Page 37 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Captain Crawford was all presentation and no substance.
He wore his short Hussar boots and his regimentals, giving the false impression he was ready to fight. But Sabrina knew the truth. He’d forever go from one post to the next, a facsimile of a soldier. For to be of that breed, honor and courage were required and the blond captain had neither of those.
His smile was a cold slash. Terrible and polite, it chilled her.
“Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford, I regret to inform you that the garrison will no longer requisition ale and small beer from River Eden Brewery.”
Her gasp of dismay fed his vengeance.
A brow arching, he went on, pleased to have struck a blow. “Furthermore, I am not able to pay you for your latest delivery.” He winced, mockingly. “There was trouble with your barrels. Faulty coopering, I think. They leaked. Every drop of ale went into the grass.”
“I’ll come for the barrels tomorrow,” she said quickly.
“Unfortunately, they’ve already been destroyed. Burned,” he said with an eye to Rory. “Low quality goods must be dispatched forthwith.”
Her knees wavered. Seven new barrels. Gone.
Captain Crawford turned on his heel and made his way to the gentleman’s card room. He’d sip brandy, play cards, and find another woman to torture with his estimably low charm and bankrupt character.
Another suitor dispatched. But this one left blood in his wake.
Devastated, she reached for Rory’s sleeve.
“Let’s go home.”
Chapter Thirteen
Two nights later…
Rory wandered down a short stack of stairs into the cellar. Sabrina had hidden herself in the brewery most of yesterday and today. She was in the act of dumping malt into the mash tun when he ducked his head to enter the room.
Sabrina could be an enchantress at work. Fingerless gloves touching this and that, her grey hems swaying. Two copper vats shined against the stone wall, both nearly as tall as her.
Her acknowledgment was a gentle glance.
“Rory.”
“Sabrina,” he nodded cautiously.
One look at her, and an iron band wrapped around his heart. She’d recovered from the ball, pained yet determined. He admired her pluck. The jaunty widow, she pushed on and devoted herself to a new batch of ale. The spicey snap of juniper berries blended with the homey aroma of cooked oats in her cellar.
He wanted to soothe her after the defeat at Lord and Lady Rutger’s ball. He’d wanted to do it then, and he wanted to do it now.
After the ball, her well-used carriage rolled up to Eden House’s portico and Sabrina had dashed inside. Polly had met her in the entry hall, and he’d watched outside as the maid cosseted Sabrina. He’d watched them take the stairs until an apologetic Digby closed the door.
Alone and at a loss, Rory took himself to the barn for a long rest of the night.
He’d not seen a spark in her eyes—not since her impulsive hug when they were surrounded by old English armor. After Captain Crawford did his best to crush her, the widow had folded unseen walls around herself. From the world
From him.
Rory wanted her back.
“It’s quite the goings on you have here,” he said, hopeful.
Sabrina folded a burlap bag. “Thank you. I see it as an orchestra…bringing all the ingredients together to make, what I hope, is sweet music for the thirsty soul.”
Coals spread out in a brazier, their orange light wavering in one corner in the cold room. She started blowing out candles, one by one, their spires of smoke vanishing into the stonework.
