Page 78 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"She is a child," Grisselle continued, her dark eyes holding his without a flicker of doubt. "She knows nothing of forty years of hidden bitterness, nor of poisoned flasks and whispered debts. She is an innocent girl carrying your name and your blood, whether the council acknowledges it or not."

Alpin looked at her for a long, silent moment. Slowly, he dropped onto one knee before her, bringing himself level with her gaze. His large, calloused hand reached out and rested over hers where she held the edge of the plaid.

"The council will say a bastard’s child has no place in the keep," Alpin said, his voice dropping an octave, testing the weight of the reality before them. "They will say it brings shame to the line."

"The council did not sit in the dark while a woman bled her heart out on these flagstones," Grisselle replied, a sharp, familiar spark of her quick wit softening the edges of her pale face. "And the council does not decide who belongs at your table, Laird Herston. You do."

Alpin’s thumb stroked lightly over the back of her knuckles. A faint, quiet shift occurred in his eyes—the hard, defensive armor he had worn since his father's death finally cracking to let something warm and steady take root.

"She will stay in the keep," Alpin said softly, the decision settled, absolute, and unshakeable. "She will have a room near Isobel. She will eat at the high table. She is me niece, and she will be raised as a daughter of this house."

Isobel let out a long, shuddering breath, a faint, tearful smile touching her lips as she leaned back against the stone wall. Greer gave a single, firm nod from the window, turning back toward the room.

Grisselle looked down at their joined hands, her fingers tightening around Alpin's. "And Mòr?"

The room went completely still again. Dougal lifted his head from his hands for the first time, his line-etched face pale and raw as he looked at his chieftain.

Alpin did not flinch. His eyes remained fixed on Grisselle. "I will nae put iron on her wrists," he said quietly. "I will nae drag an old woman to the gallows to satisfy the elders or clear a debt that was born forty years ago in our own halls."

"She drove men to their deaths, me Laird," Greer reminded him softly from the window, though her tone held no bloodlust, only grim reality.

"And the sea took what it took," Alpin answered, his voice firm, grounded, and entirely free of the dark vengeance that had once consumed him. "She will be exiled; she will nae step foot across the threshold of this keep again. Her bitterness ends here. It does nae touch Nora, and it does nae touch me hall."

"That is a Laird's judgment," she whispered. "Not a ghost's."

Alpin closed his eyes for a brief second, leaning his face into her palm, letting her touch anchor him completely to the quiet room, to the living present, and to the woman who had brought truth back into his home.

"The chapel is prepared for tomorrow," Isobel said gently from across the hearth, her voice light and comforting. "Father Cormac has the candles ready. The men are setting up the tables in the lower hall."

She waited a beat, giving them a quiet nod before stepping back out into the corridor, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind her.

The click of the latch left the room in near silence, save for the crackle of the hearth fire and the low, hollow rush of the wind working at the high stone window.

Alpin didn't move. His hand remained wrapped around Grisselle’s, but his knuckles were pale, his body coiled tight with an old, jagged tension that hadn't melted simply because the truth was out. The scent of bitter herbs and twenty years of deceit still hung thick in his lungs.

"Isobel speaks as though a night's sleep clears a slate," Alpin growled softly, his voice gravelly, his eyes fixed on the flames dancing over the peat. "Me grandfather's mind torn apart, me father driven into a winter gale... and Mòr walking out through the gates under guard. A single day, and everything I thought I knew about this keep turned to smoke."

Grisselle didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she shifted closer on the bench, her skirt rustling against the stone. She reached up with her free hand, her fingers pressing firm against his jaw, forcing him to turn his head and meet her gaze. Her dark green eyes were clear, steady, and entirely unbowed by the storm that had just broken over the hall.

"It doesn’t clear the slate, Alpin," she said quietly, her voice carrying an unyielding, grounded weight. "Mòr poisoned the roots of this house for twenty years. You cannot wash that out in an afternoon, nor should you pretend the wound isn't raw."

Alpin let out a harsh, low breath, his chest rising against the tight leather of his doublet. "I spent ten years carrying the guilt of his death down to those rocks every night, Grisselle. Believing I was the one who dragged him into the surf."

"And now you know it was her hand, not your failing," Grisselle murmured, her thumb tracing the hard line of his cheekbone. "The secret half-sister, everything—they were meant to leave you isolated. To keep you staring at the water instead of standing in your own hall."

Alpin looked at her—really looked at her—taking in the flushed color in her cheeks, the quiet strength in her posture, and the fierce, protective spark that had refused to break even when the keep was falling apart around them. His hand came up, covering hers where it rested against his cheek, his broad palm warm and heavy.

"I cannae undo what was done in the dark, lass," he said, his voice dropping into a low, possessive rumble. "The weight of it will stay with me. But I'll nae bleed for Mòr's lies any longer. This keep is mine. And tomorrow, ye take yer place beside me."

Grisselle’s mouth softened, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips as her fingers tightened firmly around his.

"Tomorrow," she agreed softly, holding his gaze in the warm, quiet dark of the solar.

The evening before the wedding, the air inside the keep was thick with the scent of dried meadowsweet, crushed lavender, and peat smoke.

In the upper solar, the heavy oak door was bolted tight against the hall below. A great copper basin filled with steaming water sat before the hearth, surrounded by strips of clean linen, dried herbs, and small wooden bowls of crushed oats.

Isobel knelt beside the basin, stirring the warm water with a wooden spoon until a sweet, fragrant steam rose into the chill air of the room. Across the rug, three young women from the village sat in a semi-circle, their nimble fingers busily weaving sprigs of pale white heather and rowan berries into a long silk ribbon.