Page 38 of A Scot in the Storm
The parcel settled into the back corner beside the coffee tin and the folded scrap of linen that had once belonged to Murtagh.
Rory looked at the drawer for a very long time before closing it.
Later Ewan wandered into the study carrying two mugs of small beer, his large hands dwarfing the mugs.
“It’s done?”
“Aye.”
“And the fastening?”
Rory looked up.
Ewan’s broad cheerful face had gone unusually serious.
“The fastening’s safe.”
“Captain.”
“Say it.”
“You’re protecting her.”
Rory leaned back in his chair.
“Aye.”
Silence stretched between them for several heartbeats.
Then Ewan’s grin returned slightly around the edges.
“She finally managed the well bucket, in case ye missed it.” He grinned, rocking back on his heels. “Though only after threatening the rope in language that would’ve shocked the minister.”
“I didna miss it.”
“She’s got a nice laugh.”
Rory rolled his eyes.
“The kind that escapes before a person remembers not to.”
“That enough from ye?”
“Not quite.” Ewan paused near the door. “She’s bonnie too, by the way.”
“I hadna noticed.”
“Liar.”
The door shut behind him amid low laughter.
Rory sat alone with the small beer warming untouched beside his elbow. He had lied to a magistrate by omission, burned evidence no rational man could explain, and hidden a strange metal fastening in the same drawer as relics belonging to his dead brother.
And through it all he kept seeing Abigail pressing her shaking hands flat against her skirts that morning while she stubbornly tried not to let him see her fear.
He remembered the startled sound of her laughter in the yard. The bruise beneath her eye. Rory exhaled sharply into the darkened room.
He was going soft.
