Devil's Highlander

She gave a grim nod. Justice Port was infamous for being the roughest, the foulest of all areas in Aberdeen.

“They say it's stocked with folk to be sold as slaves in America.” Her face fell, but he kept her chin cupped tenderly in his hand, not letting her look away. “But Ree, don't you see? You were right. Your wee Davie just might be alive after all.” He nodded to the distant waters of the North Sea, lightening to a steel gray in the morning's haze. “Alive, and out there. Somewhere.”

“Will you find him for me, Cormac?” She sniffled and stood up straighter. She had a look in her eyes that stilled him. A look of hope, of trust, of admiration reserved for him alone. No one else had ever looked at him that way. “Please?”

“Aye, lass,” he said, knowing he was lost, knowing he'd do anything for this woman in his arms. “I'll find him for you.”

Chapter 10

Marjorie was changed and out of the house in no time, off to see what she could discover about Justice Port from the most wayward, unlawful folk she knew: the boys of Saint Machar.

They were close to finding Davie, and she hadn't a moment to spare. She'd forsaken the midday meal for a slice of bread and bit of hard cheese, which she carried with her to eat while she walked. If she got too hungry, she could always grab something from the ministers at Saint

Machar. There was always a pot with stew to spare at

Westhall Manse, part of the cathedral complex, and the mainstay of their charity work.

Westhall stood at the end of Chanonry Road, nearly in the shadow of Saint Machar, which was a granite sprawl in comparison. It was a stout building and one of the few that'd been left largely untouched by the wars. They used the triangular upper story as a dormitory, while the ground floor saw to the vast cooking, feeding, and general tending necessitated by all those boys.

She was proud of what they'd built. She'd been coming to Saint Machar for years now, and before she'd begun offering her assistance, Westhall had offered nothing but a few cots and the occasional cold rations for the wayward poor of Aberdeen's streets.

She spotted a close-cropped head of black hair among the boys seated at a long dining table. Marjorie smiled.

She'd never known Paddy to miss a meal.

Before he sat down, she swooped in from behind, grabbing his attention by mussing her hand atop his head. Soon he'd be too big for such a gesture. All the boys seemed to grow like weeds once they got regular food and rest.

“Just who I was looking for.”

Paddy looked up, and his eyes widened. “But today's not your day,” he exclaimed. The boy was surprised, and she saw both pleasure and anxiety on his face. She surmised the latter came from pure instinct. He'd lived for years on the street, alone and on guard, and some habits were hard to break. “You're not supposed to be here on Saturday.”

“Perhaps I came just to see you.” His prickly response had put her on alert. Paddy was one of her most challenging cases. He'd been like a feral thing when she'd found him, but years of tough love — not to mention daily meals — had begun to turn him around.

“Though I wonder… have you done something wrong, Paddy?” Her hand shifted to pinch one of his ears between her fingers. They protruded comically, sticking out like two Spanish apricots from either side of his head. She leaned closer, eyes narrowing as she registered the fresh scab on his face. “And pray tell, what is that on your cheek?”

“I've done nothing wrong. I swear it!” His eyes darted right and left, and she knew he'd be eager to map his escape. He'd been doing it all his life. He'd come with his family from Ireland when he was but a wee thing. Typhus had taken his parents not long thereafter, and Paddy soon learned how to fill his belly by picking pockets.

Marjorie had just about gotten the boy turned around, but success was a fragile thing, and he was still one of the toughest, most fight-happy kids at Saint Machar.

“Don't panic,” she assured him, guiding him from the dining hall. “You're not in trouble. In fact, there might be a bit of steak pie in it for you.” She patted her pocket, gesturing to the carefully wrapped packet she'd hidden there. She wasn't above treating — or bribing — the boys with extra food and regularly brought goodies from her uncle's home. “I merely have some questions that I think you might be able to answer. While I tend to your cheek.” Stools before the kitchen fire marked the warmest spot in Westhall, and as the cooking was finished for the time being, that's where she settled them. She handed him the meat-filled pastry, and he pounced on it with relish.

“How'd you manage this one, Paddy?” Marjorie scooted her seat closer to his. “It has the suspicious look of a fist to it. Ah, yes.” She tilted his cheek toward the firelight for a closer look. “I see the scrape of… I daresay that might be the mark of someone's ring?”

He shrugged, chewing an outrageously stuffed mouthful of food.

She set to swabbing the cut clean with a damp rag. “How did you get it?” He merely shrugged again.

“A ring.” She looked closer at the imprint of a perfect red circle. A signet ring, she'd wager. “Fighting with men now, are we? Paddy, what am I to do with you? I swear it, you are the brightest lad here, but you won't make it to your fifteenth birthday if you keep this up.”

Swallowing, he murmured, “I mighta accidentally stepped in front of a fist.”

“You weren't playing the cutpurse again, were you?” She lowered her voice. “You made me a promise.” He pulled his chin from her hand, suddenly earnest. “Oh, no. Losh no! I promised, and I'd never break a promise.

Not to you, Miss Marjie.”

“Yes, I know.” Smiling, she scruffed his short hair. Her boys were the only ones she'd let call her Marjie. And Paddy could call her whatever he liked, just so long as he stayed alive and out of trouble. “But you must think of what's good for yourself, too. Not just what I might think.”

Glancing down, she saw a tear in his breeches. “The knee, too, Paddy? Truly. This was a perfectly sound piece of clothing just yesterday.”

“I'm sorry.”

Her shoulders fell. Sometimes it felt like she was fighting a losing battle. “No matter. I'll stitch them for you—”

“Don't be mad at me, Miss Marjie. I was just trying to help, really I was.” She stilled. “Help what?”

“Well, I knew you've been sad about Davie. And I thought… “

“What did you think?” she asked, her every nerve thrumming with alarm.

He froze, eyes widened like a deer scenting danger.

“Answer me, Padraig, and don't think I won't tweak that ear of yours again.” She reached her hand out, waggling her fingers menacingly. “It stands out like a flag in the wind, just begging to be—”

“I'll tell, I'll tell! I went down to the docks is all. I was careful!” he added quickly, seeing the scold in her eyes. “I just asked some questions, you know, of some of the other lads.”

“I told you to stay away from there. After Davie… “ She tapered off. Her legs felt weak, and she was glad she was seated. If any harm came to any of the other boys in her care, she didn't think she could survive it.

And then fear flicked into hard panic. When had Paddy gone to the docks? What if she'd been discovered? She dreaded the thought of what would become of her if Archie or any of the other Saint Machar folk got wind of her traipsing around the docks in men's clothing.

Paddy chewed thoughtfully, and the look on his face went from worried to thoughtful to confident. He swiped his hand across his mouth, wiping away the last of the pastry crumbs. “What questions?”

“What?” She focused, unwilling to lose the upper hand in the conversation.

“You said you had questions for me.” He lifted his chin. “And so I said, what questions?”

“Changing the subject, are you?” She pursed her lips, fighting not to smile. He certainly was one of the brightest boys she'd ever met. “Deftly done, Paddy. I've always said you're a canny one.” He raised his brows, still waiting for her to answer.

She took a deep breath, conceding. “Fine. We shall address my questions first. But don't you for one moment think I'll forget about this business with you down at the docks.” She waited for him to nod wary agreement, then continued, “I came to ask you once more about the morning Davie disappeared. If you remember anything.”

“I told it all, Miss Marjie. I seen him with the other lads in the alley,” he said, repeating by rote what he'd told her a dozen times already. “They'd worked a bit of rawhide into a ring, and they'd gotten some sticks, and were having a game of quoits. And then I seen him later. With… “ His voice tapered off, cutting his eyes shyly to hers.

“I know it. You saw Davie with me. He disappeared just after he'd been with me.” Pain lanced her, and she pushed it away. There must be something from that day she'd missed. Some clue. She leaned down, taking Paddy's hands in hers. “Think on it, sweet. For me. Think on it one more time. Was there anyone strange? There'd have been the other lads. There'd have been a few folk like me. There would've been market hucksters. Some dockmen, mayhap. But anyone else? Do you recall anyone strange?”

He scrunched his brows in deep and apparently painful thought. “There was one man. I didn't think on it then… “ A man. It couldn't be so easy. Her heart beat faster nonetheless. “What makes you think on it now?”

“Well, I seen him yesterday. At the docks. And I remembered him from that day with Davie.”

“What made you remember?”

He pulled his hands from hers and stared sullenly at them, flexing and fisting them in his lap.

“Paddy?” She knew boys well, and she knew this one was holding something back. “What aren't you telling me?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">