Page 67 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

Please. Please Christ.

"I have ye, lass!" he shouted into the wind, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as he pressed his cheek against her cold, wet temple. "I have ye! I'm nae letting ye go!"

With a final, desperate heave, Alpin reached the wooden keel, hooking his elbow over the slick timber and hauling Grisselle’s upper body up out of the freezing water, holding her tightly against his chest as the ocean roared around them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The wood of the keel groaned beneath his knees as the remaining men hauled the longboat upright, the hull swamped to the gunwales and sloshing with six inches of freezing brine.

Alpin didn't feel the cold water soaking through his trousers. He didn't hear Dougal’s hoarse shouting over the roar of the wind, nor the heavy, rhythmic clatter of the wooden bailers scraping frantically against the floorboards.

His entire world had shrunk to the shivering weight in his arms.

He knelt in the bilge, his broad back bowed against the sea spray, shielding Grisselle’s body with his own. Her red hair was plastered in wet, dark ribbons across her neck, her skin the pale blue-white of sea ice. He held her head against his neck, his thick hand cupped behind her skull, his thumb pressing frantically against the pulse point beneath her ear.

Beat.

A slow, fragile flutter answered him.

Alpin let out a jagged, shuddering breath that burned his lungs like fire. He pulled her tighter against his chest, his face buried in the wet hollow of her shoulder, his body shaking with a violent, terrifying tremor that had nothing to do with the wind.

He looked out over the black, cresting waves, the very water that had consumed his mind for twenty years. The deep, suffocating shadow that had dragged him toward the ledge was gone. In its place was a crystalline, blinding clarity that hit him.

His grandfather hadn't gone into the dark water out of bitter tragedy, or to leave behind an unpaid ledger. Old Alpin had looked at his ten-year-old grandson, felt the hard timber beneath his hand, and made a choice born purely of love. He had pushed the bow stem because the boy's life was worth more than his own. Just as Alpin had dived into the freezing abyss minutes ago without a single thought for his own lungs, his own skin, or his own ghosts.

There was no monster to slay. There was no ancient debt demanding a sacrifice. There never had been.

The heavy, suffocating iron chain he had wrapped around his own heart dissolved into the salt foam around the boat, washed away by the raw, terrifying truth of what he had almost lost.

"Alpin! Grab an oar, me Laird!" Dougal’s raspy scream broke through the roar of the surf. "The tide is dragging us toward the reef!"

Alpin raised his head. His black eyes were no longer hollow. The cold, stone mask had shattered, replaced by an iron resolve that flared hot and bright in his chest.

"Bail the stern!" Alpin roared back, his burr cutting through the gale like a cracked whip. He shifted Grisselle gently, wedging her securely against the mid-bench between his knees where the high timber would block the wind. He wrapped his own heavy leather coat around her trembling shoulders, tucking the collar beneath her chin.

He grabbed the heavy wooden oar, his calloused hands locking onto the ash handle with a grip that turned his knuckles white. He planted his boots against the swamped ribs of the boat and pulled.

Every stroke was a fury born of desperation. The muscles in his back and shoulders bunched and strained, the timber bending under the raw force of his weight as he drove the heavy boat through the towering crests. He did not look at the horizon. He looked down at Grisselle’s face between his knees, counting every shallow, agonizing breath she drew into her lungs.

Ye are coming home, he swore silently to the cadence of the oars. I am taking ye home.

The sea gave up its hold grudgingly, but within an hour, the longboat’s keel scraped hard against the gravel of the Herston slipway.

Before the timber had even stopped shuddering, Alpin was over the side. He scooped Grisselle up into his arms, lifting her high out of the surf. She let out a small, faint whimpering sound, her fingers curling instinctively into the damp linen of his shirt, her head rolling heavily against his chest.

"I have ye, lass," he muttered against her temple, his voice thick and rough. "I have ye."

He didn't wait for the men to secure the lines. He took the steep, winding stone path up the cliffside three steps at a time, his heavy boots thudding against the granite, his chest heaving as he carried her up toward the keep. The cold wind howled around the battlements, but he wrapped his body around hers, blocking the draft with his broad shoulders.

He kicked open the heavy oak postern gate, bursting into the lower hall.

Mistress Greer dropped a pewter basin with a deafening clatter, her hands flying to her mouth. "Mercy on us! Laird."

"Get the hearth in me chamber lit!" Alpin bellowed, his voice echoing off the high stone vaults, startling three serving lasses who scrambled for wood. "Bring hot bricks! Blankets! Move, woman!"

He didn't stop in the Great Hall. He carried her straight up the spiral turnpike, taking the stone steps in long, furious strides until he reached his own chamber.

He kicked the door shut behind him and laid her gently in the middle of the vast, fur-draped bed. The room was cold, but the embers from the night before still glowed faintly in the wide stone fireplace.