Page 71 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"Aye, Mistress Greer," Senga said, a bright, relieved smile finally breaking across her face as she curtsied quickly and hurried out the heavy oak door.

"I'll go with her," Isobel said, squeezing Grisselle's shoulder one last time. "I'll make sure she doesnae drop the pot on the stairs. Rest, Grisselle. We'll be right outside."

Greer gave a short, decisive nod toward Alpin, her gaze lingering on the couple for a long moment before she turned and followed Isobel, pulling the heavy latch shut behind them. The thud of the door closing echoed softly in the tall stone chamber.

Alone now, save for the quiet snuffle of the sleeping infant between them, the space felt smaller, intimate, wrapped in the orange glow of the dying peat embers.

Alpin shifted, moving from his knee to sit on the edge of the mattress. The rope springs groaned under his weight. He raised his free hand and gently pushed a strand of dark, damp hair back from Grisselle’s forehead, his rough palm lingering against her temple.

"Ye terrified me," he whispered. The admission was stark, raw, devoid of any Laird’s pride.

"I didn't mean to," Grisselle replied, looking up at him through heavy lashes. "I didn’t want to lose you."

"I ken," Alpin said, his thumb tracing the bone beneath her eye. "I ken."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his warm breath mingling with her own in the quiet room. The baby stirred between them, letting out a small, contented sigh, and for the first time in three days, Alpin let his eyes close.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Alpin stood frozen in the deep shadow of the doorway, his broad frame blocking the pale strip of sunlight from the corridor.

Inside, Grisselle lay pale against the white linen sheets, her chest rising and falling in a slow, fragile rhythm. Her skin was still too muted, her lips lacking their usual quick, defiant color, but the fever had finally broken.

Mòr knelt beside the bed. The old woman’s hands moved with practiced, methodical efficiency, peeling back the edge of the damp cloth over Grisselle’s shoulder to inspect the wound. Sgàil, the hairless cat, sat glued to Mòr’s heels, his heavy gray chin resting on the floorboards, black eyes tracking every movement.

"The edges are clean," Mòr murmured without turning around, her voice dry like rustling corn husks. "No heat in the flesh today. The poultice did its work. She’ll live, Laird."

Alpin didn't answer. He didn't nod.

He watched Mòr’s hands—wrinkled, spotty with age, yet unnaturally calm as she smoothed the blanket back over Grisselle’s chest. The cat gave a low, submissive whine, nudging Mòr’s skirt, but the old woman ignored the animal, her shoulders hunched in a familiar, stooped quiet.

A cold, sharp memory slid between Alpin’s ribs, severing the immediate relief of Grisselle's recovery.

The morning before I sailed.

It had been pitch dark in the lower courtyard, the mist coming off the loch thick enough to choke on. He had been checking the rigging cables on the lead vessel when a hand had dropped onto his forearm. Soft. Light. Completely silent.

Mòr had stood in the fog beside him, her face obscured by her hood, her voice slipping into the dark. She had spoken of safety, of smooth waters, of small herbs brewed for a peaceful journey—words that had felt like a blessing then, but now felt like a shroud.

Alpin’s fingers twitched against the hilt of his dirk.

His mind dragged him back further into the dusty, forgotten corners of his youth. The night his father had collapsed in the Great Hall, grey-faced and gasping, his hands clutching at a heart that had suddenly ceased to beat. Before yer father had boarded his final trading voyage three weeks prior, Mòr had stood in that same courtyard. She had touched his arm. She had spoken in that same low, soothing, honeyed tone, offering a parting brew for the road.

The air in the bedchamber suddenly felt thick, suffocatingly dry.

Mòr stood up, dusting her apron with two quick pats. She turned toward the door, her faded eyes meeting his. She gave a small, polite tilt of her head, waiting for him to step aside.

Alpin didn't move an inch. He glared down at her, his jaw locked so hard the muscles in his cheek throbbed. He looked at her hands. He looked at the quiet, unbothered stillness in her shoulders.

Sgàil shifted behind her, ears flattening, picking up the sudden, violent spike of tension in the doorway.

"Is there something else, Laird?" Mòr asked softly.

Alpin slowly stepped back, opening a passage in the frame. He didn't speak a word. He couldn't, not without letting the black, suffocating rage in his chest tear loose before he had his answers.

Mòr bowed her head again and passed him, the cat trotting silently at her heels.

Alpin watched her disappear down the stone stairs. The moment her skirts cleared the landing, he turned on his heel and strode toward the armory.