“But this time Hamish got to use an actual, metal blade because he thought it’d be fun to—how’d he putit?—‘muck up your face.’ And he’s allowed to do it because he’s prince of the manor?”
He frowns in frustration, his thoughts playing out on his face without pretense. As his expression smooths into resolve, he admits, “I didnae like how he was eyeing you. Touching you. Campbells think they own everything. Everyone. I’ll nae allow Hamish to expect the same of you.”
I lean against the butcher block table, studying him. “You were protecting me?”
“Aye,” he says with utter certainty. “And I’d do it again.”
I’ve been badly wanting a friend, a confidante. But I already have one. He’s sitting right here.
I look at Callum. Really look at him. I let myself fall into those kind eyes. Eyes that have already seen so much in his relatively young life.
A life he risks to satisfy the vanity of some seventeenth-century douchebag.
“Rosie?” He reaches out. A tentative finger grazes my knuckle. “Don’t fret on my account. I know how to manage the young Campbell.”
The featherlight touch lingers. When I don’t flinch, he adds a second finger. Then a third. Until his hand rests fully over mine.
I feel my shoulders ease and a warmth spread through me, like something has been released. Something set free.
“You’re my friend,” I find myself admitting. “I can’t let you get hurt just to protect me.”
“I’ll endure anything if it keeps you from harm.” He states it quickly, surely, like fact. Then he stares blindly at our hands, looking abashed. “You dinnae belong here, Rosie. You’re special.”
The air is sucked from my lungs. I don’t know how toreply, what to do, so naturally I resort to middle school. I mutter something lame: “Thanks, you too.” Then I give him a playful shove.
He grimaces in real pain.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp. “Are you okay?”
“Aye,” he says, voice tight. He’s sitting ramrod straight, holding his body at an awkward angle.
“I barely touched you. You’re not okay. You’re bleeding.”
He denies it and tries to stand, but I clamp a hand on his head, holding him in place. “Sit still.”
A red dot has appeared on the back of his sleeve, unfurling like a great crimson flower.
“This was from Hamish.”
“’Tis but a scratch.”
“’Tis more than a scratch,” I say, attempting to mimic his accent. “Did you clean it?”
He nods. “I mixed a plaster.”
“Did Donag help you?”
“And tell her I was fighting?” He hisses. “She’d thrash me worse than Hamish.”
“Nobody helped you?”
“’Tis naught, truly.” He pulls away and loosens the laces at his collar. “I’ve only to retie the bandage.”
He fumbles inside his sleeve, trying to adjust the dressing, but his hand is too big, the sleeve too narrow.
It’s hard to watch.
“Just—” I grab a stool, brace a knee on it beside him. “Take off your shirt.”
