Page 70 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"Alpin..." Grisselle murmured.

He crossed the room in three long, silent strides. The floorboards barely groaned beneath his weight. He didn't ask the women to move, but Greer and Senga instinctively stepped back, leaving only Isobel holding her up.

Alpin dropped to one knee beside the mattress, bringing his dark head level with hers. His hand came up, heavy and warm, hovering over her face for a fraction of a second before his knuckles grazed her jawline. He was trembling, a tiny, involuntary vibration in fingers that could snap a pine bow.

"Ye're talking," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, stripped of every ounce of his usual stern detachment. "Ye're looking at me."

"I am," she whispered, her hand dragging through the heavy coverlet to find his wrist. His skin was burning hot against her ice-cold fingers. "Why are you... why is everyone looking at me as if I've been dug out of a cairn?"

Isobel let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Because ye bloody well near were, Grisselle. Three days. Three days ye've been burning through sheets, talking to spirits and asking for yer mother."

"Three...?" Grisselle frowned, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of her memory. The chill of the entryway... the crying child... the sharp, sudden pain that had doubled her over near the outer courtyard... after that, there was only darkness and the sound of waves crashing against a shore she couldn't see.

"Drink the rest of this," Greer ordered, thrusting the cup back into Isobel's hands while her eyes remained fixed on Grisselle. "And daenae ye try to sit up proper yet, miss. Ye have no blood in yer cheeks to spare."

"Where is she?" Grisselle’s eyes darted past Alpin’s shoulder, searching the dimly lit corners of the chamber. "The bairn. The little girl from the door."

Senga moved toward a small, wicker basin padded with folded wool blankets near the hearth. She lifted a bundle wrapped in coarse, unbleached flannel, holding it with an awkward, reverent care.

"She’s here, me Lady," Senga said softly, bringing the bundle toward the bed. "Greer fed her sweetened goat's milk with a rag. She’s quiet now. She slept right through the worst of the night."

Grisselle reached out both arms, the heavy sleeves of her shift slipping down to her elbows. Her muscle strength had vanished; her forearms shook under the light weight of her own linen. "Give her to me."

"Grisselle, ye're too weak—" Isobel began, but Alpin cut her off.

"Let her," Alpin commanded quietly.

He didn't take his eyes off Grisselle as he reached out, taking the tiny bundle from Senga’s hands. He handled the child with careful, deliberate precision, placing the small weight gently into the crook of Grisselle’s elbow, using his broad palm to support both the infant and Grisselle’s trembling forearm.

The baby moved, a tiny, dark-haired head shifting against the unbleached wool. A tiny red hand, fingers no longer blue with the bitter coastal wind, worked its way free of the swaddling and pressed against Grisselle’s collarbone.

A sudden, sharp sting pricked behind Grisselle's eyes. She looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face, listening to the soft, rhythmic puff of the child’s breathing.

"She's warm," Grisselle whispered, her voice catching.

"Aye," Alpin said, his thumb brushing the back of the infant’s head before settling back against Grisselle's hand. "She’s warm. Greer made sure of it."

"I did no such thing alone," Greer huffed, though she dabbed at the corner of her nose with her apron. "Niall was up until midnight hauling birch logs up three flights of stairs so the hearth wouldnae drop a single degree. The whole keep’s been walking on eggshells."

"Niall’s still down in the hall," Isobel added, her hand slipping down to rest on Grisselle’s shoulder. "He hasnae let the MacCarron messenger past the inner gatehouse. He told them the Laird was occupied and if they raised their voices above a whisper, he’d throw them into the bay himself."

Grisselle looked up at Alpin. "The MacCarrons? The cattle dispute... Alpin, the bailiff."

"The cattle are all fine," Alpin said sharply, his tone cutting off her worry before it could grow. "Niall can handle a few angry MacCarrons. The world outside this door isnae yer concern today."

"He hasnae left the room, Grisselle," Isobel said quietly, ignoring the warning glare Alpin shot her. "Nae once. Nae to eat, nae to take the high seat when the clan elders came asking after the border taxes. He sat right where he is now, watching ye breathe."

Alpin didn't deny it. He didn't look away, nor did he offer a dry remark to deflect Isobel’s words. He stared down at Grisselle, his mouth set in a firm, unyielding line, his fingers remaining locked around hers beneath the baby’s swaddling.

"You should have gone," Grisselle murmured, though her fingers tightened their weak hold on his wrist. "The clan needs you."

"The clan has survived four hundred years," Alpin growled softly. "They can survive a Laird who stays by his hearth when his woman is cold."

Silence settled over the room again.

Greer cleared her throat, breaking the spell as she stepped forward to take the pewter cup from the table.

"Right then. She’s awake, she’s talking, and she’s holding the bairn without dropping her. Senga, go down to the kitchen and fetch the mutton broth. The clear broth, mind ye, nae the greasy skin off the top. And tell Niall he can stop pacing the hallway like a caged hound."