Page 82 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

The thick stone walls kept the chill of the Highland air at bay, holding inside the faint, warm scents of beeswax candles, dried lavender, and the subtle tang of peat smoke.

Grisselle sat on the edge of the high wooden bed, the crimson wool of her wedding dress gathered in heavy, soft folds around her ankles. She had stripped off the heavy tartan sash hours ago, but the gown remained, the rowan-berry cloth catching the soft amber light of the single candle flickering on the bedside table.

Her red hair was still bound tightly in the intricate, elaborate style Isobel had spent over an hour perfecting that morning. An intricate lattice of small braids, twists, and hidden iron pins held the dark mass pinned securely to the back of her head.

The latch clicked.

The heavy door creaked open, and Alpin stepped into the room. He had discarded his formal plaid and silver shoulder brooch, wearing only his soft linen shirt open at the throat and dark wool trousers. He closed the door behind him, the wooden bolt dropping into place.

He didn't move toward the bed immediately. He stood near the threshold, his broad frame framed by the dark timber of the door, his dark eyes resting on her.

Grisselle didn't look down at her lap. She sat with her spine straight, her hands resting flat against the mattress, her gaze meeting his without a flicker of hesitation.

Alpin walked forward, his boots silent against the thick woven rug covering the floorboards. He stopped directly before her, towering over where she sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't speak. Slowly, deliberately, he sank onto one knee on the floorboards, bringing his face level with hers.

He reached out, his large, calloused hands coming up to gently cup her jaw. His thumbs rested against her cheekbones, the heat of his skin seeping into hers. His touch was devoid of the rigid tension that had defined him for months; there was no iron in his grip, no urgent, protective panic.

He looked at her. His dark eyes, usually so guarded and unyielding, scanned every line of her face, tracing the curve of her brow, the dark eyelashes, the faint color resting on her cheeks, as if memorizing a map he had sought his entire life.

The silence between them stretched, thick, warm, and entirely peaceful.

"Ye are the bravest person I have ever met," Alpin said softly.

His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated against the palms resting on her face.

Grisselle’s lips twitched. The sharp, bright spark of wit that had sustained her through London ballrooms, cold sailing ships, and freezing loch waters flickered in her dark eyes.

"You are a brute who nearly drowned me," she replied, her voice smooth, perfectly dry, and utterly without heat.

Alpin froze for a split second. Then, his chest expanded on a deep, sudden breath, and he laughed.

It was not the short, dry, ironic huff he usually gave to mask his feelings. It was a real, deep, booming laugh. A rich, unrestrained sound that started low in his chest and echoed softly against the stone walls of the quiet chamber. His eyes crinkled at the corners, lines of genuine delight cutting through the hard angles of his face, his whole broad frame shaking with the sheer, unadulterated release of it.

Grisselle felt the vibration of his laughter through the palms still cupping her face.

She remembered Isobel sitting by the hearth weeks ago, her voice hushed as she spoke of the boy Alpin had been before the sea took his grandfather and grief claimed his father—a boy who laughed freely, who moved without a shroud over his shoulders.

Watching his face soften, seeing the dark, brooding shadow vanish entirely from his eyes, Grisselle felt a tight, sweet ache bloom in her chest.

She looked at the curves around his mouth, listened to the clear, vibrant ring of his voice in the quiet room, and knew with absolute certainty that she would endure every mile of the journey, every lie in London, and every drop of freezing loch water a thousand times over, just to hear that sound come from his throat.

Alpin’s laughter slowly subsided into a low, breathless rumble, a warm smile remaining fixed on his lips.

"A brute," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone. "Is that what they call a Laird in London?"

"Only the ones who throw themselves into freezing rivers without checking if the lady can swim first," Grisselle countered gently, her fingers rising to lightly wrap around his wrists.

Alpin smiled, stepping closer as he remained on his knee. He shifted his hands from her jaw, his long, heavy fingers reaching up toward the back of her head.

His fingertips brushed against the stiff, iron pins Isobel had painstakingly woven into her hair that morning.

"She spent an hour on this," Grisselle warned softly, though she didn't move away. "She threatened to throw Cait out the window if she touched a single braid before the night reel."

"Isobel is nae in this room," Alpin said low.

He found the first iron pin near the crown of her head, working it free with surprising gentleness for hands so accustomed to broadswords and heavy rigging. He slid it out and dropped it onto the small wooden table beside the candle.

He reached in again, his large fingers carefully untangling a thick braid, pulling the second pin loose.