Page 9 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"If ye stretch that fabric any further, ye’ll be missing a sleeve by dinner," Alpin said, his deep burr cutting through the rhythmic rattle of the iron wheels.

Grisselle didn’t drop her hands. "It is my sleeve, Laird Herston. If I choose to dismantle it piece by piece, that is my affair."

"It’s an expensive hobby."

"London was an expensive mistake," she shot back, her voice tight. "Dismantling cotton costs me nothing."

The carriage jolted as the horses began a long, steep climb. The flat, manicured hedges of the south had vanished miles ago, replaced by the jagged, dark edges of the Cheviot Hills. The air leaking through the frame no longer smelled of coal smoke and damp river silt; it carried the sharp, clean bite of wet heather and peat.

Grisselle’s fingers went completely still on her cuff. She pressed her nose against the glass, her breath leaving a round smudge of fog on the pane.

Alpin watched her. Her shoulders gave a sudden, sharp hitch. Then another. She didn't make a sound, but a single, fat tear spilled over her eyelashes, cutting a clean path through the dust on her cheek.

Alpin reached into his sporran, his fingers wrapping around a clean linen handkerchief. He pulled it halfway out, hesitated, and then shoved it back into his pocket. His jaw tightened until the old scar beneath it throbbed. He looked down at his own massive, calloused hands, then back at her wet face.

"The wind is coming from the north," he muttered, shifting his weight until the leather cushions groaned. "It gets into the eyes."

Grisselle didn't swipe at her face. She kept her eyes fixed on the rising peaks, a small, fierce smile breaking through the water on her skin. "It is not the wind, Alpin."

"Then ye’ve got a speck of soot."

"I am fine," she said, her voice dropping into that low, steady rhythm he’d heard in the London parlor. She finally turned her head to look at him, her green eyes clear despite the tears. "The hills are bigger than I remembered. That is all."

Alpin didn't answer. He turned his face toward his own window, his brow furrowed so deeply his forehead ached. His stomach was performing a strange, heavy roll that had nothing to do with the carriage's motion. He uncrossed his arms, crossed them again, and pulled his hat down lower over his eyes.

By evening, the horses slowed to a heavy, splashing walk as the road narrowed into a track of black mud and jagged shale, curving sharply along the edge of the salt-firth. High above the white foam of the shore, the dark, solid bulk of Herston Castle cut into the mist.

Grisselle's breath caught somewhere behind her ribs. She stared up at the narrow-slit windows and the black climb of the battlements, the whole shape of it rising out of the mist like something pulled straight from her grandfather's stories. For a moment she couldn't find a single word to say.

Alpin watched her face rather than the keep. "Come, lass," he said, kicking the carriage door open before the driver could set the steps. "It is nae a prison."

"I didn't say it was," Grisselle said, though she hadn't quite managed to shut her mouth first.

Something that might have been a laugh moved through his chest. He jumped down into the wet gravel and held out a hand. Grisselle took it without hesitation, her grip surprisingly firm for a girl who had spent three years floating through Mayfair ballrooms. She stepped down into the damp wind, her nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath of the salt air.

The heavy, iron-studded oak door of the keep swung inward with a loud groan.

Mistress Greer marched out onto the stone steps, her arms wrapped tightly in her white apron, her eyes instantly fixing on the thin, travel-stained fabric of Grisselle’s gown.

"Well," Greer said, her voice cracking across the courtyard. "Ye’ve brought home a starveling, Alpin. Does her father nae feed his women, or did the English bogs shrink her on the way up?"

"Leave her be, Greer," He called out.

"I am perfectly well-fed, Mistress Greer," Grisselle said, stepping out from behind Alpin’s shoulder. "Though I might require an extra loaf of bread to dull the edge."

Greer’s mouth twitched, her narrow eyes widening slightly as she looked the girl up and down. "She has a tongue, at least. I suppose that’ll keep her warm when the frost gets through those thin slippers."

Isobel darted past the older woman, her wool skirts gathering in her fists as she hurried down the steps. She didn't look at her brother at all. She stopped right in front of Grisselle, her face breaking into a wide, unreserved smile.

"Ye're Grisselle," Isobel said, reaching out to grasp both of Grisselle’s hands. "The one who wrote the love letter to my brother."

Grisselle’s face turned the exact color of a ripe strawberry. "It was... it was not precisely a love letter."

"Niall read it to the kitchen," Isobel laughed, pulling Grisselle toward the warmth of the doorway. "He said ye called him a beast-slayer. He's earned the name a dozen times over, whatever he lets ye believe. He just prefers folk think him more monster than man."

"I daenae ken what ye're on about," Alpin grumbled, tramping up the steps behind them.

Old Dougal was waiting at the threshold, his bulk blocking half the light from the entry hall. His grey eyes, cloudy from years of sea-glare, inspected Grisselle’s untamed rust-colored curls and the sharp angle of her chin. He let out a slow, heavy wheeze through his teeth.