Page 54 of A Scot in the Storm
“And ye know this because...?”
“My mother...” Abigail stopped herself. Her mother had never used lanolin for anything in her life.
“I read about it.”
Rory studied her for half a second longer. Then nodded once.
“Aye. We’ll try it.”
No prying at to how she knew, no interrogation.
The relief of that settled unexpectedly deep.
He looked at her with something warm and thoughtful in his blue eyes.
“Ye’re remarkable, Abigail.”
The simple sincerity of it nearly undid her.
“I’m just helping.”
“Aye,” he said quietly. “I know.”
For a moment neither of them moved, then Rory stood and offered her his hand.
His palm was warm and rough as he pulled her easily to her feet. Abigail ended up far closer to him than she’d intended,close enough to see the pale scar cutting faintly along his jawline, close enough to smell salt and smoke and wool warmed by the brazier.
He let go a beat too late, or maybe exactly when he meant to. She stepped back first and brushed stone dust unnecessarily from her skirts.
They worked another three hours in the lantern room before carrying the drawings downstairs after supper to continue at the kitchen table while Mrs. Gable cleaned around them.
The kitchen felt hot after the tower. Lamplight pooled gold across the scarred wooden table. Rain ticked softly at the windows. In the dining room, the old clock kept steady time with small clicks.
Rory sat opposite her with his sleeves still rolled back, candlelight catching now and then against the scar along his jaw whenever he leaned over the drawings.
He wasn’t a historical figure here. Not handwriting preserved in old letters beneath museum glass. Just a living man sitting three feet away from her at a kitchen table in 1787, smelling faintly of salt, wool, smoke while discussing gear tolerances. Which honestly felt more surreal than the time travel at this point.
He leaned across once to trace a ratio along the page with one finger.
His forearm brushed hers lightly. The contact lasted maybe two seconds.
Oh no,she thought distantly.Oh, this is bad.
“This could work,” Rory said at last, sitting back slightly. “Three successful burns before I write Smith.”
“Sensible.”
“I couldna have done this without ye.” His eyes looked impossibly blue in the lamplight.
Emotion rose so quickly in her throat she needed a moment.
“You designed the original system.”
“Doesna matter.” He gathered the papers carefully into a neat stack. Her rough sketches ended up folded together with his own drawings as naturally as though they belonged there. As though she belonged there.
“Ye saw what I couldna.”
The room had gone very quiet. Even Mrs. Gable seemed suddenly farther away.
