Page 114 of A Scot in the Storm
Duncan actually laughed aloud at that.
Mrs. Gable set the bowl directly in front of Rory with a look suggesting starvation would not be permitted beneath her roof regardless of personal preference.
“Yesterday ye lit Scotland’s first mainland lighthouse,” she informed him. “Today ye eat porridge.”
“A stirring reward.”
“Ye may have honey if ye behave.”
Abigail hid her smile.
Rory looked up and caught her watching him, and for one second the room narrowed quietly around the two of them.
Last night returned all at once. The turning beam. His hand around hers before the entire coast. The acknowledgement of her contributions. His head asleep on her shoulder while the lamp burned over black water beyond the glass.
Something warm unfolded low beneath Abigail’s ribs as his gaze lingered a fraction too long before Mrs. Gable inserted herself bodily between them carrying more bread.
“None of that before breakfast.”
Abigail choked on her tea.
Duncan wheezed into the hearth like a dying accordion.
Even Rory looked briefly caught off guard before something close to laughter flickered at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ve no idea what ye mean,” he said mildly.
“Aye,” Mrs. Gable replied. “And I’ve no idea why the whisky keeps disappearing whenever Ewan visits.”
From downstairs came Ewan’s outraged shout.
“I HEARD THAT.”
“GOOD.”
By noon children from Fraserburgh had already begun climbing the lower slopes beneath Kinnaird Head carrying sledges made from barrel staves and what appeared to be absolutely no adult supervision whatsoever. Their shrieks drifted upward faintly while the gulls wheeled over the harbor below.
Abigail stood near the doorway wrapped in Rory’s heavy wool coat watching Tavish attempt to explain to two boys why launching themselves directly toward scaffold supports constituted “poor engineering practice.”
One child listened thoughtfully. The other immediately aimed for the scaffolding.
Rory appeared beside her carrying a ledger beneath one arm as he looked out toward the harbor where the lighthouse beam still moved pale and steady through the haar.
“Boats came in clean this morning,” he said quietly.
Abigail followed his gaze. Far below, fishing vessels rocked gently against frost-rimmed piers.
“The Isabella made the harbor before dawn,” Rory continued. “Captain Fraser sent word up an hour ago.”
Emotion caught unexpectedly in Abigail’s chest.
One light, and already men were making it home alive because of it.
Rory glanced toward her then, exhaustion still lingering faintly beneath his eyes despite the sleep.
“It was your bearing turning in that cradle last night,” he said softly.
“No,” she answered just as quietly. “It was ours.”
