Page 111 of A Scot in the Storm
She could feel the entire coast staring upward at the lamp.
But Rory wasn’t. He was watching her as though the light mattered less than the fact she was standing here to see it.
Wind moved softly around the dome while the scent of whisky and lantern smoke drifted upward through the frozen dark below them, and the beam continued its endless sweep over the sea.
Then Rory crossed the small space between them and reached for her hand. A simple gesture, entirely public before half the coast of Aberdeenshire.
His fingers closed warmly around hers and he squeezed once.
The lens caught the flame again, brilliant and golden and sure, while below them the gathered crowd stood beneath the first light of Kinnaird Head as winter seemed to hold its breath around the sea.
For a long moment nobody in the lantern room moved. McRae finally exhaled hard through his nose.
“Well,” he muttered gruffly, “there’s the bastard turning.”
“Aye,” Ewan said softly. “There is.”
Below them the crowd lingered in the yard, lanterns glowing gold against frost and dark wool while the beam swept steadily over the water.
Rory checked the mechanism again despite the fact it was obviously functioning perfectly.
“Captain,” Ewan said at last, “the thing’s no’ about to fling itself directly into the North Sea.”
“Aye.”
“Ye can stop staring at it like ye expect it to blow to bits.”
That finally pulled an actual tired smile from Rory.
“Habit.”
McRae barked a laugh and headed toward the stairs. “Come below before ye fall asleep standing and crack your skull on government property.”
One by one the others disappeared downstairs toward warmth and whisky and the waiting celebration below until only Abigail and Rory remained beneath the dome.
The lantern room grew strangely quiet after that, filled only by the low rhythmic turning of the mechanism, the wind brushing the glass, and the sea beneath everything.
Rory lowered himself carefully onto the narrow bench beneath the eastern panes, like a man whose body had finally collected payment for the last forty-eight hours, and leaned his head briefly back against the stone wall.
Abigail sat beside him with a sigh.
“I should go below,” he murmured.
“You should sleep until February.”
A tired sound escaped him, almost laughter.
“They’ll want speeches.”
“You hate speeches.”
“Aye.”
The word slurred faintly around the edges with exhaustion. He watched the beam sweep once more across the dark water before speaking again, his voice roughened by exhaustion.
“They’ll write my name in the records for this night,” he murmured. “Sinclair. McRae. The Board men in Edinburgh. But that light would never have turned proper without ye.”
Abigail looked at him.
