Page 18 of A Scot in the Storm
“Saints preserve us,” Ewan muttered.
“Bad night for spirits abroad,” one of the men called nervously from the scaffolding above them.
Ewan spat rainwater from his mouth. “Samhain’s got the lot of ye acting like old women.”
Rory climbed down half blind, boots slipping on the wet timber.
The air smelled not merely of smoke and rain and wet stone, but of something softer woven through the storm itself.
Lavender and roses. ’Twas a woman’s scent. The hairs along the back of Rory’s neck rose sharply.
“Did ye smell that?” Ewan asked.
“Aye.”
The wind still screamed around them, but near the Wine Tower something had changed. Rory could feel it. The feel in the air before a battle, before disaster.
“Stay here,” he said.
“Rory—”
“Stay. Here.”
He grabbed the lantern and headed toward the tower. The cobbled path gleamed slick beneath the rain. Beyond the cliffs the sea crashed endlessly against the rocks below, white foam briefly visible each time lightning flashed across the horizon.
Kinnaird Head loomed dark above him. The Wine Tower stood near the edge of the cliffs, old stone black with rain and age. It had survived storms for centuries. Tonight it looked almost alive. Rory felt suddenly, absurdly certain that if there truly were nights when the veil between worlds thinned, this would be one of them.
He slowed, mouth agape, crossing himself, as he watched the rain stop abruptly around the tower itself, a perfect circle of dry ground surrounded the base of the tower while rain fell in silver sheets beyond it.
Rory crossed himself instinctively. “Saints preserve me.”
The scent of lavender grew stronger as he rounded the seaward side of the tower and stopped dead.
A woman lay sprawled across the rocks. For one absurd moment Rory thought the sea itself had conjured her.
No wreckage littered the shoreline. No broken mast or shattered hull lay tangled among the rocks below the cliffs, nor any sign of a ship driven onto the shoals by the storm. There was only the woman.
Dark hair spread across the wet stone beneath her like spilled ink. Strange clothing clung to her body, trousers made of some heavy blue fabric unlike anything Rory had ever seen. Her short jacket looked scorched at one sleeve, the cuff blackened and curled.
Lightning flashed again, catching the metal fastenings on her boots. Not buckles, but something else.
Rory crouched beside her carefully. Blood marked the corner of her mouth, and there was another thin trail that ran from her left ear down her neck.
He frowned. He had seen injuries like that before on men too close to cannon fire, divers who surfaced too quickly, and sailors thrown hard against timber during storms.
But not on women who appeared from nowhere beneath a tower struck by lightning.
“What in the bloody hell…”
He pressed two fingers gently against her throat. A strong pulse beat beneath his hand. She was alive, her warm breath brushing his knuckles.
The tide was rising quickly. Within the hour these rocks would be underwater.
“Miss?”
No response.
He glanced once more along the shoreline. Still no ship. No lanterns at sea. No survivors shouting through the dark. Only the storm.
