Page 50 of A Scot in the Storm
Observations.
He opened it, dipped his quill, and wrote carefully beneath the date.
The lass uses words unlike any I have ever heard.
“Okay.” Meaning aye, or very well.
“Reality TV drama.” A person or object being needlessly difficult.
He paused.
Her hands know machinery the way Ewan’s know rope and sailcloth.
Another pause, longer this time, then at last he wrote,
Mayhap she is a faerie after all, for she has bewitched the whole household, myself included.
Rory stared at the sentence for several moments after the ink dried.
Then he shut the notebook rather firmly and locked it away. When he came downstairs later, the kitchen clock ticked steadily on the mantel.
The sound startled him so badly he stopped short in the doorway.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Mrs. Gable stood at the hearth stirring stew with the expression of a woman pretending very hard not to notice what was occurring in her kitchen.
Abigail sat at the table with a charcoal smudge across the bridge of her nose, drinking a cup of tea.
Something inside Rory’s chest tightened unexpectedly. Murtagh used to do that. Come up from belowdecks with grease or tar smeared across his face and never once notice.
The memory struck so suddenly Rory had to brace one hand briefly against the back of the chair nearest him.
Abigail glanced up, smiling at him.
“You fixed it,” he said.
“That she did,” Mrs. Gable announced before Abigail could answer. “Smart lass.”
She ducked her head slightly, embarrassed by the praise.
Rory sat across from her while Mrs. Gable set down supper. Stew thick with barley and onions. Fresh bread still warm from the oven. A wedge of hard cheese beside his wine.
Outside, the storm banged the shutters. Frost would silver the cliffs by morning if the wind dropped before dawn. Inside, the clock kept ticking.
After supper, Rory wiped his hands on his napkin.
“Come to the lantern room tomorrow after breakfast. Wear something ye can kneel in. The floor’s stone.”
Abigail nodded as Mrs. Gable disappeared into the kitchens carrying the empty bowls.
Rory lowered his voice slightly. “No reality TV drama?”
Abigail looked at him in horror for one beat before laughter escaped her entirely. Real laughter. Quick and helpless and bright. It changed her entire face. The guardedness vanished. The sorrow disappeared for half a heartbeat. What remained looked younger somehow. Softer. Like a woman who laughed often in whatever place she’d come from.
