Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The wood of the keel groaned beneath his knees as the remaining men hauled the longboat upright, the hull swamped to the gunwales and sloshing with six inches of freezing brine.
Alpin didn't feel the cold water soaking through his trousers. He didn't hear Dougal’s hoarse shouting over the roar of the wind, nor the heavy, rhythmic clatter of the wooden bailers scraping frantically against the floorboards.
His entire world had shrunk to the shivering weight in his arms.
He knelt in the bilge, his broad back bowed against the sea spray, shielding Grisselle’s body with his own.
Her red hair was plastered in wet, dark ribbons across her neck, her skin the pale blue-white of sea ice.
He held her head against his neck, his thick hand cupped behind her skull, his thumb pressing frantically against the pulse point beneath her ear.
Beat.
A slow, fragile flutter answered him.
Alpin let out a jagged, shuddering breath that burned his lungs like fire. He pulled her tighter against his chest, his face buried in the wet hollow of her shoulder, his body shaking with a violent, terrifying tremor that had nothing to do with the wind.
He looked out over the black, cresting waves, the very water that had consumed his mind for twenty years. The deep, suffocating shadow that had dragged him toward the ledge was gone. In its place was a crystalline, blinding clarity that hit him.
His grandfather hadn't gone into the dark water out of bitter tragedy, or to leave behind an unpaid ledger.
Old Alpin had looked at his ten-year-old grandson, felt the hard timber beneath his hand, and made a choice born purely of love.
He had pushed the bow stem because the boy's life was worth more than his own.
Just as Alpin had dived into the freezing abyss minutes ago without a single thought for his own lungs, his own skin, or his own ghosts.
There was no monster to slay. There was no ancient debt demanding a sacrifice. There never had been.
The heavy, suffocating iron chain he had wrapped around his own heart dissolved into the salt foam around the boat, washed away by the raw, terrifying truth of what he had almost lost.
"Alpin! Grab an oar, me Laird!" Dougal’s raspy scream broke through the roar of the surf. "The tide is dragging us toward the reef!"
Alpin raised his head. His black eyes were no longer hollow. The cold, stone mask had shattered, replaced by an iron resolve that flared hot and bright in his chest.
"Bail the stern!" Alpin roared back, his burr cutting through the gale like a cracked whip.
He shifted Grisselle gently, wedging her securely against the mid-bench between his knees where the high timber would block the wind.
He wrapped his own heavy leather coat around her trembling shoulders, tucking the collar beneath her chin.
He grabbed the heavy wooden oar, his calloused hands locking onto the ash handle with a grip that turned his knuckles white. He planted his boots against the swamped ribs of the boat and pulled.
Every stroke was a fury born of desperation.
The muscles in his back and shoulders bunched and strained, the timber bending under the raw force of his weight as he drove the heavy boat through the towering crests.
He did not look at the horizon. He looked down at Grisselle’s face between his knees, counting every shallow, agonizing breath she drew into her lungs.
Ye are coming home, he swore silently to the cadence of the oars. I am taking ye home.
The sea gave up its hold grudgingly, but within an hour, the longboat’s keel scraped hard against the gravel of the Herston slipway.
Before the timber had even stopped shuddering, Alpin was over the side.
He scooped Grisselle up into his arms, lifting her high out of the surf.
She let out a small, faint whimpering sound, her fingers curling instinctively into the damp linen of his shirt, her head rolling heavily against his chest.
"I have ye, lass," he muttered against her temple, his voice thick and rough. "I have ye."
He didn't wait for the men to secure the lines.
He took the steep, winding stone path up the cliffside three steps at a time, his heavy boots thudding against the granite, his chest heaving as he carried her up toward the keep.
The cold wind howled around the battlements, but he wrapped his body around hers, blocking the draft with his broad shoulders.
He kicked open the heavy oak postern gate, bursting into the lower hall.
Mistress Greer dropped a pewter basin with a deafening clatter, her hands flying to her mouth. "Mercy on us! Laird."
"Get the hearth in me chamber lit!" Alpin bellowed, his voice echoing off the high stone vaults, startling three serving lasses who scrambled for wood. "Bring hot bricks! Blankets! Move, woman!"
He didn't stop in the Great Hall. He carried her straight up the spiral turnpike, taking the stone steps in long, furious strides until he reached his own chamber.
He kicked the door shut behind him and laid her gently in the middle of the vast, fur-draped bed. The room was cold, but the embers from the night before still glowed faintly in the wide stone fireplace.
Alpin dropped to his knees beside the mattress, his big hands moving with frantic, clumsy speed as he unbuckled the soaked leather straps of her gown.
"Senga! Water!" he roared toward the hall, not taking his eyes off Grisselle’s pale face.
He peeled away the heavy, sea-drenched wool, stripping the wet cloth away until she was wrapped in the dry linen sheets.
He grabbed a thick woolen plaid from the chest at the foot of the bed and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, rubbing her bare arms with his calloused palms to chase the deathly chill from her skin.
Grisselle shifted against the furs. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy and dark-rimmed, before slowly opening.
The green of her eyes was cloudy, disoriented, but as they focused on his face—on the fierce, terrified devotion written across his features, on the silver line of the scar stretching along his jaw—a tiny, shuddering breath escaped her lips.
"Alpin..." she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.
Alpin’s breath caught in his throat. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes closing tight as a single, hot bead of moisture squeezed past his dark lashes and vanished into her damp red hair.
"Aye, lass," he rasped, his voice breaking entirely. His broad hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs gently wiping the salt spray from her cheekbones. "I am here. Ye are safe."
"The... the sea..."
"The sea has nothing left to take from me," he growled softly, his dark eyes burning into hers with a fierce, unyielding light as he pressed a deep, lingering kiss to her pale lips. "I am right here. I am staying right here with ye."
The keep was suffocatingly quiet, save for the constant, rhythmic rasp of the linen cloth being squeezed into a wooden basin of cold loch water.
Alpin sat on the low wooden stool beside the high carved bed, his broad frame hunched forward, his heavy forearms resting on his knees.
His shoulders were stiff, locked into a rigid wall of muscle that hadn't relaxed in forty-eight hours.
He hadn't pulled off his boots. He hadn't unpinned his plaid.
The dark wool at the bottom of his hem was still stiff with dried salt and silt from the shoreline where he had dragged her from the black water.
On the bed, Grisselle shifted, a faint, ragged gasp breaking from her cracked lips. Her skin was flushed a deep, unhealthy crimson across her cheekbones, but her hands—small, delicate, and resting motionless on the white linen sheet—were icy cold to the touch.
Alpin reached out, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around her small wrist. The pulse beneath his thumb was shallow, beating with a frantic, terrifying speed.
The door to the chamber gave a quiet, familiar creak.
Isobel stepped into the room, holding a steaming earthenware bowl, the sharp, medicinal scent of crushed wintergreen and bitter willow bark trailing behind her. She set the bowl on the bedside table, her dark eyes darting to Alpin’s rigid face before settling on Grisselle.
"She hasnae swallowed a drop since noon, Alpin," Isobel said softly, her voice carrying a deep, quiet strain.
She picked up the damp cloth from the basin, wringing it out until the water ran clear between her fingers.
"Mòr says the lung-rot will take root if the fever doesnae drop before the sun goes down. "
Alpin didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes fixed on Grisselle’s pale brow, watching a bead of sweat trickle down into her dark hairline.
"Mòr isnae in this room," Alpin said, his voice flat, gravelly, stripped of all color.
Isobel paused, the wet cloth hovering an inch above Grisselle’s forehead.
Alpin kept his eyes fixed firmly on the faint, rhythmic rise and fall of Grisselle's chest, refusing to look up, but he felt his sister’s gaze heavy on his profile.
The silence in the small room stretched tight until Isobel let out a quiet, tired sigh.
"Ye need to step out of this room, Alpin," Isobel murmured, gently pressing the cool linen to Grisselle’s burning skin.
"Greer is in the hall. The council elders are sitting at the lower tables, wanting to ken if the contract stands, if the girl lives or dies.
Ye havenae spoken three words to anyone since ye brought her up from the bank. "
"Let them sit," Alpin said.
"Alpin."
"I said let them sit!"
The harsh snap of his voice vibrated off the stone walls, sharp enough to make the tallow candle on the bedside table flicker. Isobel didn't flinch. She squeezed the cloth into the basin again, the quiet drip-drip-drip of the water filling the tense silence that followed.