Highland Storms by Christina Courtenay Page A

grime from the journey and it was obvious no one had even attempted to rub him down. Brice swore under his breath and untied the rope.
    ‘ Sorry, my friend,’ he murmured, stroking the silky muzzle. ‘I should have insisted on seeing to you myself straight away.’
    He turned abruptly to go in search of a currying brush, more fresh hay and some water, and came face to face with a small boy who must have been spying on him. Possibly around nine or ten years of age, with shaggy brown hair and dark eyes, freckles on his nose and skinny legs covered in bruises and dirt, he looked like a proper urchin. His eyes opened wide in alarm when he realised he’d been rumbled. Before he had time to scarper, Brice reached out a hand and grabbed the back of his shirt.
    ‘ Not so fast, young man,’ he said. ‘I have need of your services.’
    The boy was clever enough not to struggle. Instead he lowered his gaze and tried his best to look apologetic. He spread his hands and said in Gaelic, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.’
    Brice smiled and replied in the same language, ‘Oh, don’t you? That’s a shame. I could really do with some help.’
    Startled, the boy blinked at him. ‘You speak the Gaelic? I thought Mr Seton said you were a –’ There he stopped short, obviously realising he probably shouldn’t have mentioned anything about Mr Seton or his theories.
    ‘ A what? Sassenach?’
    The boy shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like ‘spy’ and Brice chuckled. ‘He may be right, but not in the way he thinks. Now are you going to help me or not? My horse needs seeing to and it will be faster with your assistance. He’s waited long enough, poor beast.’ Without waiting for the boy’s assent, he walked along the stalls until he came to the tack room, where he quickly found the implements he needed. As he turned to go back to Starke, he found the boy right behind him looking unsure.
    ‘ I, uhm, I’m not supposed to. Mr Seton said not to touch your horse.’
    ‘ Well, I tell you what, if you take this curry brush and use it you’re not actually touching the animal, just the brush. What do you think?’ He grinned at the boy and watched as an answering smile spread across the tiny features when he understood the subterfuge. The urchin nodded and didn’t waste any more time.
    ‘ What’s your name?’ Brice asked as they worked together companionably. It was clear the boy had done this kind of work before, although he was still so short he had to stand on an upturned food bucket to reach higher than halfway up the horse’s side.
    ‘ Archie.’
    ‘ Pleased to meet you, Archie. I’m Mr Aaron at the moment.’
    A startled Archie reverted to Scots for a moment, thus proving that he’d understood Brice well enough earlier. ‘Just the noo?’ Puzzled brown eyes stared at Brice, who smiled again and winked.
    ‘ I’m a spy, remember? We don’t give our real names.’
    ‘ Oh, o’ course.’ Another conspiratorial grin, but then Archie grew serious. ‘Ye woan tell Mr Seton though, will yer? Aboot me helpin’, I mean.’
    ‘ No, but you’ll have to promise to keep a secret in return.’
    ‘ Aye, onythin’.’
    ‘ I don’t want anyone here to know that I speak Gaelic, at least not yet, so don’t say anything about that. Agreed?’
    ‘ Absolutely. I swear on the edge o’ my dirk.’ The boy produced a tiny knife from his pocket which was hardly worthy of the name dirk, and laid his hand on the rusty blade.
    ‘ Me too.’ Brice put his own hand next to Archie’s on the knife’s edge. He knew that to a Highlander, swearing something on your dirk was the most solemn oath you could take and was more binding than any other. It amused him that someone so young should invoke this, but he wouldn’t dream of laughing out loud at the boy. To Archie, it was serious and Brice had a feeling he was going to need every ally he could find in this place, of whatever age and size.
    The boy was a good