Page 12 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

Mistress Greer stood before a massive iron griddle, a wooden spatula in her hand, her mouth drawn into a thin, straight line as she watched Senga struggle with a massive wooden kneading trough.

"Yield to it, girl!" Greer snapped, not looking back as the girls entered. "Ye're kneading dough, nae wrestling a calf. If the bread is heavy, Dougal will spend the whole noon meal complaining about his teeth."

"I can take a turn," Grisselle said, stepping into the warmth of the hearth.

Greer turned slowly, her narrow eyes fixing instantly on Grisselle’s bare arms and the wild thatch of her hair. She gave a short, disparaging sniff that shook her apron strings. "The London lady wants to touch the flour, does she? Yer white fingers will be full of blisters before the first loaf is shaped."

"My fingers have carried heavier things than a bit of yeast, Mistress Greer," Grisselle smiled.

Without waiting for permission, she stepped up to the long oak table, pushing Senga gently aside. She rolled her sleeves up past her elbows, dug her hands deep into the sticky, pale mass, and drove her weight forward with a rhythmic, powerful heave of her shoulders. Her grandfather hadn't just told her stories; he had made her work the croft whenever her mother wasn't looking.

Senga’s jaw dropped slightly, her red elbows remaining suspended in the air. "By the saints, she’s got a bit of muscle in her, mistress."

Greer watched the steady, practiced rise and fall of Grisselle’s back. The narrow, weighing look in the older woman's eyes didn't vanish, but the hard line of her mouth softened by a fraction of an inch. She reached out and dropped a clean, dry linen towel on the corner of the table.

"Daenae get the flour on yer skirt, me Lady," Greer grumbled, turning back to her griddle with a short grunt. "The Laird has enough expenses without having to buy ye another green dress because ye’ve ruined that one with lard."

Grisselle didn't look up, but her mouth curved into a small, silent triumph. "The dress is already old, Mistress Greer. A bit of lard might actually improve the shade."

Senga let out a muffled snicker behind her hand, which earned her a sharp smack on the shoulder from Greer’s wooden spatula. "Get the salt-fish from the pantry, Senga. And stop staring like an owl in daylight."

Isobel leaned against the larder door, her eyes dancing as she watched Grisselle work the dough into a clean, smooth ball. "I told ye, Greer. She isnae one of those southern girls who faints when a chicken loses its head."

"We’ll see what she looks like when the winter gales hit the East Tower," Greer said, though she set a small pewter mug of hot ale near Grisselle’s elbow. "Eat yer parritch when you're done with that trough, me Lady. Ye look like a gust of wind could carry ye straight over the wall."

"Thank you, Mistress Greer," Grisselle said, wiping a streak of white flour from her nose with the back of her wrist.

By midday, the kitchen was quiet, and the sun had climbed high enough to turn the green hills into a bright, blinding emerald. Grisselle stood on the stone terrace outside the great hall, her arms resting on the ancient battlements, her eyes tracking the long, winding path that led down to the grey line of the shore.

The wind caught her hair, whipping it across her face, but she didn't pull it back. Her fingers pressed into the rough, salt-crusted stone of the wall, her eyes scanning the distant rocks where the white foam broke against the black cliffs.

There was no sign of a horse. There was no sign of a large, broad-shouldered man with a pale scar on his neck.

Grisselle told herself she was only counting the gulls, but her eyes kept dragging back to the same empty stretch of shore, and she caught herself twice straining to hear hoofbeats over the wind before she gave up pretending and simply watched the road.

"He willnae be back until the tide turns," Isobel said, appearing at her side with a basket of small, green apples. She offered one to Grisselle. "He’s been like that since we were small. The heavier the house feels, the longer he stays by the skiff."

Grisselle took the apple, biting into the sharp, sour skin. "He didn't buy a painting to hang in his hall; he brought a person. He might at least have the courtesy to tell me if I am expected to eat my dinner alone."

"Are ye angry because he left, or because of how he left?" Isobel asked softly, her eyes fixed on the distant water.

Grisselle stopped chewing, her jaw locking as she stared down at the green fruit in her hand. The memory of the East Tower—how close he'd come, the way his large hands had pinned her against the stone, and the sheer, terrifying speed with which he had frozen over afterward—rushed through her.

"I am not angry," Grisselle said, her voice dropping into that flat, hard register she used when she was cornered. "I’m not even bothered."

Isobel let out a low, knowing hum, her fingers tracing the rim of her basket. "Alpin doesnae ken how to handle things; he cannnae fight with an iron hook, Grisselle. He's spent ten years learning to master the sea and near nothing at all learning to master a room with a woman in it. Ye're the first thing that's ever stood still long enough for him to have to try."

"I survived three," Grisselle said, her chin lifting as she turned back to the hills.

She threw the core of her apple over the wall, watching it drop into the gorse below, her green eyes flashing with a dangerous, wild light.

The mud on the steep sheep-track was thick, black, and slick as grease, but Grisselle did not slow down. She grabbed a fistful of wet heather, hauled herself over a jutting shelf of granite, and pulled her boots up onto the high ridge.

She let go of her skirts. The heavy green wool dropped, caked in dirt halfway to her knees. She didn't care. She threw her head back, shut her eyes, and pulled the freezing, salt-heavy wind deep into her lungs. She let out a loud, entirely unladylike laugh that the gale snatched straight out of her throat.

"If ye take one more step to yer left, I’ll be explaining to yer father why his daughter is floating in the Minch."

Grisselle spun around, her boots skidding on the wet shale.