Page 10 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"The Hunter girl," Dougal said, his gaze sliding to Alpin. "She looks better than we imagined. I’m Dougal, the Laird’s man-at-arms."

"Can she manage a larder?" Greer called over her shoulder, already heading toward the kitchens. "Or will she leave the ordering of it to me?"

"I can manage anything I set my mind to, Mistress Greer," Grisselle called after her, then turned back to face the old man-at-arms. "And if your Laird’s stories are correct, Master Dougal, I can likely out-row half the boys currently sitting by your fire."

Dougal’s thick eyebrows shot up. He let out a short, barking laugh that ended in a cough. "Aye. She’ll do for the winter. If she doesnae poison the broth out of spite."

The great hall was thick with peat smoke and the heavy smell of roasting mutton. Near the massive hearth, the servants had gathered in a tight knot, ostensibly polishing iron pots but keeping their eyes locked on the door.

"Look at the red on her," Senga whispered to Cait, her elbow digging into the other girl's ribs. "Like a fox in the gorse. Do ye think she'll keep him from the skiff when the tide turns dark?"

"Hush," Cait hissed, dropping a pewter mug with a loud clatter. "He’s looking this way."

Alpin ignored them, his eyes tracking the way Grisselle walked into the center of the hall. She stopped beneath the blackened roof timbers, looking up at the ancient broadswords pinned to the stone walls. She looked small against the massive scale of the keep, but her shoulders didn't drop.

Old Tam, sitting in a low wicker chair by the embers, scraped his horn spoon against an empty bowl and let out a dry cackle. "The London blood. Fierce unmanaged things, the lot of 'em."

Grisselle turned to the old man, her mouth curving into a small, sharp line. "Unmanaged, perhaps. But I've yet to meet the man who could manage me, so I suppose we're even."

She dipped her chin toward him, something almost shy creeping into the gesture. "Though I hope ye'll all be patient with me, sir. I've a great deal to learn about this place."

Isobel let out a delighted snort, throwing her arm through Grisselle’s. "We’ll get along just well."

“Come along, lass,” Alpin said as he reached for a candle sconce.

Alpin held the heavy iron candle sconce high, the yellow tallow light flickering against the damp, unpolished stone of the spiraling stairwell. Behind him, the light rustle of Grisselle’s travel-stained skirts tracked her ascent, each step she took deliberate and unhurried.

They reached the landing of the East Tower, where the wind from the sea found the narrow arrow-slits and made the candle flame dance violently. Alpin stopped before a thick oak door pinned with iron rivets, his hand resting on the latch. He didn't lift it immediately.

"It is exactly as me grandfather described it," Grisselle said, her voice dropping. She wasn't looking at him; her eyes were tracing the dark timber beams of the arched ceiling. "The three notches in the lintel from the old raid. The way the floor tilts toward the sea-gate. I used to close my eyes in Mayfair when the carriages grew too loud, and I would picture the grey stone just like this."

Alpin kept his face turned toward the oak planks. "Me grandfather spent forty years talking about these walls to anyone who would sit by his fire. He always did use too many words."

"He used exactly the right words," she countered, stepping closer until her sleeve brushed his wool plaid. "In London, everything is painted, gilded, and soft. It feels as though if you lean too hard against a wall, the whole house will tumble. Here, a person can breathe without asking permission from a Duke."

Alpin pushed the latch down with a sharp, heavy clack.

The door swung inward on dry hinges, a gust of stale, frozen air rushing out to meet them. Alpin stepped into the room first, setting the candle down on a bare oak table. As the light spread, it caught the heavy, dark outline of the four-poster bed, the faded tapestries hanging motionless against the stone, and the thick layer of grey dust coating the iron fire-dogs.

He stood in the center of the floor, his broad shoulders hunched slightly under his plaid. The realization hit him right between the ribs: the air in this room hadn't changed since the day the old man’s skiff had broken apart on the rocks. It was a dead space, preserved in salt and shadow, a monument to a grief he had spent ten years pretending he could out-row.

Grisselle stepped over the threshold, her leather slippers clicking softly against the flagstones. She didn't look at the bed or the dust. She walked straight to the narrow window overlooking the cliffs, her small hands coming down on the stone sill.

When she turned back to him, the flickering candlelight caught the sharp, fierce angle of her chin, but her fingers were trembling as they bunched into the wool of her cloak. Her green eyes were wide, taking in his massive, shadowed frame, looking entirely fragile under the weight of the dark keep, yet there was a stubborn, unyielding light in her gaze.

Something inside Alpin's chest—the hard, iron knot he had carried since he was ten years old—gave way with a sudden, violent snap.

He didn't think. He crossed the stone floor in two long, heavy strides, his bulk completely blotting out the light from the candle. Before she could let out a breath, he trapped her against the high stone sill, his large hands coming down on either side of her waist, pinning her between his forearms and the cold masonry.

"Alpin?"

He didn't answer. His head dipped low, his breath rough and hot against her jaw, close enough that she caught the salt still clinging to his skin. Neither of them moved. For one long, suspended second, there was nothing in the room but the sound of it.

Then, just as fast as he had moved, Alpin tore himself back.

His boots scraped loudly against the stone as he retreated three full paces, his breath coming in short, rough gasps. He stared at her. He looked down at his own hands as if they belonged to a thief, his jaw locking tight.

Grisselle remained pressed against the stone sill, her lips parted, her chest heaving violently under the green wool cloak. Her hair was entirely undone now, tumbling over her shoulders in a wild, brilliant cloud. She stared at him, her fingers going to her mouth, tracing the wet heat he had left behind.