Page 87 of A Scot in the Storm
After a long suspended moment the room returned slowly around him. Hearthlight. Peat smoke.
Janet stepped back looking satisfied. “There now.”
Rory took one careful breath. Then another.
“That,” he said hoarsely, “was unnecessary violence.”
“Ye say that every time.”
“Because every time ye enjoy it.”
“A little.”
Ewan handed him a whisky at last.
Rory took the cup gratefully with his good hand and drank as heat burned clean down into his chest.
Across the table Abigail still looked faintly horrified.
“You all right there, lass?” Ewan asked cheerfully.
“She put his shoulder back in place like she was repairing furniture.”
Janet snorted. “Men are furniture. Mostly large damp cupboards with opinions.”
That startled a laugh out of Abigail.
Chapter 20
Rory
The next day, the coach came up the kirk road at half past one beneath a sky the color of old iron.
Rory had been standing at the workshop window for the better part of half an hour pretending to inspect the cradle housing while watching the rise beyond the harbor road instead.
Outside, the sea below Kinnaird Head had disappeared beneath the fog sometime after noon, though its presence still announced itself now and then through the dull sound of the waves striking stone far below the cliffs.
Ewan glanced up from the bench where he’d been filing brass pins.
“If ye glare much harder,” he observed, “ye may yet summon the coach by force of temper alone.”
Rory didn’t look away from the window.
“Worth attempting.”
“Aye. Though I suspect the horses would object.”
The workshop smelled of lamp oil, damp wool, and hot metal from the small stove near the rear wall. Abigail’s figures still covered half the slate board in quick chalk marks and neat corrections, one line crossed out so sharply it had nearly snapped the chalk itself.
Rory’s eyes caught there briefly then returned to the road. The chaise appeared at last through the mist beyond the kirk wall. Black coach. Two dark horses. No crest painted on the door.
Government men rarely announced themselves with decoration. The driver had scarcely reined in before the single passenger stepped down.
Lean fellow. Black wool coat. Black gloves. Black leather case tucked beneath one arm.
Magistrate Hugh Cathcart looked less like a provincial official and more like a clerk.
His pale grey eyes swept the yard once while gulls screamed somewhere unseen beyond the fog.
