Bodas en Italia. Helen Brooks

after two months searching. Retrieving a kidnapped daughter is a just cause, worthy of the services of a Faol warrior. He was desperately concerned for your safety, as any father would be.”

      “Concerned for my inheritance, more like. He would rather see it in the hands of his own kin than the Earl of Tarbert. That is the extent of my father’s care for me.”

      The bitterness in her voice surprised him. The toss of her head, the scornful curl of her mouth, almost fooled him, but the over-bright sheen in her big brown eyes, the telltale clenching of her fists, gave away her hurt. Eoin felt a stab of anger on her behalf. She was right, her sire had indeed seemed much more concerned for the fate of her wealth than her well-being.

      But mortals and their motives were none of his business. “Your father wishes you returned safely to him, and that is what I have promised to do.”

      “And why should I trust you?” Freya demanded belligerently. “How can I be sure that I’m not simply exchanging one abductor for another?”

      Eoin’s eyes narrowed. “You have the word of the Faol. You require no other assurance. I, on the other hand, do. I apologise, but your father was most insistent that I take every precaution. Show me your left foot.”

      Freya paled. “No! There is no need.”

      But he was already on his knees before her.

      “No! Do you imagine the Earl of Tarbert has more than one heiress held captive?” She tried to free herself, but he had her foot held firmly in his hand. Embarrassment and mortification flamed her cheeks. Though she had been but a bairn when it had happened, the mark still filled her with repugnance. Each time some would-be husband or his kin examined her foot, she felt diminished. It defined her, that mark. That, and the full coffers which went with it.

      Eoin untied her garter and rolled down her stocking. Like the rest of her, her leg was delightfully shaped. Curved calf, slender ankle, fine-boned little toes. Perfection, marred only by the ugly red scar. The outline of a coffer key branded into the skin, just as her father had described. He touched his finger to it.

      Freya flinched. “Are you convinced now?”

      “Why would they do this to you?”

      “Brand me like a prize heifer, you mean? To help identify me, were I taken as a babe,” Freya said scornfully. “My nurse told me once that I was lucky, she’d heard tell of another bairn who’d had the tip of her finger bitten off to mark her identity.”

      “Marking of any kind is a barbaric act unworthy of any civilised society,” Eoin said with undisguised ferocity. In the three years since he had been Prince of the Faol, he had ensured that their own practice of Marking had been abandoned. He lifted her foot to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the scar. She tasted just as he’d expected, of flowers and sunshine and human female. His tongue traced the outline of the coffer key.

      Freya was shocked into stillness. No one had ever touched her there before, certainly not in such a way. His lips were soft on her skin. His fingers were stroking her calf. “What are you doing?”

      Good question! Reluctantly, Eoin got to his feet. There were other, more pressing matters to attend to. “Here, put this back on, we must make haste,” he said, picking up her stocking and shoe.

      It was what she had dreamed of since she’d been brought here. Rescue. Escape. But Freya stood her ground. He did not frighten her, this Faol warrior, but something about him made her afraid of herself. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

      “Yes you are,” Eoin said, throwing her bodily over his shoulder.