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  Huntress Unleashed

  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

  Huntress Unleashed

  Clare Murray

  Chapter One

  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 f
lickering 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.

  Chapter Two

  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 bewil
derment. 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?”