Page 101 of A Scot in the Storm
“Sit still.”
“I merely intended?—”
“Aye. And next ye’ll intend yerself straight back into Janet’s hands.”
That visibly sobered him.
Abigail laughed hard enough her ribs hurt. Somewhere during the second course she set down her spoon.
“In America,” she said quietly, “on this day every person at the table is named aloud and something is said about them.”
The room stilled as Mrs. Gable lifted her whisky cup slightly.
“Then ye’ll name us, lass.”
Emotion rose hard into her throat. She looked first toward Mrs. Gable.
“For Mrs. Gable. For the bread. For the delicious meals.”
Mrs. Gable sniffed once.
“For Ewan. For bringing me tea Sunday morning at four o’clock and pretending not to notice when I tripped over my own skirts.”
Ewan stared very hard into his whisky.
“Aye well,” he muttered, “we’ve all tripped over our feet.”
“For Tobias. For the fish.”
Tobias nodded solemnly around a mouthful of potatoes.
“For Tavish. For the apples.”
Color crept faintly into Tavish’s ears.
“For Duncan,” Abigail continued, “for the small beer. And for not telling Mrs. Gable I broke the dairy crock last Tuesday.”
Duncan choked outright.
Mrs. Gable slowly lowered her spoon.
“You what?”
Duncan pointed immediately at her, a look of betrayal on his face even as he grinned
“Ye said we were taking that to the grave.”
Laughter rolled warmly around the table until even Mrs. Gable surrendered.
“For the bread. For the fire that keeps us warm. For the roof.”
Her voice lowered further.
“And for Rory.”
The room stilled as he looked at her across the candlelight.
Abigail swallowed once.
