Page 24 of A Scot in the Storm
“Cathcart.” Rory said the name flat.
“He’ll hear of her within the week. This toon leaks like a cracked bucket. And when he comes up here, she’ll need more than memory loss and a dreamy look to keep clear of a gaol cell.”
“I ken.”
Ewan looked at him. “What are ye going to do?”
Rory was quiet for a moment.
“I’m going to let her sleep here tonight,” he said. “And I’m going to watch her. If she’s a spy, she’ll make a mistake, and I’ll see it. If she’s something else, I’ll see that too. Until I ken which, I’ll not hand her to Cathcart, and I’ll not hand her back to the sea.”
“And if ye’re wrong?”
“Then I’m wrong, and I’ll answer for it.”
Dangerous, he thought grimly, though not for any of the reasons Ewan would suspect. The true danger lay in the simple fact that when her footing vanished above the surf, he had gone after her without hesitation, driven by the same fierce instinct that had once failed his brother in storm-black water.
Some battered corner of his soul had already decided he would sooner drown beside her than watch another pair of hands vanish beneath the sea while he stood helpless upon the rocks.
Ewan sighed. “Aye. Well. It’s your hearth. I’ll stand watch tonight.”
“Go to bed. If she wanted a knife in me, she’d have done it when we fell on the rocks.”
“That’s exactly the sort of thing a man says the night before he wakes up with a knife in him.” Ewan shook his head and went down the corridor toward the men’s quarters.
Rory stood alone in the draft from the door, listening to the wind drop a notch at a time as the storm blew itself out, and he thought about what he’d just promised himself as he went back into the kitchen.
Abigail was still on the stool by the hearth, looking into the fire.
In the firelight, with the borrowed blanket around her shoulders and the worst of the blood cleaned from her face, she looked even younger than he’d first guessed. Her hair had begun to dry in loose dark waves that fell past her shoulders, and as he watched, she pushed it behind her ear with a quick absent gesture.
He pulled up a stool and sat down across from her.
“In the morning we’ll have words. A number of them. About where ye came from, and about why a woman with no vessel and no memory fell out of a storm onto the same rocks I pulled a body off of two days ago.”
She looked at him then. “All right.”
“Ye’ll tell me the truth, or what ye can of it, or ye’ll tell me a good enough lie that I can live with. That’s yer choice.”
“Fine.”
“And ye’ll no’ leave this house without telling me ye’re going. If a magistrate comes up the road, ye’ll tell me first. If ye remember a name, ye’ll tell me. If any of the men bother ye, ye’ll tell me. The roof is mine. The rules are mine. Are we clear, mistress?”
“We’re clear.”
“Then rest. I’ll have Mrs. Gable wake ye at dawn.”
He stood up. She reached up and caught his sleeve, just above the wrist, with a light, brief grip. He stopped.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not leaving me to the sea.”
He looked down at her hand on his sleeve. Her fingers were still scraped at the knuckles from the rocks, and the cut on her right palm had reopened. .
“Mind yerself, lass,” he said. “I’m no’ sure yet what I’ve done. But ye’re welcome.”
