Page 3 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"Twenty years I've kept this keep," Mistress Greer said, standing in the opening with a thick piece of dry tartan slung over her arm and her mouth drawn into a thin, hard line. She didn't move aside to let him pass, instead thrusting the wool straight into his chest. "And never for a man so determined to feed himself to the sea. Look at ye. Soaked to the thigh, and the fire in the hall barely laid. Sit. Eat. Be a Laird for an hour."

Alpin caught the plaid, wiping the spray from his forehead with the rough fringe. "The nets were clear, Greer."

"The nets are always clear when ye're looking for things that arenae there," she snapped, finally stepping back to let him into the warmth of the lower passage. "Get inside before the kitchen girls see their master looking like a drowned sheep."

The great hall smelled of old peat smoke and toasted barley. At the long table, Isobel was already slicing a loaf of dark bread, the knife moving with steady, unhurried strokes. She didn't look up when his heavy boots thudded against the stone, but she set a thick wooden bowl of hot porridge at the place next to her.

"Ye're dripping from the postern gate to the hall," she said, not looking up. "Greer will have yer hide before she has yer breakfast."

Alpin dropped into the heavy oak chair, his joints cracking. He reached for the wooden spoon but didn't dip it.

Isobel set the knife down with a dull thunk and pushed the butter dish toward him. "Six eggs went missing from the larder this morning. Six, Alpin. Either the hens have taken to stealing from one another, or Senga's new lad has a taste for raw yolk before matins."

That earned a short huff through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough that Isobel counted it as a win.

"I've put me coin on the lad," she said, dropping onto the bench across from him and folding her hands under her chin. "Though I wouldnae put it past the hens either. They've been strutting about like they own the coop since ye let them loose in the kitchen garden."

Alpin picked up the loaf, breaking off a piece with his large, calloused hands. "Ye let them loose."

"I opened a gate, Alpin. What they did with their freedom is their own affair."

He smiled and said nothing after that.

By afternoon, the great hall was colder. The six men of the council sat opposite Alpin, their grey heads bowed over their small stoups of ale. At the end of the bench sat old Dougal, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his scarred hands tucked into his belt. Dougal’s eyes stayed on the stone floor; he hadn't looked Alpin in the face since the sun had passed the mid-heaven.

"The clan is loyal, me Laird," Eachann said, his old voice scraping through the quiet room like a shovel on gravel. "And they follow ye without question. But a Laird without a lady is a Laird without a future. They want to see the next generation of Herstons born. They want to ken the line continues."

Alpin leaned back, his fingers curling around the arms of his chair. "The borders are quiet. The black cattle are fat. The grain stores are fuller than they've been in a decade, and the MacCarrons havenae tested that border since I sent their last raiding party home short two men and a herd."

"No one questions yer sword arm, Alpin, nor yer head for grain and cattle," Ranald said, striking the table with his knuckles. "But a keep this well-run with no bairn to hand it to is a waste this council cannae abide. Ye are thirty years old. There is no lady at that table, and there is no child in this keep. In ten years, who inherits what ye've built? A MacCarron cousin who'll undo it inside a season?"

Alpin's gaze shifted to Dougal. The old man-at-arms shifted his weight, his chin sinking lower into his collar.

"Ye've made this clan richer and safer than it's been in a generation, lad," Dougal said, his voice thick and low. He finally raised his eyes, his brow furrowed. "No one at this table doubts it. But a Laird needs sons to hold it after him, or all of it dies with ye."

Alpin stood up. The heavy legs of his oak chair scraped against the stone floor with a sharp, screeching rattle that made Eachann blink. He stood at his full height, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the council table.

"When I have a name, ye'll have it," Alpin said, his voice flat as the sea before a gale. "Nae before."

He turned and strode out of the hall before any of them could open their mouths again, his heavy plaid snapping against the iron hinges of the door. He didn't tell them that the only vow that held him was the one buried five fathoms deep, and the sea.

The next morning, the sun didn't bother showing itself at all, leaving the keep in a dark, wet fog. Alpin sat at the smaller trestle table in the kitchen corner, Niall across from him, chewing through a platter of salt herring.

A short, red-faced boy from the lower village burst through the door, his breath coming in loud pants, a small leather packet gripped in his hand. He stopped, bobbing a quick head to Alpin, and laid a folded square of heavy paper on the grease-stained wood.

"The mail-rider left it at the change-house, Laird," the boy said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Said it came all the way from the south."

Niall looked up, a piece of fish halfway to his mouth. "South? The MacCarrons havenae used paper that thick since the old king died."

Alpin didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the bright red wax on the back of the letter. His thumb pressed against the seal. He took his small hunting knife, slicing through the edge of the paper with a clean, sharp stroke.

He opened it. The handwriting was sharp, wild, and entirely unfamiliar.

My dear Alpin, the letter began.

Alpin’s brows drew together. He read the line again.

I think of your courage often. I think of you rowing out alone against the beast no other man would face...