Page 60 of A Scot in the Storm
“Deal with the talk too. It’ll follow her before it follows you.”
That was true. Rory disliked it for being true. Talk could stain a woman faster than smoke stained stone. He had brought Abigail into his house because the sea had nearly taken her and because leaving her alone to gossip would have been cruel. Now the gossip had found her anyway.
Ewan nodded toward the lamp. “Will ye light her tonight?”
“Aye. Two hours. We’ll see how the bearing runs under heat.”
“Want me to stand watch with ye?”
“No. Abigail wants to see it.”
“Of course she does.”
There was no mockery in it. Not much, anyway.
Ewan turned to go, then stopped. “Rory?”
“What now?”
“Go slow.”
“With the lamp?”
“With the lass.”
He scowled.
“I’m going.” Ewan lifted both hands. “But ye’ve not slept properly since the wreck, and ye’re no’ always wise when grief’s had its teeth in you.”
Ewan gave him one last look and left him with the mechanism and the sound of the sea below.
Abigail came up at eight with a shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders and a small earthenware jar tucked under one arm.
Lanolin. She had raided Mrs. Gable’s wool stores and warmed the grease by the hearth until it was soft enough to work. The smell came with her, sheep, smoke, and kitchen warmth in the cold room.
“I brought the glamorous solution,” she said, setting the jar beside the mechanism. “Behold. Sheep grease.”
Rory looked from the jar to her face.
“Sheep grease,” he repeated.
“Very technical term.”
“Aye. I’d guessed.”
She gave him a quick look, almost smiling, then dipped a narrow wooden paddle into the jar.
Once she bent to the work, the humor left her.
She smoothed the lanolin thin along the bearing surface, pausing every few strokes to check it with the side of her thumb.
“Not too much,” she said. “If there’s excess, it’ll sling off the shaft once it starts turning.”
“Aye.”
He wiped where she indicated. She checked the surface, nodded once, and reseated the shaft with him.
“Ready when you are, Captain.”
