To Desire a Highlander by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

her, feeling her slick, female heat clench around him…
    It was more than he could bear.
    He growled, a deep rumble in his chest that broke the spell, the maddening way she’d made him forget reason. At last, the thunder of his blood in his ears receded as the din of the hall once again swelled around him. Grateful, he tore his mouth from hers. Breathing hard, he looked down at her, so fetching with her flushed cheeks and angry eyes. He gripped her wrists and lowered her hands from his shoulders, thrusting her from him. Not quite as gently as he should’ve done, but she’d shaken him to his bones.
    So he dragged his sleeve across his beard, then stepped back, hooking his thumbs in his sword belt as he looked round at the ranks of men.
    “That, my friends, was five summers without a woman!” It was all he could think to say.
    Brash words he was sure would’ve spilled from Donell MacDonnell’s lips.
    That they made him feel like an arse didn’t matter.
    What did were the chuckles of manly commiseration, the nods and lifted ale cups. Few men could go so many years without a woman. Hardly a one wouldn’t sympathize with a wretch so deprived. Only Roag’s companions knewhis claim wasn’t true. And like him, they played their part, coming forward to clap him on the back, congratulating him on gaining such a fine and fiery bride.
    “She will make you a good wife.” Mungo beamed, his big chest swelling. “There isn’t a maid in these isles as fair, or as capable. She’ll mate well, giving you—”
    “She will sup now.” Roag stepped between the lass and her father, not about to discuss her fertility. He was more inclined to punch the old fox in the nose for putting his daughter in such a position.
    Not that it was Roag’s fault.
    He was equally wronged, perhaps more so.
    Still, the maid was beneath his roof. She needed to eat. If the gods held any pity for him, she’d overindulge and fall into a deep, long-lasting sleep. Better yet, before she wakened, her father would decide Roag was unsuited for her. That he was too bold, too wild and rough-hewn for his precious daughter, who shouldn’t be shackled to a great-bearded fighting man of iron and steel with little use or desire for a highborn, virginal wife.
    Unfortunately, Mungo’s grin was even wider now.
    His eyes glinted with the satisfaction of a man who’d just achieved the outcome he’d wanted. It was all Roag could do not to glower at him. He did turn to his bride, catching her wrist when she would’ve spun about and hastened away. Knowing he shouldn’t, he brought her hand to his lips, turning it, to press a kiss to her palm.
    Something pinched and twisted deep inside him, a small part of himself that he shouldn’t acknowledge. But he did, tightening his grip on her hand as he straightened. He stepped closer, let his face clear, giving her one brief glimpse of the man he truly was.
    “You needn’t join us at the feasting, lady.” He leaned in, pitching his voice for her alone. “Say you’re tired and go abovestairs. I’ll meet you there later, as we agreed, in your quarters.”
    “In hell, you mean.” She yanked free of his grasp, glaring at him before sailing away.
    Roag stared after her, not surprised when she made for her scruffy old dog, Skog. The beast still slept before the fire. And once again, he wasn’t alone. The wee ghost lad hovered beside him, glowing brighter than before as he stared at a nearby arrow slit. He held one arm outstretched, his small, luminous dirk pointing at the sea.
    Lady Gillian kept on, unaware.
    Indeed, the bogle was already fading as she reached her dog. She leaned down to waken Skog, stroking his bony shoulders before leading him from the hall and into the dimly lit stair tower.
    Roag frowned, his misery complete.
    He’d never wanted a wife. Worse, was being bound to one who belonged to another man. And he certainly wasn’t pleased about the wee ghostie. He’d heard the tales about the bogle. Legend