Page 100 of A Scot in the Storm
“It’s tart and a little sweet,” Duncan observed, already spooning some onto his plate with the calm concentration of a man making serious culinary decisions.
“Aye,” Tobias said. “That’s the problem.”
Abigail laughed hard enough she nearly spilled her wine.
“You people eat blood pudding.”
“That’s different. Blood kens what it’s about.”
Mrs. Gable pointed her spoon toward the gravy boat.
“And this,” she declared, “is simply broth that fell into flour.”
Even Rory laughed at that, low and sudden beside Abigail, the sound warm enough to loosen something tight inside her chest.
Duncan, meanwhile, had quietly helped himself to a fourth serving of roast goose while everyone argued over the cranberry sauce.
Abigail noticed first.
“Duncan.”
He looked up slowly.
“What?”
“That’s your fourth plate.”
“Aye.”
“You’re not even pretending to pace yourself.”
“I’m laboring through winter,” he said with perfect seriousness. “The body requires strength.”
Tavish pointed at him. “He said the same thing after Mrs. Gable made oatcakes last week.”
“And I was correct then as well.”
Mrs. Gable shook her head toward Abigail.
“Feed working men once and they develop expectations.”
“Feed Tavish twice and he starts talking about feelings,” Ewan added.
“I do not.”
“Ye cried over the stew a few weeks ago.”
“That was excellent stew.”
The laughter rolled easier after that. The kind built from cold weather, exhaustion, and people forgetting themselves for a little while around candlelight and warm food.
And through all of it Abigail became increasingly aware of Rory beside her.
His sleeve brushing hers now and then beneath the crowded table. His hand occasionally steadying a dish before it slid on the uneven boards. The rare sound of his laughter arriving unexpectedly beside her like warmth slipping through a cracked door.
For one moment, with candlelight flickering gold against the stone walls and the windows fogged white from heat and breath, it almost felt less like visiting another century and more like belonging inside it.
Rory reached one-handed for the whisky, winced faintly as his shoulder protested, and immediately found Mrs. Gable smacking the back of his wrist with a serving spoon.
