Page 81 of A Scot in the Storm
“When?”
“I dinna know.”
“But soon.”
“Aye.”
His gaze rested steadily on her now.
“When he asks questions, ye came from a wreck ye remember poorly. What knowledge ye possess came from yer father or brother. Mrs. Gable has taken ye in until family can be found.”
The lie sounded painfully thin aloud. Apparently Rory thought so too because his mouth tightened briefly.
“We’ll face it when it comes,” he said quietly.
We.
The word slipped free before he seemed aware he’d said it.
“You should spend more time below stairs.”
Abigail blinked. “What?”
“The kitchen. Household rooms.” His voice remained maddeningly calm. “Stay clear of the lantern room unless I send for ye.”
Understanding and hurt arrived almost immediately.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m protecting ye.”
“By pretending you don’t want me around?”
His jaw tightened once. “Every hour ye spend alone with me strips another thread from a reputation ye canna spare.”
Abigail stared at him across the desk while anger and something far softer tangled painfully together inside her ribs.
“You think if you push me away hard enough everyone in the village will stop talking.”
Rory rose abruptly and crossed toward the window.
“The shawl didna help,” he said quietly.
Abigail looked down automatically at the blue wool around her shoulders.
“No,” she admitted. “Probably not. Do you regret buying it?”
Rory went very still.
“No.”
The single word warmed the room more thoroughly than the fire.
Abigail hated how relieved she felt hearing it.
Rory rested one hand briefly against the window frame. He looked exhausted suddenly. Worn thin in places sleep no longer properly reached.
“A woman alone beneath a man’s roof gathers stories around herself quickly enough. A woman under my roof while I buy her gifts gathers them faster.”
