Page 80 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"MacInnes can take three more cups and drown in them," Dougal growled softly, not pausing the motion of his oilstone. "The Laird doesnae need a clerk from Edinburgh to tell him who sits at his table."

Alpin didn't look up from his work. He pulled the leather strap tight around the hilt of the broadsword, tying it off with a sharp, definitive knot.

"The clan is assembled," Alpin said, his voice low, deep, and steady. "The watch on the ridge is doubled. The hall is ready."

Niall caught his dagger, slapping the blade flat against his palm, and looked at Alpin with a sly, knowing grin. "And the Laird? Is the Laird ready to exchange his broadsword for a London bride who speaks faster than a river run?"

Dougal let out a short, heavy huff through his nose, a rare, genuine amusement softening his stern face. "If anyone in this keep ought to be worrying about a sharp tongue, it’s Alpin."

Niall let out a dry, low chuckle, leaning his shoulder against the timber pillar. "Aye, the Laird met his match and then some. God help him when they actually disagree on something."

Alpin set the claymore down on the bench. He reached for his tankard of dark ale, taking a long, slow draught before setting it back down on the rough wood.

"She is nae a London bride," Alpin said quietly.

The simple statement carried a heavy, grounded weight that made both Dougal and Niall go quiet.

Alpin looked at his broad, calloused hands resting flat against the bench. He thought of the freezing water of the loch, of the quiet strength in her dark eyes when she had stood before the whole household and spoken the truth no one else dared to utter, and of the soft, steady pulse beating against her wrist when he held her hand in the dark.

"She belongs to this house," Alpin continued, his dark eyes lifting to meet Dougal's gaze across the fire. "As much as any of us. More than any contract could ever state."

Dougal looked at his laird for a long moment. He slowly set his oilstone down on the bench, reached for his own tankard, and lifted it high in the quiet air of the armory.

"To the Lady of the keep," Dougal said, his deep voice carrying respect.

Niall straightened from the pillar, lifting his cup with a rare, quiet sincerity replacing his usual sarcastic grin. "To the Lady."

Alpin picked up his tankard, clinking the wood against theirs.

"To Grisselle," Alpin murmured.

They drank together in the warm shadows of the armory, the ancient stone walls around them solid, quiet, and holding fast against the cold Highland night outside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The rain had cleared by mid-morning, leaving the air above the loch crisp, sweet, and smelling of crushed heather and wet pine. The sun broke through the high grey clouds in great shafts of pale gold, illuminating the courtyard of the keep where long timber tables had been dragged into the open air and scrubbed raw.

There were no parchment contracts spread across the trestle tables today. No clan elders leaned over ink-stained seals, bargaining over grazing rights or boundaries.

Inside the small stone chapel, the damp chill of the ancient walls was held at bay by dozens of tallow candles flickering in every niche. The floor had been freshly strewn with dried lavender and sweet clover, their scent rising beneath the heavy boots of the clansmen who packed the narrow nave shoulder to shoulder.

Father Cormac stood at the small stone altar, his hands clasped over his embroidered stole, his silver hair catching the flickering candlelight. Before him stood Alpin and Grisselle.

Alpin wore no battle gear, no iron on his belt. His plaid was pinned at his shoulder with the dark silver crest of his house, his broad chest rising and falling in a steady, calm rhythm. Beside him, Grisselle wore a gown of fine, soft wool, dyed the deep crimson of rowan berries, her red hair woven into thick braids laced with pale ribbon. The color had returned fully to her cheeks, her skin warm and clear, her posture straight and untiring.

Father Cormac lifted his hands, his dry, measured voice echoing off the curved stone vault.

"In the sight of God and before the people of this glen," the priest began, his gaze moving between them, "ye stand nae by command, nor by the law of men who seek to bind what they do nae understand."

He reached out, placing his right hand over their joined fingers, where Alpin’s large, calloused palm held Grisselle’s smaller hand in an unyielding grip. "Ye come of yer own will, to bind two lives into one house, to share the bread and the fire, the storm and the sun."

Alpin looked down at her. There was no hesitation in his dark eyes, no lingering shadow of the cold, unyielding beast that had once walked the shores alone. His thumb stroked lightly across the back of her knuckles, feeling the steady pulse beneath her skin.

Grisselle met his gaze, her lips curving with the faintest, sharp spark of wit, her fingers tightening around his.

"Do ye, Alpin, take this woman to be yer wedded wife, to harbor her, honor her, and stand between her and all harm, so long as breath remains in yer body?" Father Cormac asked.

"I do," Alpin said. His voice was low, deep, and steady, carrying through the quiet chapel without a tremor.