“Very well.” Cautiously, he pulled his wounded hands from behind him. “But ye have to start from the beginning.”
“I will,” she promised with a solemn nod.
“And doona leave anything out.”
“I won’t.” She picked up the cup of water.
Dougan leaned forward and extended his palm toward her.
She winced at the broken flesh, but cradled his wounded hand in both of hers like one would a baby bird, before reaching for the bowl of water to trickle it over the cut. When he snarled in pain, she began to describe her father’s rifle to him. The way the little coils fit together. The clicking noises of the levers. The silt and stench and sparkle of the black powder.
She poured the alcohol over his wounds, and Dougan hissed breath through his teeth, trembling with the effort it took not to snatch his hands away from her. To distract himself from the pain, he focused his blurring vision on the droplets of moisture collecting like diamonds in her abundant curls. Instead of making her hair heavy and straight, the rain seemed to coil the ringlets tighter and anoint the silvery strands with a darker gloss of spun gold. His finger itched to test the curls, to twirl and pull them, and see if they bounced back into place. But he kept absolutely still while she wrapped the strips of her petticoat around his palm with painstaking care.
“Tell me yer name,” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“My name is Farah.” He could tell the question pleased her because a tiny dimple appeared in her cheek. “Farah Leigh—” She cut off abruptly, frowning at the tidy knot she’d just produced.
“Aye?” he said alertly. “Farah Leigh—what?”
Her eyes were more gray than green when they met his. “I’ve been forbidden to utter my family name,” she said. “Or I’ll get me and the person I told into trouble, and I don’t think you need any more trouble.”
Dougan nodded. That wasn’t so uncommon here at Applecross. “I’m Dougan of the Clan Mackenzie,” he announced proudly. “And I have eleven years.”
She looked properly impressed, which ingratiated her to him even more.
“I have eight years,” she told him. “What did you do that was so wicked?”
“I—swiped a loaf from the kitchens.”
She looked appalled.
“I’m so bloody hungry all the time,” he muttered, not missing her flinch at his profanity. “Hungry enough to eat the moss off those rocks.”
Farah tied off the last bandage and leaned back on her knees to inspect her work. “This is a lot of punishment for one loaf of bread,” she observed sadly. “Those welts will probably scar.”
“It’s not the first time,” Dougan admitted with a shrug more cavalier than he actually felt. “It’s usually my arse that gets blistered, and I’d rather that. Sister Margaret said I’m a demon.”
“Dougan the Demon.” She smiled, thoroughly amused.
“Better than Fairy-lee.” He chuckled, playing with her name.
“Fairy?” Her eyes twinkled at him. “You can call me that if you want to.”
“I will.” Dougan’s lips cracked, and he realized that for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was smiling. “And what will ye call me?” he asked.
“Friend,” she said instantly, pushing up from the damp ground and brushing loose earth from her skirts before she picked up her bowl and cup.
Peculiar warmth stole into Dougan’s chest. He didn’t quite know what to say to her.
“I’d better go inside.” She lifted her wee face to the rain. “They’ll be looking for me.” Meeting his eyes again, she said. “Don’t stay out in the rain, you’ll catch your death.”
Dougan watched her go, suffused with interest and amusement, he savored the feeling of having something he’d never had before.
A friend.
* * *
“Pssst! Dougan!” The loud whisper nearly startled Dougan out of his skin. He whirled around, ready to deflect a blow from one of the other boys, when he spied a pair of owlish eyes sparkling at him from ringlets spun of moonbeams. The rest of her was cleverly shadowed behind a hallway tapestry.
“What are ye doing out here?” he demanded. “If they catch us, they’ll whip us both.”
“You’re out here,” she challenged.
“Aye … well.” Dougan had tried to fill the emptiness of his stomach with water. Two hours later, while tossing in bed, the plan had somewhat backfired and he’d been chagrined to find that someone had hidden the chamber pot, forcing him to go in search of the water closet.
“I have something for you.” Merrily, she hopped from behind the tapestry and linked her elbow with his, careful not to touch the bandages on his hands. “Follow me.” A door at the end of the hall sat slightly ajar, and Farah shoved him through, closing it softly behind them.
A lone candle flickered on one of several small tables, the light dancing off walls comprised entirely of bookcases. Dougan wrinkled his nose. The library? What would induce her to bring him here? He’d always avoided this room. It was dusty and smelled of mold and old people.
Pulling him toward the table with the candle, she pointed to a chair tucked in front of an open book. “Sit here!” By now she was nigh on quivering with excitement.
“Nay.” Dougan scowled down at the book, his curiosity dying. “I’m going to bed.”