripped again by that
strange sexual heat. Alone, it had been a passing bewilderment. In his
presence, it was a major distraction. Every movement he made toward her seemed
to amplify the heat.

“Lass, you’re part werewolf. Not much part, but either your
ma or da had werewolf ancestry.” His voice was hushed, almost awed. She
frowned.

“I am absolutely not a werewolf. I have Hunter skills.” Not
all the skills, of course, but
he
didn’t need to know that.

“I can bite ye, then ye can see for yourself.”

“No.” Caitrin edged backward, gripping the sword.

“Ye would turn in an instant. Which of your parents was the
half-were? Did they not adequately train ye?”

“Da was a Hunter,” Cait said tightly.

Eagan whistled. “Your ma, then. Lass, ye should understand
that a female werewolf is rarer than hen’s teeth. The fact that you’re gadding
about unmated, that ye are actually
hunting
… If word got out among the
Loners, ye would be pinned under someone’s hairy paw undergoing your first Change.
Within the week if not sooner.”

The sword wavered as she clenched it harder. “I will not be
pinned. And if my mother was a werewolf, she never revealed anything to me.”

“Nay? Do ye deny your true heritage then? Do ye deny that
your body calls to mine for mating?”

“I hardly think this conversation is appropriate given that
I am in apparent danger.” She resorted to extreme politeness. Annoyed at his
sudden grin, she gave him her fiercest glare.

“I can smell your arousal, lass. Let me come inside where I
will explain the situation to ye.”

Would he never back down? Reluctantly, Cait retreated over
the threshold, making sure she stayed facing the werewolf. “I invite you
inside,” she said stiffly.

Eagan stepped across the fourth witchward. “A nice piece o’
work. Is your ma witch as well as werewolf?”

“No. She died when I was young.”

“Och, I’m sorry to hear.”

Caitrin nodded a civil thanks. Tried not to respond to the
genuine empathy in his voice. “Nettle tea?”

“Water or whiskey.” He took a seat at the table, his knees
barely cramming into the diminutive space. He was far too large for her little
croft cottage. The beams were just under six feet and he’d had to bend quite a
bit just to walk across the kitchen to the table.

She poured herself the remainder of the nettle tea and
ladled him a glass of water. “Tell me about this danger I am in.”

“All in good time.” Eagan downed half the glass of water and
sat back, surveying the cottage. The interior was well-maintained, if tiny. He
stretched his legs out toward the fire—even werewolves felt the chill when
naked in human skin—and turned to unabashedly stare at this self-styled
Huntress.

In Brighid’s name, she was sexy. Shoulder-length,
raven-black hair was still tousled from her night’s sleep, lending her a wary,
wild-animal look that was only accentuated by her skittishness toward him. And
those full, luscious-looking lips…

She noticed his stare and looked away, flustered. “Would you
care for some porridge?”

“Aye, a bowl would be most welcome, thank ye.”

She gave his chair a wide berth as she entered the kitchen.
“While I cook, you can tell me precisely what danger is lurking outside my
property. I can Sense…something.”

“Can ye Sense me?”

She paused, about to tip oats into a pan. “Not anymore.”

“Aye, now that I’m an honored guest, I suppose ye no longer
feel my proximity. Did no’ your da ever warn you against inviting strangers
inside?” Thank Brighid it was him who found her first.

She’d raised her sword again, and that glare was back on her
wee face.

“Be at ease, lass. I’m no’ going to ambush ye in your own
dwelling. Ye do no’ have to watch me every moment.”

“I shall be the judge of that.” Her steely-blue eyes met his
gaze defiantly. Aye, she definitely possessed werewolf blood. He was stunned
that it was calling to him so strongly. All mature werewolf females felt strong
lust around an Alpha if they were unmated, but this Huntress couldn’t be more
than a quarter-blood.

Eagan frowned. Could this lass be the mate suited for him?
For the better part of a century, he’d been searching from Pack to Pack,
scouting the sparse population of females for someone who could be his. Now,
almost by fluke, he’d stumbled upon this lass.

Unfortunately, so had Delaney. His nemesis, the werewolf had
been a Loner for far too long, evading all justice. Eagan had found him
hock-deep in sheep blood yesterday just in time to prevent Delaney from going
after the girl. It would have been over then and there for the Loner if his
enemy hadn’t had a damned dark wizard assisting him.

Lately, some werewolf males had been allying themselves with
outcasts of other paranormal societies—especially dark wizards and witches who
could magically cover their tracks in return for plundering coveted body parts
from werewolf-raided villages. This was causing major trouble among the Packs,
who had enough trouble keeping their identities secret.

“Is that other wolf stalking me?”

Eagan inclined his head, impressed by her quick deduction.
“Aye, he is.”

“Because of my alleged werewolf blood?”

Again he nodded. She turned away, but not before he saw the
expression on her face. Hunted. She was scared. She shouldn’t be scared.

“I do no’ even know your name, lass, yet you know mine. Who
are you?” He pressed her gently, although he was keen for answers. He wanted to
know everything about her.

“Caitrin Flint.” She placed a bowl of oatmeal before him
along with a small pitcher of cream. “Now tell me more about this other
werewolf. How am I supposed to believe you are not working with him?”

He hid a smile at her imperiousness, understanding that it
was a façade to hide her fear. Brave lass. “Alphas do no’ work with Loners.
Alphas kill Loners,” he explained.