Page 68 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

Alpin dropped to his knees beside the mattress, his big hands moving with frantic, clumsy speed as he unbuckled the soaked leather straps of her gown.

"Senga! Water!" he roared toward the hall, not taking his eyes off Grisselle’s pale face.

He peeled away the heavy, sea-drenched wool, stripping the wet cloth away until she was wrapped in the dry linen sheets. He grabbed a thick woolen plaid from the chest at the foot of the bed and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, rubbing her bare arms with his calloused palms to chase the deathly chill from her skin.

Grisselle shifted against the furs. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy and dark-rimmed, before slowly opening.

The green of her eyes was cloudy, disoriented, but as they focused on his face—on the fierce, terrified devotion written across his features, on the silver line of the scar stretching along his jaw—a tiny, shuddering breath escaped her lips.

"Alpin..." she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.

Alpin’s breath caught in his throat. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes closing tight as a single, hot bead of moisture squeezed past his dark lashes and vanished into her damp red hair.

"Aye, lass," he rasped, his voice breaking entirely. His broad hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs gently wiping the salt spray from her cheekbones. "I am here. Ye are safe."

"The... the sea..."

"The sea has nothing left to take from me," he growled softly, his dark eyes burning into hers with a fierce, unyielding light as he pressed a deep, lingering kiss to her pale lips. "I am right here. I am staying right here with ye."

The keep was suffocatingly quiet, save for the constant, rhythmic rasp of the linen cloth being squeezed into a wooden basin of cold loch water.

Alpin sat on the low wooden stool beside the high carved bed, his broad frame hunched forward, his heavy forearms resting on his knees. His shoulders were stiff, locked into a rigid wall of muscle that hadn't relaxed in forty-eight hours. He hadn't pulled off his boots. He hadn't unpinned his plaid. The dark wool at the bottom of his hem was still stiff with dried salt and silt from the shoreline where he had dragged her from the black water.

On the bed, Grisselle shifted, a faint, ragged gasp breaking from her cracked lips. Her skin was flushed a deep, unhealthy crimson across her cheekbones, but her hands—small, delicate, and resting motionless on the white linen sheet—were icy cold to the touch.

Alpin reached out, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around her small wrist. The pulse beneath his thumb was shallow, beating with a frantic, terrifying speed.

The door to the chamber gave a quiet, familiar creak.

Isobel stepped into the room, holding a steaming earthenware bowl, the sharp, medicinal scent of crushed wintergreen and bitter willow bark trailing behind her. She set the bowl on the bedside table, her dark eyes darting to Alpin’s rigid face before settling on Grisselle.

"She hasnae swallowed a drop since noon, Alpin," Isobel said softly, her voice carrying a deep, quiet strain. She picked up the damp cloth from the basin, wringing it out until the water ran clear between her fingers. "Mòr says the lung-rot will take root if the fever doesnae drop before the sun goes down."

Alpin didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes fixed on Grisselle’s pale brow, watching a bead of sweat trickle down into her dark hairline.

"Mòr isnae in this room," Alpin said, his voice flat, gravelly, stripped of all color.

Isobel paused, the wet cloth hovering an inch above Grisselle’s forehead. Alpin kept his eyes fixed firmly on the faint, rhythmic rise and fall of Grisselle's chest, refusing to look up, but he felt his sister’s gaze heavy on his profile. The silence in the small room stretched tight until Isobel let out a quiet, tired sigh.

"Ye need to step out of this room, Alpin," Isobel murmured, gently pressing the cool linen to Grisselle’s burning skin. "Greer is in the hall. The council elders are sitting at the lower tables, wanting to ken if the contract stands, if the girl lives or dies. Ye havenae spoken three words to anyone since ye brought her up from the bank."

"Let them sit," Alpin said.

"Alpin."

"I said let them sit!"

The harsh snap of his voice vibrated off the stone walls, sharp enough to make the tallow candle on the bedside table flicker. Isobel didn't flinch. She squeezed the cloth into the basin again, the quiet drip-drip-drip of the water filling the tense silence that followed.

Grisselle let out another low, shuddering breath, her head tossing weakly against the feather pillow. Her lips parted, a dry, unintelligible murmur escaping her throat—a string of frantic, hushed words spoken in the polished, clipped cadences of London drawing rooms.

Alpin leaned forward, his fingers tightening gently around her wrist, his thumb tracing the small bones of her hand.

"She was talking about a garden this morning," Isobel said quietly, her tone softening as she watched Grisselle’s fitful movements. "She spoke of a house with tall white pillars and roses that daenae grow in the damp. She thinks she's still there. She thinks she's in London."

"She isnae in London," Alpin said, his broad thumb continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke over her skin. "She is here."

"She nearly wasnae," Isobel replied gently.