Page 6 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"...the scar..."

"...it must be her betrothed..."

He stopped one pace from her. He smelled of horse-sweat, cold rain, and the wild, sharp scent of peat smoke, a smell so fiercely out of place in that lavender-scented room that Grisselle felt her throat tighten.

He reached out a large, rough hand. His knuckles were twice the size of Hartley’s, the skin brown and lined with old work. He took her cold, stiff fingers in a grip that wasn't tight, but left no room for her to pull away.

He bowed over it. The movement was precise, the formal courtesy of a Laird in his own hall, but his eyes never left her face as he bent his head. It wasn't a greeting; it was a threat.

"Me betrothed," he said. His voice was deep, but loud enough for every ear in the room to take the weight of it.

Penelope’s fan dropped from her fingers, landing on the floor with a soft plop. Hartley took half a step back, his hand instinctively going to his pocket where his wager-book lay.

Alpin didn't let go of her hand. He stepped closer, his massive frame blocking her entirely from the view of the room. He leaned down, his dark hair brushing against the side of her cheek, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin through the thin muslin of her sleeve. His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of her neck, smelling of iron and the cold north wind.

"Ye'll tell me who ye are, lass," he whispered, his burr so low it was nothing but a vibration against her ear. "And why all London has ye promised to me."

Grisselle’s ribs clamped shut. Her tongue felt like dry wood in her mouth, her eyes fixed on the pale white scar where it disappeared beneath his dark wool collar. The room was waiting, pairs of eyes watching her face for a sign, but she couldn't find the air to make a sound.

She looked at the living, breathing muscle of his shoulder, then up to the dark night of his eyes.

"But..." Her voice came out as a tiny, raw scratch. "You're a dead man."

CHAPTER FOUR

Alpin did not wait for her to regain her breath. His large hand remained wrapped around her wrist, his grip like a lead weight as he turned on his heel and dragged her straight through the small, arched doorway leading to Lady Danbury’s conservatory.

The heavy glass door shut behind them with a dull, hollow thud, cutting off the sharp, rising hiss of the ballroom whispers. The air in the side room was thick and damp, smelling of bruised geraniums, wet earth, and the cold iron of the glass frames.

Alpin let go of her wrist, but he did not retreat. He planted himself between her and the exit, his broad shoulders casting a long, jagged shadow over the orange trees in their clay pots. His dark eyes fixed on her face, hard and unblinking, while his thumb stayed hooked behind his leather belt.

"Talk," he commanded. The single word was low, flat, and carried the heavy burr of the northern rocks.

Grisselle rubbed the pale skin of her wrist where his fingers had been. Her chest was heaving under the old white muslin, the green silk ribbon beneath her breasts tightening with every breath, but she did not drop her gaze. She squared her shoulders, looking straight at the jagged white scar that ran from his jaw down to his wool collar.

"You have no business being here," she said, her voice thin but steady, meeting his look with her own green eyes. "You are supposed to be at the bottom of the Minch."

Alpin’s jaw tightened until the old scar twitched. He reached into the deep pocket of his mud-stained coat, pulled out the folded sheet of heavy paper, and held it inches from her nose. The red wax of her grandfather’s broken crest was cracked through the center, looking like a fresh wound between his thick fingers.

"This has me name on it, lass," Alpin said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet rumble. "It has me keep on it. Me people had to hand this to me across me own trestle table while me council was screaming for an heir. Now tell me why a girl from London is writing love letters to a man she’s never laid eyes on."

Grisselle’s fingers bunched into the muslin of her skirt. The smell of horse-sweat and peat smoke off his wool plaid was dizzying in the small, warm room, but she refused to cower.

"I was not writing to you," she snapped, her chin lifting. "I was writing to the Alpin Herston who had the courage to row out alone against the great bull whale to feed his clan. The man who died twenty years ago saving his people. My grandfather told me the story. He said the sea took him fighting, and that there wasn't a man left living in the north who could match him."

Alpin went completely still. The paper in his hand gave a small, sharp rustle as his fingers clenched around the edge. The dark skin of his forehead drew together, a strange, hollow look crossing his features. He stared at her, his gaze dropping from her green eyes to the wild, untamed rust of her curls, then back again.

"That was me grandfather," he said softly, the iron leaving his voice for a brief, heavy second. "He went under when I was ten."

Grisselle’s ribs clamped shut. She looked at the massive frame of the man before her, at the raw, dark night in his eyes, and the truth hit her like a stone thrown through glass.

He is the grandson.

The legend she had loved since girlhood, the dead hero she had used as a shield against the cruel wagers of Mayfair, was not a ghost. The courage she had praised in her midnight letter belonged to the old man whose terrible, violent death had clearly ruled this living man’s life.

Neither of them moved. The silence between them grew thick, broken only by the steady drip-drip of water from a zinc pipe into an iron trough cornered behind the palms.

His gaze was heavy, tracking the heat that had risen in her freckled cheeks, while Grisselle found herself staring at the dark, powerful pulse beating at the base of his scarred neck. Her heart gave a violent, unbidden thump against her ribs, not from the terror of his size, but from a sharp, electric current that seemed to pass through the very air between them.