They regarded each other with affection and a familiar sense of calm.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her uncle quietly disappearing up the stairs.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, careful not to get her hopes up. Perhaps he had simply walked into the shop to purchase a book.

"Can ye not take one look at me and answer that for yerself?"

There was such hope in his expression. It was contagious, and she experienced a wild, kicking desire to throw her arms around his neck and dance a reel around the room.

"You came to see me?"

Oh, how ridiculous it was to speak with such casual curiosity, when her heart was practically beating out of her chest!

He flashed a smile that dazzled her witless, then laid a hand on the side of her neck, his thumb brushing lightly over the sensitive flesh behind her ear. The touch of his huge warrior hand sent a flood of desire through her entire body.

"Of course I came to see ye, lass," he replied. "I've thought of nothing else all winter long but yer bonnie face and feisty nature. I could not live another day apart from ye. I had to see ye again."

"Is that all?" she asked. "You just came to see me? To say hello again? And then goodbye?"

He ran the pad of his thumb over her parted lips, and shook his head. "So stubborn, as always. Can ye not accept that I am in love with ye, and that I mean to ask ye to be my wife?"

All the thoughts in her brain toppled over each other. It was a terrible calamity of epic proportions. "I ... What are you saying?" She was completely breathless.

He laughed. "Doona play innocent with me, lass. Ye know very well what I am saying. This is a proposal. But if it's too quick for ye, I'll settle for courtin' ye for a short time, at least until ye can make up yer mind whether or not ye wish to love me."

Her need for him erupted out of the joy in her heart. "Of course I wish to love you. I've loved you since the first moment I came charging after you on that battlefield."

"Is that a yes?" he asked.

With a cry of euphoric laughter, she threw herself into his arms and knocked him backwards into a stack of books that toppled off a table on to the floor. A thick cloud of dust puffed into the air.

"Or course it's a yes," she said with a smile, pressing her lips to his and tasting a glistening slice of heaven in his kiss. "I am so happy."

He held her close, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. "As am I, lass. My heart is yours, and I promise to love ye and make ye happy for the rest of my days. I will protect ye and give ye everything that is mine to give."

She hugged him tight, she knew without doubt that he would keep his word. "And I make the same pledge to you."

Then at last his mouth covered hers, and the world was suddenly, miraculously, peaceful and perfect.

The Curse of Wolf Crag.

Susan Sizemore.

Glasgow can be a bit dicey after dark, but possible danger is hardly any excuse to miss out on the excellent night life. Tara had gone out to celebrate the installation of two tapestries in a Trongate shop and a brand new commission. A night out on the town was certainly justified.

It's a university town, an artsy town, an international town. Tara Thomas loved the place to pieces. But she thought she'd love anywhere that wasn't the isolated, cold, windswept, raining when it wasn't snowing, postage-stamp rocky island where she'd grown up.

Oh, and sheep-infested. Had she mentioned that?

Not that she didn't love wool, she was a weaver, after all. She was an artist with wool as well as every other natural fibre, but she was happy to be away from her family's sheep farm on Wolf Crag.

Never mind the weather, living there was just too complicated. Most of the younger generation left, even those from the most ancient families. Even though the Crag was as wired to the Internet, mobile phones and the rest of modern technology weather permitting as anywhere, the Old Ways lingered, traditions stifled change. You could believe things on Wolf Crag you wouldn't anywhere else. Not that they weren't true everywhere else, it was just that in the misty, rugged isolation of the island you were forced to believe harder, stronger, fiercer. The Crag demanded a lot of your soul.

In Glasgow, Tara could believe in herself, and in the rational, normal human world. She didn't imagine fairies lurking around corners in the whirling hubbub of the city even when fog lent mystery to its streets. No one told her to be 'ware of water horses in puddles, and pixies in the tiny front gardens. None of the wild things of Glasgow required any imagination to believe in. Real thugs with real steel knives didn't need the energy of belief. They needed to be avoided.

Which Tara feared she hadn't done tonight.

A justified celebration or not, she wished she hadn't stayed for one more drink, leaving the pub alone and tipsy at closing time. She wished the streetlights didn't seem so far apart. She wished that the sound of her heels didn't click so loudly in her ears. It was not that she expected trouble, but Mostly she wished she hadn't let the woman at the bar read her palm. She didn't mind hearing that the lines in her hand showed she was destined for fame. She did mind being told that she was in great danger that the love of her life would save her from it.

But the thing she wished most, was that the knowledge deep in her gut that she was being followed wasn't true.

Tara began to run through the shadows, towards lights and the sound of traffic. But the way was very dark, and the heavy footsteps behind came on faster.

"Fang, lad? Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Gran."

What was the old lady doing up so late? He wouldn't be out right now if he didn't have to walk back a half mile to the car park after a meeting that ran far too long.

"Well, Fang, what are you going to do about it?"

Alistair Douglas winced at the nickname. He knew the old woman had used it just for the purpose of annoying him, reminding him of his place. He almost wished he'd never given the old lady back on the island the mobile phone. He was hundreds of miles away, and yet, here she was howling and whining into his ear as he prowled the late night city streets.

"Listen, I'm sorry about the water rising over your back garden," he told her. "But if you're going to live so close to the sea"

"Rising sea levels have nothing to do with it, as you know full well. The Crag's disappearing, Fang! It's the curse!"

"Which curse, Gran? The island's under a dozen curses and plagued by even more prophecies. Some of them even cancel each other out."

"It's the Secret Curse, and you know it. You have to stop it!"

"Why me, Gran? How can I?"

"You're the laird, the alpha and the summer king rolled in to one, that's why! What are you doing in Glasgow when your place is here?"

He didn't think his being on the island would in any way solve the problem. One more Black Douglas wasn't the sort of resident Wolf Crag needed. He was working on solving the Human Curse. "I think I may have the manor house rented to a Yank couple."

"How can you give up your own house?"

"It's not like I'm home that often, Gran. What I'm doing here in Glasgow is necessary. I'm working on attracting tourism to the island," he told his grandmother. "I'm trying to get estate developers interested in building a resort, summer homes, maybe a golf course."

"Your sacred ancestral land is fading into the mists and you're talking about golf courses?! What will the Wild Hunt think about that?"

Gran didn't think in twenty-first-century concepts or twentieth. She'd barely come to terms with the nineteenth, for that matter. "I'm in talks with Oberon about keeping his folk away from the resort."

"Oh, really? As if the fae will go along with anything for very long."

"They will when there's more than fairy gold involved. The king of fairy has some concept of surviving in the modern world. Besides, I'll do anything to get people to the island," he answered.

He tilted his head, excellent hearing catching a faint noise in the distance. People running, maybe.

"The children of the old families need to return," Gran insisted. "Why don't you find them, persuade them? What about that nice girl you used to be with, Tara Thomas?" Since there was a great deal of complex history between the Douglas and Thomas families, Gran's effort at sounding casual was an utter failure.

"I don't want to talk about Tara any more than you want to talk about her grandfather."

"Oh, I'm happy to talk about that lying, foresworn son of Adam."

"Just not right now, all right, Gran?"

Not that Alistair's plea did any good. He held the mobile away from his ear to let her curse out the old man without having to listen. Andrew Thomas had always been a crusty but kindly neighbour as far as Alistair was concerned, but he knew Gran had good reasons for her loathing of the old man. The loathing was returned by Thomas. The couple had brought grudges and bickering to such an art form over the last sixty years that their feud had become the main source of entertainment for the inhabitants of Wolf Crag.

But his granddaughter Tara wasn't part of their battle. No one had tried to destroy his relationship with her but Alistair himself. Tara's absence from his life still ripped at Alistair's heart.

Tara was He heard the scream the same moment he caught the scent the unmistakeable, undeniable fragrance that was her. The hair on the back of Alistair's neck stood up. He ran. The transformation proceeded with every step. Even if darkness and shadow hadn't shielded him, he wouldn't have bothered checking for witnesses. Within moments he was running on four legs instead of two. His eyes glowed red in the night. His teeth were sharp, white razors. His claws were steel-hard daggers.

Someone was attacking Tara, and that someone was going to die.

There were two of them, Alistair discovered. He found them at the end of a nearby dark alley. A broken streetlight didn't give them the protection of darkness from his red night vision. He saw them bending over a prone figure on the ground. They didn't notice him, not until two hundred pounds of hard muscle and deadly natural weapons barrelled into them.

Their hot blood was delicious on Alistair's tongue. Tearing flesh from bone was a delightful exercise. He didn't toy or play with his prey he was a werewolf, not a werecat, after all. But the pleasure of the kill was intoxicating after so much time spent living a human life.

Once the attackers were dead he rushed to Tara. She sat up at his approach. He was aware of the scent of her blood, and the shift in body heat that indicated bruising. She looked shaken. But she didn't look surprised to see a large wolf with blood on his mouth leaning his muzzle close to breathe her in.

She put her hand on his head, fingers sinking deep into thick fur. "You are not the love of my life," she said firmly.

Just before she fainted.

Tara woke knowing she was naked, which didn't surprise her because she recalled who'd come to her rescue in the filthy, stinking alley.

"You had better be laundering my clothes, Alistair Douglas," she said, from beneath the cover of a duvet on a lovely, soft bed.

"You could use a shower," his deep voice rumbled from nearby.

Tara's toes curled in response to that voice. It always sent a thrill through her. She remembered when it had cracked when they were growing up, then changed, deepened. Suddenly, she'd felt closer to being a woman every time he spoke to her.

"I have been rolling around in muck."

"Nonsense, you haven't been to bed with me in years."

She laughed. She couldn't help it. But she bit her tongue on saying anything. The past was very far away when she found herself lying naked in a bed that held Alistair's scent, faint and spicy, in the bedclothes.

She reminded herself that one of her first projects had been spinning his werewolf fur, then weaving it into a lovely, soft scarf. She'd worn it to a fibre arts show on a rainy day and ended up smelling like a wet dog among people she was trying to impress. Black Fang Douglas had always brought her trouble.

Of course, this time, he'd saved her life.

Shouldn't have got herself in trouble to begin with.

She knew she was still a bit tipsy as she sat up, duvet pulled around her. Or maybe the rush of dizziness came from getting her first good look at him in several long years. Since he wasn't wearing anything but a pair of tight black briefs, it was indeed a good look. Was it possible that he was even handsomer than she remembered? Maybe it was that maturity suited him. His was a hard-muscled man's body now, with none of the lankiness of the boy she'd loved. He'd grown into his strong jaw and thrusting beak of a nose. He was as scruffy and fuzzy as ever, with an artfully stubbly jaw and dark hair a bit too long for fashion. Of course he still had a thickly furred chest that trailed into a line that arrowed sexily down his abdomen and disappeared into his underwear.

"You're looking at my crotch, woman."

"Don't sound so pleased about it. You could use a waxing," she added sarcastically.

"And you a shower, as I've already pointed out. And you owe me a new suit. I didn't bother stripping when I came at your call. It was my best suit, now it's a rag."

"I'll get started on making you some tweed, right away."

"Still weaving?" he asked.

"Still practising law?"

Every word out of both of them had grown tight and tense. Tara drew back from the hot anger that suddenly seethed through her. It was far too easy to argue with Alistair rather than talk to him. The anger was longstanding and had nothing to do with the here and now. Here and now, he'd saved her life. Damn! How she hated owing him!

She still made herself say, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He handed her a black terry robe that was soft as velvet. He turned his back as if he were a gentleman and pointed towards a hallway. "Off with you."

Tara was more beautiful than Alistair remembered. He'd forced himself not to look at her as a woman as he undressed her and checked her for serious wounds. Once he'd stripped away the muddy, bloody clothing and determined she'd be fine he'd covered her and not taken a single peep while she'd been out. He put her clothes in the wash, cleaned himself up, and was drawn back to her side despite the effort to keep busy with other things. He had watched her, studying every line of her fine-featured face. Her features might be described as elfin by anyone not born on Wolf Crag. Tara's features weren't knife blade sharp enough to belong to an elf, nor were her teeth. Though she did well enough biting and nipping with what she had during love-play, as he remembered so well.

He'd stroked her silky dark hair and regretted that she'd cut it short. He'd breathed her in. She was more delicious than ever, the ripe, calling scent of a woman that curled deep into him. It overrode the old wanting and brought out a newer, deeper hunger.

And he didn't have to fear that she'd react with horror when she woke up. She'd accept that her attackers had paid the price they deserved. She understood his nature, and she had always accepted that. He'd missed being around a woman so in tune with his world. It was her world, too, after all.

It was fate. Had to be. Why else would Gran have reminded him of Tara just as Tara cried out for help? It was meant to be. He may have left Wolf's Crag, but he wasn't fool enough to deny when the magic of the place was at work around him. He was trying to save the island. And the island was telling him it needed Tara to come back home.

With him.

Perhaps the island wasn't going that far, but he chose to interpret it that way. Maybe Wolf Crag just wanted its people back, but Alistair Douglas had always known he and Tara were meant to be. Maybe he'd forgotten it, a little, but seeing her drove the knowledge hard back into his blood and brains and bone again. She was his fated mate, alpha to his alpha, no matter how hard he'd run from her once he discovered the world and the women outside the island.

By the time she came back from the bathroom, he had a plan.

Tara lingered in the bathroom as long as she could, taking full advantage of being alone, and the ultra-modern plumbing in Alastair's flat. Hot water helped a lot. It helped the aches, the street stench, it helped to clear her head of the last of the alcohol. It didn't help Tara's physical, visceral reaction to Alistair, but cleaning up the physical mess helped strengthen her wits and willpower. All she had to do was get dressed and get out, get away from him. Of course, she'd have to get her clothes back from him first.

She steeled her nerves, wrapped herself up as tightly as she could in the oversized robe, and returned to the large room that contained a sleeping area, kitchen, office and lounge. The walls were old, exposed brick, the ceiling was high, the wooden floors polished to a glossy sheen.

"Quite the bachelor pad," she said. "You are still a bachelor?" She didn't mean to sound bitter, or hopeful, but heard both mixed in her tone.

He turned from the computer on his desk. "Yes."

His grin made her blush, but she deserved to be embarrassed. At least he'd put on some clothing. Black, of course tight jeans and T-shirt. Douglas men always wore black. It wasn't an affectation, really, it was that they were colour-blind in human form and their women folk trained them away from fashion mistakes from a young age.

"Is there a man in your life?" he asked.