Page 24 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"Sixteen years of a soft London belly, then." Senga slid the finished tray onto the hearthstone with a thump. "An oatcake sits in ye. Keeps a man walking, keeps a man fighting, keeps a man alive on a cold ridge with nothing else to hand. Show me shortbread that's done that."

"I’ll still praise it, it’s reputation is good," Grisselle admitted.

"Reputation," Senga said the word like it tasted bad. "I'll tell ye what has a reputation, lass — Herston oatcakes, three generations running, and nae one complaint from a single soul who's eaten them. Ye come back to me once ye've tried a proper Highland oatcake fresh off this stone, and then we'll discuss reputations."

"That sounds remarkably like you refusing to lose an argument."

"It sounds," Senga said, entirely unbothered, "like me winning one." She reached for another tray, not looking up. "Ye ken what else keeps a man walking a cold ridge and never once complains of it? The Laird. He’s made of the same stuff as these oatcakes — plain, stubborn, and better for ye than he looks."

Grisselle's hand stilled over the bowl. "I wasn't aware we were still discussing baking."

"Nor was I," Senga said, and slid the tray onto the hearthstone with a thump that ended the conversation.

They both laughed loudly.

Perhaps I do have a home here after all.

She found Mistress Greer an hour later in the linen room, muttering over a cupboard that looked organized.

"Let me." Grisselle was already reaching for a stack of sheets.

"Ye neednae worry."

"I want to." She began sorting by wear, worn linens toward the front. "My mother never let me near the linen press. Said it wasn't a lady's work."

"And what do ye call this?"

"Work I'm good at. Which is more than she ever let me be good at anything."

Greer worked alongside her without answering that directly, matching her pace, and when the cupboard was finally set to rights, she stood back and looked at it with satisfaction.

"Well." Greer tucked a loose strand of hair behind Grisselle's ear, brisk and unthinking. "Ye have a good hand for order, lass. I'll say that for ye."

Grisselle smiled. "Thank you, Mistress Greer."

"Daenae thank me. Off with ye now. I still have work."

Grisselle went, though she touched the same spot behind her ear twice more before she reached the stairs, as though she could still feel it there.

She was crossing the gallery when Isobel stepped directly into her path, arms folded, one eyebrow already climbing.

"Well," Isobel said. "Ye look like a woman who's spent the whole day pretending very hard that nothing happened."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Alpin came in from the shore last night looking like a different man. Whistling. He doesnae whistle. I've known him thirty years and could count on one hand the times I've heard it."

"Perhaps he's simply in good spirits."

"Perhaps," Isobel agreed, entirely unconvinced. "And perhaps the moon fell in the sea, and nobody's told me." She studied Grisselle's face, missing nothing. "Something happened."

"Nothing happened," Grisselle said, and heard exactly how unconvincing it sounded.

Isobel held her gaze a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile crept across her face, not triumphant, just deeply pleased with itself.

"Aye. Well. I have a wedding to help plan, apparently, whether me brother sets a date or nae. Greer wants ye in the hall within the hour, for the fabric."

She turned to go, already three steps down the gallery before calling back over her shoulder, light as anything. "Ye might do something about that mark on yer lip first, mind."