Page 19 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"Nay," Mòr said, her mouth wrinkling into a tiny, mysterious line that might have been a smile or a grimace. "The cold is simple. It’s the quiet that breaks the southern ones."

Without another word, she stepped past Grisselle, her small frame gliding down the stone steps with that same eerie, silent grace.

Grisselle remained pinned against the rough granite wall. She didn't turn around immediately, but she could feel the stillness of the stairwell behind her. Slowly, she looked back over her shoulder.

Mòr was already half-hidden by the curve of the lower stairs, her grey wool shawl disappearing into the shadows. But the hairless cat had not turned away. It remained draped across the old woman’s shoulders, its long, grey-skinned neck twisted completely around. Its massive, yellow-green eyes were wide and unblinking, locking straight onto Grisselle’s face. It watched her with a heavy, ancient intelligence, its long tail twitching once against Mòr’s spine, until the line of the masonry finally cut off the view and the corner swallowed them whole.

Grisselle stood entirely still on the landing, her fingers refusing to let go of the iron ring.

The air in the stairwell suddenly felt remarkably heavy, vibrating with a strange, low hum that she could feel right through the soles of her slippers. It wasn't the wind off the firth, and it wasn't the distant clatter of the kitchen below. It felt like the stone itself was breathing against her palms, a thick, old weight that made the hair on her arms stand up.

She took a slow, deep breath, her pulse jumping against her ribs as she stared at the empty stone step where the old woman had stood. She rubbed her hands briskly against her wool skirt to clear the tingling in her fingers, then turned and hurried up the remaining steps toward the light of the upper gallery, the sound of her own quick footsteps echoing loudly against the dark masonry.

CHAPTER NINE

The leather mail-pouch had crushed the white wax on the seal, but the elegant, sprawling script of the London postmark was still perfectly legible.

Alpin sat at his high desk, his thumbs hooked into his belt, watching Grisselle from across the room. She was standing by the narrow window, the letter held between her fingers. She hadn't read it yet. She was just staring at her name written in that sharp, delicate hand that looked entirely ridiculous against the grey stone of his walls.

"It’s from her ladyship, then," Alpin said, his deep burr cutting through the rhythmic whistle of the wind outside.

Grisselle didn't turn around. Her thumb moved once over the cracked wax, scraping a tiny white flake onto the floorboards. "My mother has very little to do in Mayfair during the summer except remind her remaining daughters that they have not yet managed to secure an earl."

"Open it," Alpin muttered, shifting his weight until the oak chair groaned under him. "The boy from the village has been waiting three hours for a reply if one is needed."

Grisselle ripped the parchment open with a single, sharp jerk of her wrist.

Alpin watched her eyes move down the page. He didn't look at the ink; he looked at the line of her jaw. For the first three lines, her face remained perfectly still. But as her eyes hit the middle of the sheet, the skin beneath her ears flamed a sudden, bright red. Her nostrils flared, and her left hand came down on the edge of the stone windowsill with enough force that her knuckles went entirely bloodless.

She didn't sob. She didn't let out a breath. But her small shoulders went completely rigid under her green wool gown.

Alpin stood up, his heavy boots hitting the flagstones with a sharp thud as he crossed the room. He didn't ask for permission. He reached over her shoulder and took the parchment straight out of her fingers.

Grisselle didn't try to pull it back. She simply stood there, her arms dropping to her sides, her green eyes fixed on the empty air outside the window.

Alpin’s eyes scanned the narrow, crowded text.

...the gossip at Almack’s is quite as tedious as you might expect, though your sister Mary’s new carriage has drawn some admiration. Lord George remarked at dinner that the freckled hill-girl has finally found her proper cage in the rocks. They are calling it the 'Highland Rescue' at White’s; a few of the younger gentlemen had a wager on whether the Laird would require a rope to drag you from the carriage or if the smell of the sheep would suffice to keep you there. You must tell me if he has a proper carpet, or if we are to tell your father that you are sleeping on the heather...

Alpin’s fingers tightened on the edge of the paper until the thick rag-parchment tore down the center. A strange, hot iron taste flooded the back of his mouth. It wasn't the dull, familiar weight of his own old grievances; it was a sharp, sudden fury that hit him right between the ribs, making his pulse hammer against his scar with a violence that shocked him.

The hill-girl.

He crumpled the paper into a tight ball in his massive fist, his black eyes fixing on the side of her face. "The viscount’s friends have very little to do with their money if they’re throwing it away on the color of yer face."

Grisselle spun around, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, wild light that was entirely different from her usual defiance. "Give that back to me."

"It’s trash," Alpin growled, his voice dropping into a hard, dangerous rumble. "It belongs in the grate."

"It is my mother’s letter, Laird Herston!" she shot back, stepping straight into his space until her small chest brushed the rough wool of his plaid. "And I am perfectly capable of reading what the ton thinks of me without your assistance. I knew what they were saying before I left London, and I know what they are saying now."

"Then ye’re a fool for letting it stay in yer head," he said, looming over her, his broad chest blocking out the light from the window. "Ye’re in the North now. The wagers at White's daenae carry past the Tweed."

"Oh, how comforting," Grisselle mocked, her voice cracking just enough to let the raw, sharp edge through. She poked a stiff finger hard into the center of his chest, right over the crumpled parchment in his hand. "The great Laird tells me the world has stopped laughing because I am standing on his rocks. Do you think I don't see how you look at me? You treat me like an entry in your ledger, a nuisance you had to drag out of Mayfair to keep your grey-beards from complaining!"

"I treat ye like the contract we agreed to," Alpin barked, his jaw locking tight.

"You treat me like a shadow!" she yelled, her chin lifting so high he could see the wild pulse jumping at her throat. "You spend your days at the water pretending I am not here, and the one time you came into my room, you looked at me as if I'd stolen your grandfather's broadswords!"