Page 95 of A Scot in the Storm
“I wasna looking for anything.”
“Nae? Not the lass sitting at my table chopping neeps?”
Ewan wandered through the doorway at precisely the wrong moment carrying ledger pages.
“He’s a great lover of neeps.”
Rory looked at him with deep betrayal.
The room suddenly felt much too warm as Abigail focused very hard on slicing the turnips.
“Ye’re holding the knife wrong,” Mrs. Gable informed her.
“I’m just cutting it.”
“And doing it like ye’ve declared war upon the vegetable.”
Abigail looked down.
The turnip genuinely appeared threatened.
Wonderful.
Rory’s mouth twitched with that almost-smile again as he disappeared again, once more.
Mrs. Gable waited precisely eight minutes before saying, “He’ll be back.”
“He has work to do.”
“Aye.” She dusted flour from her hands. “And yet here we are.”
Rory returned a fourth time carrying absolutely nothing at all.
Mrs. Gable pointed her spoon at him.
“Sit down or leave the poor lass in peace.”
To Abigail’s astonishment, he obeyed immediately.
He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat with his forearms braced against his knees while the kitchen crackled softly around them, firelight shifting across hanging copper pots as rain brushed briefly against the shutters before blowing sideways toward the sea again.
For a long moment he simply watched her.
“What’s upset ye, lass? It’s plain as day on yer face.”
And just like that, something inside her gave way.
Abigail looked down at the turnips, because if she met his gaze directly she was going to embarrass herself spectacularly.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” she said softly.
Rory waited, a question on his face.
“The last Thursday in November. At home my family would all be together today to celebrate.”
The kitchen stilled. Even Mrs. Gable slowed slightly at the breadboard.
“We gather,” Abigail continued. “Too many people in too small a house. Somebody burns something every year. Before my parents passed, my brother would argue with my mother about stuffing like it’s an international crisis.”
