Page 13 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

Alpin stood ten paces away, rising out of the mist. His thick hair whipped into a wild, black tangle around his face. His plaid was soaked through at the shoulder, a heavy coil of hemp rope slung across his chest. He stopped mid-stride, his heavy boots planted wide on the incline. He stared at the mud on her knees, the dirt packed beneath her fingernails, and the wild rust-colored mess of her hair.

His dark brows knit together into a hard, confused line. He didn't look like the cornered, suffocating giant from the London ballroom, nor the freezing, distant stranger from the East Tower. He looked entirely unguarded, thrown completely off balance by the sight of her standing on the edge of a cliff with a grin on her face.

"I have excellent balance, Laird Herston," Grisselle said, raising her chin over the howling wind. "I am not going to fall."

"The rocks daenae care about yer balance," Alpin growled, closing the distance between them in three long, ground-eating strides. He grabbed her upper arm, his large fingers completely encircling her bicep, and pulled her two feet back from the precipice.

The moment his hand clamped over her sleeve, the heat from the tower room flashed between them, sharp and sudden. Grisselle’s breath hitched. Alpin’s jaw locked. He dropped her arm as if the wet wool had burned him, his hand falling swiftly back to the hilt of the dirk at his belt.

"Ye should be in the keep," he muttered, turning his face toward the grey water below. "Greer would be looking for ye."

"I don’t think so," Grisselle countered, refusing to step back from his massive frame. "And you spend a great deal of time avoiding your own hall. Do the fires inside burn too hot, or do you simply prefer the company of seagulls?"

The pale scar on Alpin’s neck twitched. He snapped his gaze back to her, his black eyes narrowing. "I check the nets, lass. It’s how me people eat."

"You check the nets before the sun rises, and you stare at the water until it sets," Grisselle said, her voice dropping into a low, steady rhythm. "If you intended to ignore me for the next forty years, you should have chosen a painting."

Alpin leaned forward, his broad chest blocking the wind, casting her entirely in his shadow. "I dinnae choose a painting. I choosed a woman who doesnae ken when to hold her tongue."

"Then we are poorly matched," she shot back, tilting her head up to hold his stare, her green eyes flashing, "because I have no intention of holding it."

Alpin didn't pull away. He stepped closer instead, until barely a hand's width separated them, close enough that she caught the salt and woodsmoke clinging to his plaid. His chest rose and fell in a heavy, uneven rhythm. His gaze dropped from her defiant eyes to the center of her mouth, lingering there for a long, dangerous second.

"Ye have dirt on yer nose," he said, his voice a rough, low rasp.

He reached up, one rough thumb dragging slowly across the bridge of her nose, wiping away a smear of mud gone unnoticed until then. His thumb lingered a half-second longer than the task required.

Grisselle didn't blink. Though her breath caught somewhere it hadn't before. "And you have seaweed on your boots. Are you going to run away again, or are we going to stand on this cliff until it rains?"

A short, dark sound broke from his chest, something caught exactly between a scoff and a laugh. He stepped back, the hard, impenetrable wall slamming back into place behind his eyes, though the pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat betrayed him.

"Go back down the track," Alpin ordered, pointing a thick finger toward the valley. "Keep to the right of the gorse. And wash yer hands before ye sit at me table, or Dougal will think I’m starving ye in the mud."

He turned on his heel and strode up the ridge, disappearing into the thick grey mist without looking back. Grisselle stood alone on the rock, her heart hammering a frantic, echoing beat against her ribs, her fingers pressing hard against the dirt on her skirt.

The fire in the East Tower had burned down to a pile of glowing red embers. Grisselle sat on the edge of the heavy oak bed, aggressively pulling a stiff bristle brush through the tangled ends of her hair, when a sharp rap hit the heavy door.

Before she could answer, the iron latch lifted. Isobel slipped inside, kicking the door shut behind her with the heel of her leather slipper. She carried a heavy clay jug in one hand and two battered tin cups in the other.

"Greer nearly swallowed her own tongue when she saw the mud on the hall floor," Isobel announced, setting the cups down on the bare wooden table with a loud clatter.

"I will fetch a mop in the morning," Grisselle said, lowering the brush.

"Daenae ye dare. Senga needs the exercise," Isobel said, pulling the cork from the jug with her teeth. She spat it into her hand and poured a healthy measure of dark, amber liquid into both tins. "Drink this. It’ll keep the damp out of yer bones."

Grisselle took the cup, sniffing the sharp, peaty burn of the ale before taking a small, searing sip. She coughed, her eyes watering instantly.

Isobel dropped into the high-backed wooden chair by the hearth, pulling her knees up to her chin and taking a long swallow without flinching. "I saw Alpin when he came back. He looked like he’d been hit in the head with an oar. Did ye push him off the cliff?"

"I considered it," Grisselle rasped, rubbing her burning throat. "He is the most infuriating man I have ever met."

"He’s a rock," Isobel agreed, tracing the rim of her tin cup with her thumb. "And rocks daenae move unless ye hit them with something heavier. But perhaps ye’re heavier."

Grisselle set her cup down on the blanket chest, her fingers curling into the wool of her skirts. "I am a contract, Isobel. Nothing more. My parents dragged me to London the year my father came into his title. They wanted a husband who could match it. I refused every man who looked at me because I couldn't stand the smell of their perfume.”

"So ye chose a giant who smells of salt and wet dog," Isobel said, a dry smile touching the corners of her mouth.

"I chose the hills," Grisselle corrected sharply. "I chose the air, and a way clear of a marriage market that had already decided what I was worth before I ever opened my mouth. I didn't expect the man himself."