Page 49 of A Scot in the Storm
“And if I believe ye?”
Something flickered across her face then. Pain. Fear. Loneliness so deep it hollowed the center of her expression.
“Then you’ll wish I were.”
The fire snapped softly in the hearth. Rory looked at her for a very long moment. He could demand answers now if he chose.
The practical part of him wanted precisely that. The naval officer in him distrusted mysteries on instinct. But another part of him sat looking at the charcoal sketch between them and understood something equally important.
Whatever strange road had brought Abigail Winston to Kinnaird Head, it had also brought him the answer to a problem that might save lives.
And beyond that… he didn’t want to see fear in her face again. Not if he could help it. At last he folded the paper carefully in half.
“Tomorrow morning ye’ll come to the lantern room,” he said. “We’ll machine the bronze together, and ye’ll tell me where my hand strays off true.”
Abigail blinked. “That’s all?”
“That’s enough.”
Relief moved visibly through her shoulders.
“And I’ll no’ ask again where the knowledge came from,” Rory continued. “That’s the bargain between us, as ye laid it out.”
Her eyes shone suspiciously bright in the candlelight.
“I understand.”
“Aye.” He tucked the folded sketch into the inside pocket of his coat, over his heart, though he tried very hard not to notice that detail.
At the doorway he paused. “Work with me here,” he repeated slowly. “No reality TV drama.”
Abigail groaned softly and covered her face with one hand.
“Oh no.”
“I gather ye didna intend me to hear that.”
“No.”
He scowled trying to work through the words. “What does it mean?”
She peeked at him through her fingers. “It means stop being difficult.”
“An admirable sentiment.” Rory considered it.
That startled a laugh out of her before she could stop it.
“There’s no possible way to explain reality television.”
“I should like to hear ye try.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Her cheeks had gone pink now, whether from embarrassment or laughter he couldna tell.
Rory found the sight absurdly pleasing. He went upstairs afterward to his study while the storm battered the castle walls and the sea crashed against the rocks below Kinnaird Head.
The notebook waited where he kept it in the top drawer of his desk.
