Page 11 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

Alpin didn't say a word. He straightened his plaid with a single, violent jerk of his wrist. The warmth that had filled the space between them vanished in an instant, replaced by that same flat, distant wall he’d worn on the long road from the south. His black eyes went empty, already sliding past her toward the open window, his mind already half-returned to the dark water and the black tail going under.

He grabbed the iron candle-sconce from the table, leaving her in the deep shadow of the tower, and stepped back out onto the landing.

"Greer will bring the water for yer hands," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection as he pulled the heavy oak door shut between them. The iron latch dropped back into its track with a heavy, final thud.

Alpin stood on the landing a moment longer, his palm flat against the cold oak, his forehead nearly touching it. Behind that door was a room he hadn't set foot in for ten years, and he'd just proven to himself exactly why he'd stayed clear of it.

He pushed off the door and took the stairs two at a time, his boots striking the stone hard enough to numb his heels, and didn't stop until the night air off the firth hit him full in the face. It didn't clear his head. It never did anymore.

CHAPTER SIX

Grisselle stood entirely still in the dark room, the distant roar of the tide below the cliffs filling the silence. She remained with the taste of his mouth still burning on her skin, her mind spinning with a hundred questions she didn't know how to ask, yet her pulse was hammering a wild, frantic rhythm against her ribs.

She was here. She was home at last, far from the cruel wagers and the suffocating parlors of London, but as she looked out at the black, churning foam of the firth, she knew her sanctuary was gone. She was locked in a stone keep, bound by law, and she was utterly betrothed to a ghost.

The morning light that woke Grisselle did not smell of wet soot. It cracked through a slit in a sharp, clean spear of pale gold, illuminating the swirling dust motes above her head.

She sat up instantly, throwing back the heavy, coarse wool blankets. Her feet hit the bare stone floor, and for the first time in three long years, the stone beneath her soles did not vibrate with the distant, rumbling iron of London hackney coaches.

She ran to the window, leaning her elbows against the cold masonry, and let out a long, ragged breath.

Outside, the braes rolled away into a vast, unmanaged green that met an endless purple sky. There was not a chimney, a brick, or a painted carriage in sight. The wind came rushing off the high ridges, carrying the scent of wet gorse and wild thyme, slapping her face until her cheeks burned with a bright, stinging color.

"Finally," she whispered, her fingers gripping the stone.

She scrambled into her stays, not bothering to call for a maid, and pulled on her simplest wool gown, the one with the frayed cuffs she had refused to let her mother throw away. Her hair, entirely freed from the pins that had tortured her in Mayfair, fell in a wild, copper cloud down her back. She didn't touch a comb. She simply flung open her chamber door and stepped out onto the spiraling stairwell, wild with the sheer relief of having space to move.

"Well, ye're up before the crows," a cheerful voice remarked from below.

Grisselle looked over the stone banister. Isobel was standing three steps down, a wicker basket of dried lavender tucked under her arm. She was looking up at Grisselle’s bare face and uncombed hair with a look of immense satisfaction.

"Is it against the rules of the keep to breathe before the servants have swept?" Grisselle asked, leaning over the rail.

"Nae at all," Isobel laughed, shifting the basket to her hip as she climbed up to meet her. "Though Mistress Greer will likely accuse ye of stealing the morning air before she’s had her tea. Where are yer coats, sister?"

Grisselle looked down. "In the trunk. Where they belong until I am forced to look polite."

Isobel’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming. "Oh, we are going to get along famously. Come down to the hall. The old men are still sleeping off the malt from yesterday, which means we have at least an hour before anyone tries to lecture us on the line of succession."

"Does your brother sleep off the malt as well?" Grisselle asked as they descended together, her slippers hitting the stones in a quick, light rhythm.

"Alpin?" Isobel let out a short snort. "Alpin doesnae sleep enough to have a hangover. He was out of the gates before the fire was even laid. Gone to the shore, as usual."

Grisselle’s foot hovered over the next step before she forced herself to continue down. A small, sharp prick of annoyance flared right behind her ribs, her jaw tightening just a fraction.

The shore.

The memory of his mouth against hers—the salt, the heat, and then that immediate, freezing wall he’d thrown up between them—flashed through her mind.

"Does he always vanish when he has guests?" Grisselle asked, keeping her tone light and dry.

"Ye arenae a guest, Grisselle. Ye're the lady, a contract maybe." Isobel said, throwing her a sideways glance as they reached the bottom landing. "And when Alpin is troubled by a contract, he looks at the water until his ears turn blue. It’s his way of pretending the world isnae talking to him."

"He will find I am remarkably difficult to ignore," Grisselle muttered.

"Good," Isobel whispered, squeezing her arm quickly as they crossed into the wide, stone passage. "He needs someone who doesnae mind getting mud on their skirts to rattle his cage. I’ve been trying for ten years, but I’m his sister. He just grunts at me and buys me another horse."

The smell of toasted oats and sharp fat led them straight into the kitchen, where the true business of Herston Castle was conducted under a cloud of white flour and steam.