knitted cap further over a grubby forehead.
“And am I detectin’ a note o’ the old country?” he asked in a lilt mimicking that of his young companion.
The angry urchin halted his brushing to stare at the juggler now leaning on a handsome cane. “And what county do ye claim from?” the youngster asked with suspicion.
“All of them, my friend, all of them, but my spirit lingers in the grand green hills of Galway.” This wasn’t precisely a lie. O’Toole had never lived anywhere more than a year of his life. He’d felt a particular kinship with the inhabitants of County Galway at one time, as he had with many other people in many different places. But he thought he recognized the accent.
The starch wilted from the youth’s stiff hide. “Well, then, and you’re aftar knowing what it’s like. Wretched Sassenachs think they own the ground we walk on. Not a farthing to be had for the likes of us.”
“That is as it might be,” O’Toole replied mildly. “I’ll be taking it then that you’re low on funds and have need of a place to stay. It seems as if you’ve already eaten,” he added wryly.
The youth shot him another suspicious look. “I’ll be doing just foyne on me own without the need of a pervert, thank ye.”
O’Toole stifled a grin as one more engaging aspect of the little termagant appeared. He’d thought the young beggar oddly dressed and a little too deceitful in his speech to be as young as his size indicated. But if his instincts didn’t lie, that slender wrist and occasional high-pitched note had little to do with the child’s age.
O’Toole idly juggled the coins from his pocket. “And a foyne idea that is, too, me lad. The more for me, I say. But I’m not avarse to tipping back a wee one in front of a friendly fire on a night like this. Mayhap we can help each other. Is a foyne lad like yourself after having a name?”
“Mac,” the young person answered reluctantly, eyeing the circling coins with respect. “A mug of something warm and a good song or two might be welcome.”
Smiling to himself, O’Toole pocketed his coins and sauntered down the street toward a more hospitable inn. “Well, Mac, and I’m O’Toole.”
Not until he had the “lad” in the lighted rooms of an inn did Michael discover the extent of the surprise concealed in this filthy package. Except for his companion’s petite height and poorly disguised feminine curves, the image staring back at him could be his own sister.
Concealing his disbelief, O’Toole took a seat beside the roaring fire and gestured for the “lad” to do the same. “I think you’d best be telling me your real name,” he suggested, trying to hide his curiosity from himself as well as his terrified companion.
He’d known people with red hair and green eyes before. The world abounded with them. Quite a few even shared his lean build. He’d never met any with all three features plus his striking lack of freckles. And while her chin was considerably narrower than his own, and her high forehead and marked cheekbones proportionately smaller, he would think her a younger version of himself were she not so obviously female.
“Mac” scowled and held the cup of heated cider between her hands to warm them. “Mac is all they call me,” she replied sullenly. “’Tis none of your consarn.”
O’Toole debated calling her bluff, but he’d seen enough frightened youngsters to recognize one prepared to bolt. If she felt safer disguised as a boy, then so be it, for now.
He’d never known a home or had any particular desire for one, but he’d always wondered about his origins. Having no name of his own had its advantages, but his intellect couldn’t abide ignorance. Gavin might claim him as brother, but that claim came from the circumstances they’d grown up in and not reality.
“P’raps it’s none of my consarn,” he replied with disinterest as he gnawed on a chicken leg, “but ’tis of some interest when you’re