Page 32 of A Scot in the Storm
“I’ll earn my keep,” Abigail said quietly. “And when the magistrate comes, I’ll tell him I crossed aboard a vessel overtaken by weather. That I remember little clearly beyond the wreck itself. It’s believable enough to survive scrutiny.”
Rory leaned back slightly in the chair.
“You’ve thought very hard on this.”
“I’ve spent years studying what happens to women who cannot account for themselves.”
The words came softer now. “I had motivation.”
That landed somewhere deeper than the rest. She saw it in the brief tightening of his jaw.
“My hands are soft,” she admitted after a moment, glancing downward. “You were right about that too. I’ll never pass for someone raised to do labor, nor do I speak or act as a lady. But I can still be useful.”
Silence again.
“I can help with the lens.”
The words hung between them while wind pressed softly against the tower glass and somewhere below stairs the household settled into another ordinary morning.
Every trace of ease vanished from him as he went rigid.
“I havena spoken of any lens.” His hand went to the gun at his belt.
“No, you have not.”
“Then how d’ye know there is one?”
The cliff edge at last.
Abigail drew one slow breath. “That,” she said quietly, “is one of the things I cannot explain without sounding entirely mad.”
Rory watched her with unnerving stillness.
“I know something is wrong with it,” she continued. “I think I know how to fix it. I’m not a spy, Captain. I swear to you I’m not. But there are things I know that I cannot yet tell you.”
The gulls outside cried somewhere over the surf below.
At length Rory rose from the chair, crossed to the desk, and picked up a folded drawing.
He set it carefully between them without opening it.
“Mistress Abigail,” he said, “tomorrow morning ye’ll come to the lantern room.”
Her heart stumbled.
“Ye’ll look at the third bearing in the gear train and tell me what ye think of it. Ye’ll speak of none of this conversation to the men below stairs.”
“Understood.”
“If ye’re lying, ye’ll regret it quickly.” His gaze held hers steadily. “If ye’re not, ye’ll have my protection while ye remain beneath this roof.”
The words settled warm and worrying somewhere beneath her ribs.
“Which,” he added dryly, “may no’ stretch as far as ye’d prefer. Cathcart’s authority reaches longer than mine.”
“I understand.”
“Rest today. Ye’ve looked half-frozen since ye walked in.” He cleared his throat. “Stay clear of the yard until the men grow accustomed to ye.”
