Page 112 of A Scot in the Storm
“Ye saw what the rest of us didna.”
The lantern light moved gold across his face again, and when he finally looked at her there was something unbearably open in his expression now that exhaustion had stripped the last of his defenses away.
“Those men came home tonight because of that turning cradle,” he said quietly. “Because ye refused to let it fail.”
Emotion pressed suddenly hard against her ribs.
Rory leaned his head back against the stone wall afterward, eyes growing heavier with each slow revolution of the lens.
“So if anyone asks,” he murmured sleepily, “Kinnaird Head belongs to ye a little now, too.”
Abigail glanced sideways toward him while the lantern light moved across his face in slow intervals, catching the bronze at the tips of his lashes and the weariness carved plainly into him now that vigilance had finally loosened its grip.
And somewhere between one revolution of the lens and the next, Rory fell asleep.
One moment awake, the next asleep against the stone with his head on her shoulder.
Abigail went very still. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him like this before. Even wounded, some part of Rory Sinclair always seemed to remain standing watch over everyone else in the room.
But not now. Now the great light turned steadily over the sea while voices drifted warmly upward through the tower. Andbeside her sat a man so exhausted he’d finally allowed himself, for one quiet moment, to believe someone else was holding the line.
Emotion rose hard into her throat. Very gently, Abigail reached up and brushed one strand of dark wind-tangled hair back from his forehead.
Rory didn’t wake.
Below them the coast celebrated.
Above them the lamp burned steadily on into the dark.
Snow arrived sometime before dawn,quietly, as though winter had crept ashore while everyone slept and laid a careful white hush across Kinnaird Head.
The sea itself had gone the color of pewter, dark water moving slow and heavy beyond the cliffs while gulls complained bitterly overhead as if annoyed by the cold.
Abigail stood at the kitchen window with a steaming cup cradled between both hands, watching snow gather in delicate lines along the cliff grass while Mrs. Gable muttered darkly over oatcakes beside the hearth.
Behind them Duncan stomped into the kitchen trailing cold air and flakes immediately melting off his shoulders. He bent toward the fire with both hands extended.
“It’s freezing.”
“It’s Scotland,” Mrs. Gable replied without sympathy. “Ye continue speaking as though this surprises ye.”
“A man can remain hopeful.”
“A foolish habit.”
Duncan accepted this with the weary dignity of someone long accustomed to losing arguments inside this kitchen.
The room smelled richly of oats and browned butter and peat smoke curling warm through the rafters. Somewhere downstairs a door slammed hard enough to rattle the crockery, followed by Ewan’s unmistakable voice carrying upward from the workshop.
“If ye break the winch after we just lit the bloody light, I swear I’ll bury ye beneath it.”
“It was an accident.” Tavish sounded deeply wounded.
Abigail hid another smile against her cup. Life, she realized suddenly, had resumed. The world hadn’t paused after the lighting. The lamp still needed tending. Boats still needed mending. Bread still needed baking. Duncan still hovered near food with the focused spiritual intensity of a harbor gull stalking French fries.
History had moved forward exactly as it always did, one ordinary morning after another, and somehow that felt comforting.
The back stair creaked as she glanced automatically toward the doorway before she could stop herself.
