“Did ye repair it yourself?” Ewan asked, taking the chair from Jamie.
The boy nodded, dragging the dirty cuff of his coat across his equally filthy nose. Every third day or so, Jamie would splash some water on his cheeks and call himself clean, but the lad was generally appallingly dirty.
Kieran sighed. He remembered being a youth and hating to wash himself. Jamie just needed to be taken in hand. To be tutored as Charles Fyffe had educated Kieran—a kindness that Kieran had failed to repay to Charles himself.
Guilt was a terrible bed-fellow, Kieran had decided.
But as Kieran watched the members of the newly formed Brotherhood of the Tartan ask questions of Jamie and admire the clever repair of the chair, an idea flashed through his mind.
“Jamie,” Kieran said, “ye hail from Dumbarton, do ye not?”
“Aye,” Jamie nodded.
“Ye seem a right proper Scotsman.”
Jamie raised a dirty eyebrow, motioning a hand down his small person. “Well, I’m no’ quite a Scotsman, am I now.”
That elicited a chuckle from the gentlemen.
“Right ye are,” Kieran grinned. “But someday, sooner than ye ken, you’ll grow tae be abrawman.”
“And still a Scot,” Rafe said.
Jamie shrugged, looking away.
Andrew smiled, looking pointedly from Jamie to Kieran. “I ken where you’re going with this, Kieran. I approve.”
“Aye,” Alex nodded, waving a hand toward Kieran. “Carry on.”
A quick glance at Rafe and Ewan showed their agreement.
Kieran turned back to Jamie.
“Are youse all having a laugh at my expense?” Jamie frowned, not missing their conspiratorial glances.
“Hah! I condone that show of Scottish cheekiness, Jamie,” Kieran grinned. “We’ve just decided tae form ourselves into a Scottish club of sorts—the Brotherhood of the Tartan. But it turns out, we need a sixth member of our band—” This, of course, was an absolute lie. “Mr. James Fyffe, would ye like tae join our brotherhood?”
Jamie froze, looking back and forth between them all, eyes flaring wide.
“Me?” he squeaked, pointing at his chest. “Why me?”
“Why?” Ewan smiled. “Because like all of us, ye find yourself far from home.”
“Aye,” Andrew agreed, “and standing together makes the distance feel more bearable. Will ye join us, lad?”
Emotion banded Kieran’s chest.
It was hard to determine the feeling precisely . . . some mix of pride, regret, and grief over the loss of Charles Fyffe.
A desire to offer Jamie the help and support that the lad’s father had given Kieran.
A sense of hope that Kieran could atone for his sins where the Fyffe family was concerned.
“Are youse sure?” Jamie continued to stare, studying them each in turn. “Ye aren’t bamming me?”
“We are in absolute earnest,” Alex said.
“Aye,” Kieran agreed.
