Page 65 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"Aye," Mòr whispered, her hand rising to gently rest over his chest, right over his thundering heart. "He pushed ye to the surface because he loved ye. He gave ye his life. But what have ye done with the years he bought ye, me Laird?"

The question hung in the vast, cold space between them, thick and poison-laced.

Alpin’s breath came in short, shallow bursts. He looked down at his own hands—broad, powerful hands that had built nothing to rival his grandfather’s legacy, hands that had brought a nameless orphan into the hall and laid with an English girl while the sea howled outside for the debt it was owed.

"He went into the dark with his reckoning unfinished," Mòr continued, her voice wrapping around his ears like a warm velvet shroud. "The creature that took him still swims the deep ledge. It carries his blood, and yes. Do ye think he can rest while the beast still breathes? Do ye think he watches ye from the halls of the ancestors, seeing ye hide behind soft gowns and warm beds while his spear sits rusting in the cold?"

"I daenae hide," Alpin growled, though the strength had fled from his voice, leaving only a hollow, echoing terror.

"Ye are reaching for peace where there is no peace to be found," she said gently, leaning closer, her forehead almost touching his shoulder. "The sea took the Laird, me Laird. It took the crown of this house. And until the man who survived goes back to the water and answers the beast, the debt remains unpaid. Every breath ye draw in that warm bed above is a breath stolen from the old man’s memory."

Alpin dropped the oiling rag. It hit the stone flags with a wet slap.

His hand closed around the iron shaft of the spear, his knuckles turning stark white as the ice in his stomach spread to his veins. The warmth of the night before—the velvet heat of Grisselle’s mouth, the soft curve of her waist, the promise of a life built on something other than ghosts—withered into dust. It felt fake. It felt like a coward’s bargain struck in the dark to avoid paying what was due.

"The longboats are ready," he said, his voice completely flat, stripped of all warmth, all doubt, all life.

Mòr reached out and smoothed the collar of his linen shirt, her smile soft and full of motherly pride. "Aye. The men are waiting on the slipway. They ken their Laird."

She stood up slowly, picking up the untouched clay mug from the bench. She looked down at him with dark, tranquil eyes, her hand resting one last time on his shoulder with a firm, approving press.

"Go to the deep water, me Laird," she said softly, her voice echoing down the corridor as she turned to leave. "Finish what was started twenty years ago. Give the old man his peace, so that ye may finally earn yer own."

She shuffled out of the armory, the quiet rustle of her skirts fading into the dark passageway.

Alpin remained on the bench. He stood up slowly, the heavy iron spear balanced in his right fist. He did not look back toward the stairs that led to his chambers. He did not look toward the warm hearth where he knew Grisselle would soon wake, looking for the man who had held her in the dark.

He turned his face toward the open sea arch, where the dark, wild waves of the Atlantic crashed against the rocks, waiting for him.

The sharp, rhythmic clatter of iron buckles and boots on stone broke the stillness of the chamber before the sky had even turned gray.

Grisselle’s eyes snapped open. The spot beside her on the wide bed was already cold, the heavy wool blankets thrown back. Through the narrow slit of the window, the first cold light of dawn glinted off the rim of Alpin’s leather coat. He did not look toward the bed. He pulled his thick belt tight, checked the iron dagger at his hip, and reached for the heavy spear leaning against the stone wall.

She did not call out. She did not throw off the furs and demand he stop. The rigid, closed line of his back told her everything he was going to do.

Instead, Grisselle slipped out of the bed the moment the heavy door clicked shut. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird as she pulled on her woolen gown, not bothering with stays or slippers. She ran down the narrow turnpike stairs, her bare feet silent on the frozen flags, darting past the quiet kitchens and out through the lower postern gate before the keep fully stirred.

The sea air hit her like a wet whip. Down on the rocky slipway, three longboats rocked violently against the grey swell.

Grisselle kept low behind the stacked timber and empty barrels, her breath hitching in her throat as Alpin and four of his men hauled the largest boat into the foaming surf. While the men wrestled with the heavy oars at the bow, Grisselle darted across the wet kelp, scrambling over the stern and crawling beneath the broad canvas sail folded in the dark recess beneath the rear seats.

She pulled the damp canvas over her head, curling into a tight, shivering ball as the heavy oak hull lurched into the surf. The wood groaned under the pounding of the tide, the icy spray soaking through the canvas within minutes.

For nearly an hour, the boat fought the rising swell, the steady, brutal thud of Alpin’s oars driving them farther and farther from the shore. The cold bit into her bones, but she did not move. She would not wake to his death. She would not sit in that cold stone keep, waiting for an empty boat to drift back to the sand.

When the rhythmic dip of the oars slowed, Grisselle pushed the heavy, wet canvas off her shoulders and stood up.

The four oarsmen froze, their broad hands locking onto the timber, their eyes widening in shock. They were miles out now—the high gray cliffs of Herston Castle reduced to a faint, dark line against the horizon. The water beneath them was no longer gray, but a deep, suffocating black, the swells rising like rolling hills around the wooden hull.

Alpin turned slowly from his seat at the mid-bench. The spear lay across his knees. His face was gray, carved from the same cold stone as the cliffs, his black eyes hollow and fixed on the dark water ahead.

When his gaze landed on her, something flickered behind his eyes—a brief, wild flash of horror—before the cold mask snapped back into place.

"Turn the boat," Alpin rasped, his voice raw, stripped of all life. "Take her back to the slipway."

"Nay," Grisselle said.

Her voice was steady, carried across the churning water by the biting wind. She stepped over the cross-beams, ignoring the spray that drenched the hem of her gown, until she stood directly in front of him.