Page 21 of A Scot in the Storm
Mrs. Gable rose first.
“Good Lord above.”
“Aye,” Rory muttered.
The older woman planted both hands on her hips beneath her apron and gave Rory the same look she usually reserved for men who tracked mud across her clean floors.
“What have ye dragged in now?”
“A half-drowned lass from the rocks below the Wine Tower.”
At that, several men crossed themselves. Young Tavish stared openly at the scorched sleeve of her jacket.
“Captain,” he whispered. “She came from the tower?”
Someone farther back near the hearth muttered, “Samhain storm,” beneath his breath.
“She came from the rocks,” Rory said sharply.
“But Duncan said the rain stopped there after the lightning struck and?—”
“She’s cold and injured, lad, no’ a banshee.”
The boy flushed scarlet.
Mrs. Gable clucked her tongue. “Stand there gaping any longer and the lass truly will perish. Move yourselves.”
That broke the spell as benches scraped, and someone hurried to pull another stool close to the fire.
Rory guided Abigail toward it. She sat stiffly, clutching his greatcoat around herself while the heat from the hearth slowly brought the color back into her face.
Up close, he could see the bruise darkening along her cheekbone. Her lower lip was split. Damp curls clung to her temples.
She was bonny even beneath the bruises and seawater, a fact Rory firmly informed himself was entirely irrelevant.
Mrs. Gable crouched in front of Abigail with a bowl of broth already in hand.
“Drink.”
Abigail accepted it with both hands. “Thank you.”
“There now. Better.” Mrs. Gable studied her more closely. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Abigail.”
“Where are your people?”
A hesitation.
Rory noticed that too.
“I…” Abigail swallowed. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Silence settled heavily around the hearth.
Mrs. Gable raised a brow.
“Ye dinna remember?”
