Page 118 of A Scot in the Storm
Rory turned to see a black feather resting motionless against the outer ledge of stone. The wind should have carried it away. Instead it remained perfectly still.
Old stories stirred uneasily somewhere at the back of Rory’s mind. Things fishermen muttered after funerals. Things seen briefly through fog and never spoken of directly afterward.
Beside him Abigail wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
Rory caught the expression on her face. Not fear exactly. Something closer to grief waiting at the edge of a decision.
“What is it?” he asked softly.
Her eyes stayed on the sea beyond the glass.
“I don’t know what happens next.”
Honesty at last. The words hit him harder than they should have, because suddenly Rory understood with terrible clarity that Abigail no longer wished to leave.
And God forgive him, some selfish aching part of him was glad.
He stepped closer before caution could interfere and reached up carefully to tuck one loose strand of hair back beneath her scarf.
The touch nearly undid him, her skin cold beneath his fingers, so soft and smooth. The tiny catch of her breath.
His hand lingered beside her cheek one ,ment too long while Abigail looked up at him with something so open in her eyes it hollowed him clean through.
What would it be like to kiss her? To feel her lips against his? Involuntarily he leaned forward.
Then from somewhere below came Duncan’s voice echoing violently up the stairwell.
“THE WREATH HAS TAKEN TAVISH HOSTAGE.”
Rory closed his eyes slowly. Beside him Abigail burst out laughing so hard she had to catch the railing to steady herself.
“STOP PULLING IT.”
“IT’S ATTACHED TO THE DOOR.”
“WHY?”
Rory’s lips twitched and before he knew it, he was laughing with her. It felt good to laugh.
The sound warmed the lantern room while outside snow fell softly over Kinnaird Head and the black feather rested motionless against the stone beyond the glass.
Chapter 25
Abigail
Christmas Eve arrived beneath a sky the color of pearls.
Abigail was growing more accustomed to riding, though she still offered the mare a carrot every time she had to climb onto the enormous beast, partly as a bribe and partly as an apology.
“Please don’t kill me,” she murmured when the stableboy handed her the reins. The mare flicked one ear, unimpressed.
A small cask of whisky had been hidden away at the castle in anticipation of the holiday, and because she’d needed to get out before her own thoughts gnawed a hole straight through her, she’d volunteered to take it to the village and pick up the things Mrs. Gable and Rory required.
Snow still covered the headland in soft uneven drifts, though the harbor road had been cleared enough for wagons and fishermen, mostly through a combination of Scottish stubbornness, two shovels, one resentful horse, and approximately twelve men shouting contradictory instructions at one another until the snow, perhaps out of pure exhaustion, gave way.
The village smelled of woodsmoke, salt, and roasting meat, while evergreen boughs hung above nearly every doorway intown. Bells rang faintly from the kirk, children tore through the snowy lanes wrapped in mismatched scarves and knitted caps, and mothers shouted after them to stop sliding beneath horse carts before Christmas became memorable for all the wrong reasons.
Sam would have loved the snow. He would have been out in the middle of it before breakfast, flinging snowballs at children he’d known for twelve minutes, constructing a lopsided snowman with sunglasses and a tragic backstory, and deciding some dangerous slope near the harbor was perfectly suitable for sledding because, according to Sam, gravity was only a problem if you respected it.
