Page 23 of A Scot in the Storm
Ewan folded his arms.
“She appeared out of nowhere.”
“Aye.”
“Below the tower struck by lightning.”
“Aye.”
“With no ship.”
Rory rubbed one hand across his jaw. “I’m aware of the problem.”
“The men are talking already.”
“They always talk.”
“This is different.” Ewan glanced back toward the hall. “Half of Fraserburgh thinks the old tower cursed.”
Rory leaned one shoulder against the wall as weariness settled heavily in his bones.
“I couldna leave her there.”
Ewan’s expression softened slightly. “Nay. I ken ye couldna.”
Because fourteen years ago Rory had failed to hold onto someone else in storm-black water. Neither man spoke the memory aloud. They did not need to.
Ewan sighed. “She’s bonny.”
Rory shot him a flat look. “This seems a rather inappropriate moment for matchmaking.”
“I’m merely making an observation.”
“Aye, well. Observe quieter.”
Ewan grinned despite himself. “Ye looked at her on the rocks like a man who’d just found buried treasure.”
“I was trying to determine whether she addled her wits.”
“Mmhm.”
Rory ignored him, but as he glanced back through the open doorway toward the hearth, he found Abigail watching the firelight dance across the room with that same thoughtful, searching expression. As if she were memorizing every detail.
The candles guttering against the stone walls, the rough-hewn tables crowded with half-finished cups of whisky, and the men laughing quietly near the hearth all seemed to hold her attention with equal fascination.
A stranger trying desperately to understand the world she had landed in. And for reasons Rory could not begin to explain, something deep in his chest shifted.
Ewan cleared his throat.
“Say it,”
“Ye dinna want to hear me say it.”
“Say it anyway.”
Ewan looked at the door.
“A woman on the rocks with a burnt sleeve, no ship, and a tale of losing her memory. The garrison across the firth pays silver for any French face that walks into it. If I was the magistrate, I’d be sending a rider down the coast tonight.”
