Page 91 of A Scot in the Storm
Rory said nothing because of course it had occurred to him. Late at night, in the dark, during every silence where Abigail looked suddenly too sad for the explanations she offered.
Cathcart watched him steadily. “And yet,” he said quietly, “you trust her.”
Not a question.
Rory exhaled slowly. “Aye.”
“She’s slept perhaps four hours a night for the better part of two weeks,” Rory heard himself say. “Keeps records cleaner than Tavish. Corrected a flaw in the cradle assembly no one else noticed. Mrs. Gable’s stopped threatening her with kitchen knives, which may be the clearest miracle on this entire coast.”
Cathcart’s mouth moved almost imperceptibly. “High praise indeed.”
“Aye.”
Silence settled briefly between them as Cathcart sanded the page.
“I’ve written that the captain is excessively concerned for the American woman’s welfare.” His tone remained maddeningly neutral. “That phrasing tends to satisfy Edinburgh while preserving everyone’s dignity.”
“For which I’m deeply grateful.”
“Aye. Ye sound it.”
For the first time since the coach arrived, Rory nearly smiled.
Cathcart closed the ledger. “I’ll speak with her now.”
Before he stood, Rory drained the whisky. “I’ll bring her to ye.” The study door shut behind him with soft finality.
Rory lasted perhapsthirty seconds before abandoning all pretense of work.
Ewan watched him pace once between the workbench and the window before saying mildly, “She’ll answer well.”
“She shouldna have to answer at all.”
“Aye.”
The clock above the bench ticked steadily onward. Rory adjusted a tool already properly aligned. Crossed to the window.
Finally, Cathcart emerged fastening the strap around his leather case while Abigail remained briefly out of sight beyond the doorway.
Rory was down the stairs and out the door before he quite realized he’d moved.
“Well?”
The magistrate regarded him steadily.
“I’m not arresting her.”
The words struck like breath returning after being submerged in deep water.
“I have no grounds,” Cathcart continued. “I’ll continue my inquiries because the Commissioners require answers and I owe them answers. But I do not presently find the woman dangerous.”
Cathcart stepped slightly nearer, lowering his voice.
“When she’s ready to tell me what she actually is,” he said quietly, “runaway wife, dissenter, foreign-born scholar, or some other matter neither of us yet understands... I’m not a man easily shocked.”
Rory stared at him.
Cathcart’s expression altered not at all. Then the magistrate withdrew a folded paper from the leather case and handed it across.
