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She gave the boy an encouraging smile. “What’s your name?”
The icy-blue gaze narrowed. “None of yer soddin’ business.”
Graeme lightly cuffed him on the shoulder—very lightly. “Keep a civil tongue, lad. And refer to her asmy lady.”
She flashed Graeme a warning look. “You can call me Sabrina. And I simply wish to know what to call you. I have no nefarious designs, I assure you.”
The boy scrunched up his face. “Come again?”
“We won’t turn ye over to the law,” Angus said. “Yer safe.”
The boy eyed Graeme. “What about the big bloke?”
“The big bloke won’t be hurtin’ ye either, word of a Highlander.”
The boy scowled. “I ain’t never been to no Highlands, so that means nothin’ to me.”
Angus tapped the side of his nose. “It’s grand to be a Highlander, laddie. And we’re famous for keepin’ our word.”
For a moment, the lad looked wistful. “I ain’t been nowhere but right here.”
“Old Town?” Graeme asked.
The older sections of the city were medieval rabbit warrens, as bad as any stew in London.
“Aye. Me and my—” He broke off.
“Your what?” Sabrina gently prodded.
“Nothin’ .”
“Where are your parents?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Never knew my da. My ma said he were a sailor, from the Indies.”
That accounted for the boy’s unusual appearance—unusual at least for Edinburgh. London was a hodgepodge of peoples from all over the world. Mayfair and Kensington were ridiculously rarified, but greater London held a vibrant mix of races that jostled along fairly well, depending on the part of town. A couple originally from Jamaica owned Graeme’s favorite pub. He counted Mr. and Mrs. Samuels amongst his few real friends in London, always ready to serve up a good pot of stew and a sympathetic ear.
In the world Graeme moved in, people rarely thought twice about such friendships, but in Edinburgh or Glasgow? His own nephew was of mixed heritage, and he’d seen firsthand the bigotry the wee lad had experienced, even with the protection of a family like the Kendricks.
For this child, the challenges of survival would be enormous.
“What about your mother?” Sabrina gently asked.
“She died when my bro . . . when I was little.”
Sabrina took his hand. “My mother died when I was just a baby.”
The boy tilted his head. His knit cap slipped sideways, revealing thick, dark-copper locks, twisted into a knot at the base of his neck. “What about your da?”
Sabrina smiled. “My father is still alive.”
“That’s . . . that’s nice.”
“Yes, it is.” She gave his hand a couple of gentle pats. “Now, won’t you please tell me your name?”
“Ballantine,” he finally said.
“And a fine Scottish name that is,” Angus said.
