Page 81 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

The priest turned to Grisselle. "And do ye, Grisselle, take this man to be yer wedded husband, to share his hall, hold his heart, and walk beside him in truth, so long as life remains?"

Grisselle looked past the priest, past the stone altar, straight into the eyes of the man who had pulled her from the dark water and offered her a real life built on solid ground.

"I do," she said softly, clearly.

Father Cormac wrapped a strip of woven tartan around their joined wrists, knotting the ends securely. "What God hath joined, let no man put asunder." He raised his hand in a final blessing, his face softening with a rare, genuine smile. "Go forth as man and wife."

The moment the priest stepped back, a loud, roaring cheer erupted from the back of the chapel.

Greer was the first to clap her hand onto Alpin’s shoulder, a broad, booming laugh tearing from her throat. Isobel, standing near the front pew, wiped a stray tear from her cheek before stepping forward to wrap her arms tight around Grisselle’s shoulders, pressing her cheek against hers with a breathless laugh.

Out in the courtyard, the party burst into full, unbridled life.

Pipers sat atop the high stone perimeter wall, their bagpipes blaring a lively, triumphant reel that echoed off the surrounding hills. Long wooden benches were filled to overflowing with the entire household—guards, servants, crofters from the glen, and kinsmen who had traveled for days to witness the clan come whole around its chief.

Great iron spits turned over open fire pits in the center of the yard, roasting whole sheep and hogs that dripped fat into the flames, filling the air with the mouth-watering scent of crisp skin and herb rub. Tremendous wooden trenchers were piled high with warm, crusty barley bread, roasted root vegetables, and thick wedges of sharp yellow cheese.

Huge oak casks of ale and sweet honey mead were tapped at both ends of the courtyard, the liquor flowing freely into horn cups and wooden tankards.

"To the Laird and his Lady!" Dougal roared from the head of the long middle table, lifting a brimming horn high in the air. His face, line-etched and worn, was brighter than it had been in years, his chest lifting with honest pride as he looked at Alpin.

"To the Laird and Lady!" the crowd roared back, hundreds of horn cups clinking together, spilling foam onto the flagstones.

Alpin sat at the center table, Grisselle beside him. He filled her cup himself, leaning in close so his dark hair brushed her cheek.

"Ye survived the priest," he murmured, a faint, dry irony touching his mouth. "I thought London Ladies found long speeches exhausting."

Grisselle took a small sip of the mead, her green eyes sparkling as she looked sideways at him. "Father Cormac was brief enough. It was the prospect of eating roasted boar with my fingers that kept me standing."

Alpin let out a short, low laugh, reaching over to tear a soft piece of barley bread, laying it on her plate. "Then eat, wife. Ye'll need the strength before the piper starts the night reel."

"Wife," Grisselle repeated, testing the word on her tongue, her lips tilting upward. "It has a surprisingly solid ring to it. Much better than 'husband-invented-from-a-legend.'"

"The legend had far worse manners," Alpin countered, his eyes holding hers with a warm, steady heat.

Across the table, Dougal was already engaged in a loud, boisterous argument with Niall over who could finish a tankard of dark ale faster. Isobel sat beside them, shaking her head with a light, melodious laugh, her face radiant in the afternoon sun. Children chased each other between the tables, their high laughter mingling with the deep rumble of the men's voices and the ceaseless, energetic thrum of the pipes.

As the sun began to dip behind the western crags, painting the sky in deep purples and blazing oranges, torch-bearers stepped along the courtyard walls, lighting heavy pitch torches that threw a warm, flickering amber light across the feast.

The music shifted. The pipers struck up a fast, rhythmic dance, and the center of the courtyard was cleared as couples stepped onto the stone.

Niall dragged a laughing servant girl onto the floor, his heavy boots stamping out the beat, while Dougal sat on a bench near the fire, clapping his broad hands in time with the fiddle player.

Alpin stood up, extending his hand down to Grisselle.

She looked at his wide palm, then up into his face. She didn't hesitate. She laid her fingers in his, letting him pull her up from the bench.

He led her into the middle of the courtyard, beneath the high, open Highland sky. He took her waist in his large hand, holding her close as the music spun around them. There was no pretense between them now, no secrets kept in the dark, no ancient debts hanging over their heads.

Grisselle leaned slightly against his chest as they moved to the measure, feeling the solid, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath the wool of his tartan. She looked around the crowded courtyard—at Isobel laughing by the fire, at Greer kicking her heels on the stone, at the clan gathered close, whole and settled around the man who led them.

She looked up at Alpin, her living legend, and smiled—a real, bright, unreserved smile that caught the torchlight and held it fast. He tightened his arm around her, swinging her into the rhythm of the dance, as the laughter and music of the Highlands carried long into the warm, star-filled night.

EPILOGUE

The long wooden trestles had been cleared from the courtyard, the last echoing blasts of the bagpipes had faded into the surrounding crags, and the heavy oak doors of the keep were barred for the night. The Great Hall below was silent, save for the dull, low embers sleeping beneath a bed of white ash in the central hearth.

In the bedchamber, the night was entirely still.