Free To Desire a Highlander by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

was to meet with him alone.
    The trouble was that just his presence in the vast, yawning great hall proved almost overwhelming. Facing him in the confines of her tiny bedchamber would cost her greatly. In truth, she didn’t know how she’d suffered through accepting his arm and letting him escort her across the crowded hall. She’d heard the thunder of her pulse in her ears every step of the way, knew her face had flamed.
    Now, having taken her place at Donell’s high table, she drew on all her strength to hold herself as tall and proud as was possible while seated. It wasn’t easy. Not just because of her betrothed’s huge, black-bearded self across from her. The way he’d locked his dark gaze on hers, so challengingly. She refused to flinch, and neitherwould she shiver. She’d sooner eat pebbles from the shore and fill her wine chalice with seawater, before she’d admit discomfort.
    But…
    She was freezing.
    The air was chill and raw, despite the hall’s fires and the many iron-bracketed torches and hanging oil lamps. Outside, a damp mist clung to the tower, saturating the stones and penetrating every crack in the ancient, crumbling walls, bringing the kind of cold that seeped into bones.
    Still, she wouldn’t fetch her cloak.
    Doing so felt like an insult. Not to Donell. She doubted he’d care. Glancing round the table, at his men and even her family, she imagined few men would understand what weighed on her heart, troubling her deeply.
    She pitied the tower, little more than a half-ruined pile of stone and sorrow, if one believed the tales of its tragic origin.
    She did, aware that all legends were spun of more than a grain of truth.
    So she held her peace, respecting the keep’s age and dignity, if not her unwanted betrothed.
    Faith, but he unnerved her!
    Just now his gaze was flicking over her bodice. “Will you no’ have some uisge beatha?” He reached beneath his plaid, producing a silvered flask that he offered to her. “Finest Highland spirits, this is. A good long draw will warm you well, chasing the cold.”
    “I am comfortable, thank you.” Gillian gave him a tight little smile.
    “So be it.” He tucked the flask back beneath his plaid. But his gaze flicked again to her breasts, the exposed skinabove her gown’s low-cut edge. “I would’ve sworn you’re feeling the hall’s chill.”
    “I’m fine, I assure you.”
    “Hiding your feelings isnae one of your strong points, my lady.”
    “I am not hiding anything.”
    “Nae?” He lifted his ale and took a long drink, his dark gaze watching her over the cup.
    “So I said.”
    “Then admit you’re cold. You’re awash with gooseflesh.” Donell looked round at the other men, his gaze lighting on Gowan. “I wouldnae see your sister take ill. This is a drafty auld keep, no’ fit for weans or lasses.”
    As if to agree, the wind racing past the tower quickened then, howling louder than ever, even banging a shutter somewhere above them. Donell cast a look at the largest hearth, the one where Skog sprawled before the fire. He narrowed his eyes at the hearth’s rough, blackened stones, as if he expected a gale to race down the chimney, blowing soot and smoke into the hall. Then his face cleared, and he turned back to Gowan.
    “My years away haven’t been kind.” He threw another glance at the hearth, the shadows there. “The tower is scarce habitable.”
    “Heigh-ho!” Gillian’s father slapped the table. “That’s your problem, laddie. This place needs a woman’s hand and a score o’ fine chubby bairns to warm its moldy old heart.”
    Ignoring him, Gowan set down his eating knife. “Gillian is no ordinary lass.” He held Donell’s gaze. “She thrives in wild weather, loves the sea, and is cold-hardier than many men. She’s a great prize, my friend.”
    “She is, indeed.” Donell glanced at her, his gaze intent.
    Gillian tried to ignore how her heart beat a little faster, her pulse quickening. Whether it pleased her or