Page 119 of A Scot in the Storm
Laden down with packages, Abigail was glad the wind had died down as she rode back to the castle.
After handing over the reins to the stableboy, she paused in the courtyard, looking at the lighthouse beam, turning pale and steady.
If she were back in her own time, Abigail would have been spending Christmas Eve with her brother, listening to the freeway traffic humming beyond the van windows, a poinsettia sitting on the tiny kitchen counter. Not Sam sitting cross-legged on the bed surrounded by crooked wrapping paper while insisting tape was a conspiracy designed by impatient people. Not terrible peppermint coffee, badly wrapped gifts, and surf reports playing quietly from his phone.
Stone walls held the day’s warmth while candlelight turned the kitchen gold against the gathering blue of evening, and lately, when Abigail thought of home, it took her a moment to know which place she meant.
That frightened her more than she wanted to admit. The longer she was here, the more the future had begun to blur around the edges. Not disappear, but soften, like something seen through a rain spattered window.
Mrs. Gable glanced toward her over the rim of her spectacles.
“Ye’ve tied the ribbon around your own wrist.”
Abigail blinked downward.
So she had.
“Well,” she muttered while untangling herself from the pine bough and ribbon, “I suppose there are worse holiday traditions.”
Outside came Duncan’s voice from the yard.
“THAT TREE WAS LEANING BEFORE I TOUCHED IT.”
Tavish answered instantly. “IT’S A STUMP NOW.”
Mrs. Gable closed her eyes briefly. “Every year,” she said quietly, “I begin hopeful.”
Abigail laughed despite herself, and a moment later the kitchen door opened and Rory stepped inside carrying cold air with him. The wind had left color high along his cheekbones beneath the rough shadow at his jaw, and snow dusted the shoulders of his dark coat. One loose curl had fallen across his forehead.
Abigail’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the ribbon in her hands.
Mrs. Gable looked up. “Did the tree survive?”
“Barely.”
“That bad?”
Rory pulled off his gloves slowly. “Duncan attempted to even the branches.”
Mrs. Gable crossed herself automatically.
“Aye,” Rory agreed gravely. “It came to that.”
Abigail pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh, while Rory crossed toward the hearth and held his hands out to warm them before meeting her gaze.
Something had changed between them in these past weeks. Quietly. Like winter settling over the sea one cold morning before anyone realized the season had turned.
And beneath all of it, Abigail had started feeling something else as well.
Time. Not passing, exactly, more like counting down, like the tide drawing itself backward before a wave.
Rory’s expression shifted slightly as he studied her face.
“You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“A suspicious statement.”
