Page 125 of A Scot in the Storm
The kitchen swallowed them in warmth the moment Rory opened the door.
Heat rolled outward from the hearth carrying the smell of roasting meat, cloves, fresh bread, pine greenery, and enoughwhisky to convince Abigail that Scotland approached winter with either admirable determination or profound distrust of sobriety.
Conversation filled the room in overlapping layers. Tavish was arguing with Duncan about whether a goose ought to resemble itself after carving. Mrs. Gable was threatening both of them with her wooden spoon while Ewan laughed openly into his cup. Someone near the hearth had started singing half a verse of a carol before forgetting the words entirely.
And somehow, impossibly, life continued.
Abigail stood just inside the doorway with snow melting slowly in her hair and Rory’s warmth still lingering against her skin while the joy of Christmas Eve pressed suddenly against every raw place inside her chest.
For one terrible aching moment she wanted this. Permanently. The wanting of it frightened her more than the storm ever had.
Mrs. Gable glanced once toward Abigail’s face, then immediately thrust a steaming mug into her hands.
“Drink that before ye freeze solid.”
Abigail looked down. “What is it?”
“Whisky.”
Across the room Rory removed his coat while Duncan continued defending whatever crimes he’d committed against the goose.
Later, after supper dissolved into stories, music, and enough whisky to make future physicians deeply uneasy, Abigail slipped quietly from the crowded kitchen and climbed the narrow spiral stairs toward the lantern room.
She told herself she wanted air. The lantern room glowed warm, the lens turning in its steady endless rhythm, brass and crystal catching golden light while the beam swept slowly across the water.
Abigail crossed toward the windows and rested one hand lightly against the cold glass.
“I thought ye might be here.”
Warm gold light moved across Rory’s face as he crossed to her, and Abigail’s pulse immediately sped up.
“I think,” Rory said carefully, “that if I wait much longer to do this, I’ll regret it the rest of my life.”
The lantern room suddenly felt too small. Below them laughter drifted faintly upward through the tower.
Rory looked at her like a man walking willingly toward something dangerous because some things mattered more than safety.
“I love ye.”
Abigail stared at him helplessly while emotion crashed through her so hard it nearly hurt.
“I think,” he said, “I fell first when I found ye on the rocks, and then I was lost to ye forever when ye told me ye could help me, that ye wished to be useful.”
“You accused me of being a spy.”
“Aye.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And still somehow I remained ensnared in your spell.”
Abigail laughed again, properly this time, tears burning hot behind her eyes.
Rory pulled her close as warmth surrounded her. When she pressed her face against his chest she felt his heart pounding every bit as hard as hers.
“I love you too.”
And then finally, at long last, he kissed her. Slow and certain and deeply tender, like something restrained too long finally being allowed into the light.
His hand slid gently into her hair while snow drifted softly beyond the lantern glass and the great lens turned endlessly overhead, sending its beam out across the sea.
Abigail rose instinctively into the kiss, one hand gripping the front of his shirt while the other curled against his shoulder, and the world narrowed immediately to warmth and salt and the softness of his mouth against hers.
