Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The post-chaise hit another rut, throwing Alpin’s shoulder hard against the window frame. He grunted, adjusting his bulk, and cast a sideways glance at the small bundle of green wool huddled in the opposite corner.
Grisselle hadn’t spoken since York. She hadn’t even looked at him. She was staring out the glass, her fingers working a stray thread on her cuff into a frayed knot.
"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.
"The Hunter girl," Dougal said, his gaze sliding to Alpin. "She looks better than we imagined. I’m Dougal, the Laird’s man-at-arms."
"Can she manage a larder?" Greer called over her shoulder, already heading toward the kitchens. "Or will she leave the ordering of it to me?"
"I can manage anything I set my mind to, Mistress Greer," Grisselle called after her, then turned back to face the old man-at-arms. "And if your Laird’s stories are correct, Master Dougal, I can likely out-row half the boys currently sitting by your fire."
Dougal’s thick eyebrows shot up. He let out a short, barking laugh that ended in a cough. "Aye. She’ll do for the winter. If she doesnae poison the broth out of spite."
The great hall was thick with peat smoke and the heavy smell of roasting mutton. Near the massive hearth, the servants had gathered in a tight knot, ostensibly polishing iron pots but keeping their eyes locked on the door.
"Look at the red on her," Senga whispered to Cait, her elbow digging into the other girl's ribs. "Like a fox in the gorse. Do ye think she'll keep him from the skiff when the tide turns dark?"
"Hush," Cait hissed, dropping a pewter mug with a loud clatter. "He’s looking this way."
Alpin ignored them, his eyes tracking the way Grisselle walked into the center of the hall. She stopped beneath the blackened roof timbers, looking up at the ancient broadswords pinned to the stone walls. She looked small against the massive scale of the keep, but her shoulders didn't drop.
Old Tam, sitting in a low wicker chair by the embers, scraped his horn spoon against an empty bowl and let out a dry cackle. "The London blood. Fierce unmanaged things, the lot of 'em."
Grisselle turned to the old man, her mouth curving into a small, sharp line. "Unmanaged, perhaps. But I've yet to meet the man who could manage me, so I suppose we're even."
She dipped her chin toward him, something almost shy creeping into the gesture. "Though I hope ye'll all be patient with me, sir. I've a great deal to learn about this place."
Isobel let out a delighted snort, throwing her arm through Grisselle’s. "We’ll get along just well."
“Come along, lass,” Alpin said as he reached for a candle sconce.
Alpin held the heavy iron candle sconce high, the yellow tallow light flickering against the damp, unpolished stone of the spiraling stairwell. Behind him, the light rustle of Grisselle’s travel-stained skirts tracked her ascent, each step she took deliberate and unhurried.
They reached the landing of the East Tower, where the wind from the sea found the narrow arrow-slits and made the candle flame dance violently. Alpin stopped before a thick oak door pinned with iron rivets, his hand resting on the latch. He didn't lift it immediately.
"It is exactly as me grandfather described it," Grisselle said, her voice dropping.
She wasn't looking at him; her eyes were tracing the dark timber beams of the arched ceiling.
"The three notches in the lintel from the old raid.
The way the floor tilts toward the sea-gate.
I used to close my eyes in Mayfair when the carriages grew too loud, and I would picture the grey stone just like this. "
Alpin kept his face turned toward the oak planks. "Me grandfather spent forty years talking about these walls to anyone who would sit by his fire. He always did use too many words."
"He used exactly the right words," she countered, stepping closer until her sleeve brushed his wool plaid.
"In London, everything is painted, gilded, and soft.
It feels as though if you lean too hard against a wall, the whole house will tumble.
Here, a person can breathe without asking permission from a Duke. "
Alpin pushed the latch down with a sharp, heavy clack.
The door swung inward on dry hinges, a gust of stale, frozen air rushing out to meet them.
Alpin stepped into the room first, setting the candle down on a bare oak table.
As the light spread, it caught the heavy, dark outline of the four-poster bed, the faded tapestries hanging motionless against the stone, and the thick layer of grey dust coating the iron fire-dogs.
He stood in the center of the floor, his broad shoulders hunched slightly under his plaid.
The realization hit him right between the ribs: the air in this room hadn't changed since the day the old man’s skiff had broken apart on the rocks.
It was a dead space, preserved in salt and shadow, a monument to a grief he had spent ten years pretending he could out-row.
Grisselle stepped over the threshold, her leather slippers clicking softly against the flagstones. She didn't look at the bed or the dust. She walked straight to the narrow window overlooking the cliffs, her small hands coming down on the stone sill.
When she turned back to him, the flickering candlelight caught the sharp, fierce angle of her chin, but her fingers were trembling as they bunched into the wool of her cloak.
Her green eyes were wide, taking in his massive, shadowed frame, looking entirely fragile under the weight of the dark keep, yet there was a stubborn, unyielding light in her gaze.
Something inside Alpin's chest—the hard, iron knot he had carried since he was ten years old—gave way with a sudden, violent snap.
He didn't think. He crossed the stone floor in two long, heavy strides, his bulk completely blotting out the light from the candle.
Before she could let out a breath, he trapped her against the high stone sill, his large hands coming down on either side of her waist, pinning her between his forearms and the cold masonry.
"Alpin?"
He didn't answer. His head dipped low, his breath rough and hot against her jaw, close enough that she caught the salt still clinging to his skin. Neither of them moved. For one long, suspended second, there was nothing in the room but the sound of it.
Then, just as fast as he had moved, Alpin tore himself back.
His boots scraped loudly against the stone as he retreated three full paces, his breath coming in short, rough gasps. He stared at her. He looked down at his own hands as if they belonged to a thief, his jaw locking tight.
Grisselle remained pressed against the stone sill, her lips parted, her chest heaving violently under the green wool cloak.
Her hair was entirely undone now, tumbling over her shoulders in a wild, brilliant cloud.
She stared at him, her fingers going to her mouth, tracing the wet heat he had left behind.
Alpin didn't say a word. He straightened his plaid with a single, violent jerk of his wrist. The warmth that had filled the space between them vanished in an instant, replaced by that same flat, distant wall he’d worn on the long road from the south.
His black eyes went empty, already sliding past her toward the open window, his mind already half-returned to the dark water and the black tail going under.
He grabbed the iron candle-sconce from the table, leaving her in the deep shadow of the tower, and stepped back out onto the landing.
"Greer will bring the water for yer hands," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection as he pulled the heavy oak door shut between them. The iron latch dropped back into its track with a heavy, final thud.
Alpin stood on the landing a moment longer, his palm flat against the cold oak, his forehead nearly touching it. Behind that door was a room he hadn't set foot in for ten years, and he'd just proven to himself exactly why he'd stayed clear of it.
He pushed off the door and took the stairs two at a time, his boots striking the stone hard enough to numb his heels, and didn't stop until the night air off the firth hit him full in the face. It didn't clear his head. It never did anymore.