himself on a child? Even if he'd only been trying to kiss her — and maybe that was all he had intended at first, because Forrester had never seemed like a monster — now he was dead. But he had ripped her dress, and that wasn't kissing. He had scared her out of her wits, and that wasn't kissing.
'Come
Toby reached for Meg. 'He's dead, Meg. Stop doing that.'
'Dead?' She shuddered and stopped doing that. Her chest heaved. Her chest was more visible than it ought to be and there wasn't much more than chest there. She was so little! Funny that this morning Vik had accused him of being involved with Meg and tonight he had saved her from, well, from whatever Godwin Forrester had been up to.
Meg realized her dress hung open. She gasped and clutched it tight. 'Dead? Well, good riddance! Serves him right! Monster! Bully!'
'What are you doing here, Meg?' Just Meg? He still could hardly believe that a man would pick on a child like Meg.
Hamish wailed. 'Toby, they're coming!'
Meg blinked. 'Doing? I came to see you. Came to warn you.'
'Toby, come
'Warn me of what?'
'Colin! Vik's given him a knife, it's full moon, I think he set him onto you… I came to warn you, silly!'
'You promised I could hang on the same gibbet,' Hamish said shrilly.
Demons, oh demons! Toby glanced up at the silver globe floating through the clouds. Full moon. Well, he had much worse things to worry about than Crazy Colin, who was probably off in the hills somewhere, cutting up sheep.
Lights, torches coming, voices…
'Come on!' he said, and began to run, hauling Meg along with him. They would have to leave the road soon, but it would give them a start.
Meg! Stupid, stupid little Meg! This would not be the first time she had turned up at the castle at sunset. He had walked her home more than once. He had not connected… Vik had noticed and he hadn't. Meg was a sweet kid, but only a kid — scrap of a thing, didn't come up to his shoulder, probably no older than Hamish, breasts like two muffins, wore her hair in long braids…
Stupid kid!
They ran down the road, stumbling and reeling. He was almost carrying her, with a hand around her arm — his fingers closed around it.
Had the Sassenachs found the body yet?
He was a dead man for certain.
'This way!' Hamish shouted, veering to the left, onto the path to Murray MacDougal's croft. They left the road. The moonlight faded out. They slowed down of necessity — no use breaking an ankle now.
He had killed an English soldier. No traitor now. Even Vik… Damn Vik! Terrible things. Worry about his own neck. No escape from the glen. The Sassenachs would ride him down in the hills. Who would look after Granny Nan?
'Stop!' he said. They stopped. A moonlit glimmer ahead must be smoke from MacDougal's chimney. 'Hamish, take Meg home… Be quiet, Meg! Explain what's happened. You weren't there, friend. You didn't arrive until I'd done it, all right?'
'They'll hang me anyway. Take me with you! Don't leave me to—'
'No. Tell Meg's folks exactly what happened. Then go and tell your Pa. Tell everything. The glen will stand behind you.'
It wouldn't stand behind Toby Strangerson, though. If he wasn't handed over right away, the Sassenachs would take hostages. Hamish was just a kid. Kids were hanged, too, of course, but if Hamish could disappear into hiding for a few weeks, until the English wrath subsided a bit, they might decide they would look foolish raising a hue and cry over a stripling like him and accusing him of hurting Forrester. Big brute Strangerson was a different matter. Granny Nan…
He forced his wits to come to order. 'Hamish, take Meg home. Now! I have to go, and it's best you don't know where I'm going. Run, both of you.'
'Crazy Colin!' Meg squealed.
'Never mind him! I'll give him what I gave the Sassenach. Now off with you! Thanks, Hamish. Good man. Relying on you.'
Right on cue, the moon floated into a lagoon between the clouds, and Toby began to run.
He needn't go through the village. He could cut across country. Going home was rank stupid, but he must say good-bye to Granny Nan. He could survive a night in the hills in just his plaid at this time of year. The English would head for the cottage, but he could probably get there before them. They wouldn't push their horses in the dark; they'd stay on the road. He could go around.
He knew the landscape like a spider knew its web. He followed trails from cottage to cottage, short-cutting over the fields, hurdling the fieldstone walls, jumping the burn, ramming through gorse thickets, alarming sheep, setting dogs to barking. Everyone would think it was Crazy Colin up to his tricks. The moon dipped in and out of the clouds.
Rapist! Rotten Sassenach rapist scum! He thought of the other Meg and would have laughed had he the breath for it. So there was justice in the world sometimes? Nineteen years ago the English brutes had imprisoned one Meg Campbell and used her as their plaything for the winter. Now her bastard spawn had rescued another Meg Campbell. Justice! He had avenged his mother.
There was a silver lining to all this — he must leave the glen now. However much Grannie Nan still needed him, he could be of no further help to her. Escape was what he had really wanted, wasn't it? Now he had it. Now he need not worry about the steward's slimy betting schemes.
Go where? South, to lose himself in the crowded Lowlands? There was only one road south, and they would picket that first. Curse the moon!
Or hide out for a day or two? There was one place in the glen where he might find sanctuary and no one would dare come hunting him. No one else would dare hide in the hob's grove, but the hob might agree to take him in if Granny Nan asked it. It might also forget who the intruder was, of course, and turn on him.
Soon he needed all his brain just to keep moving, and could no longer work on the greater problems. The one thought that remained was that Granny Nan's hands couldn't grasp anymore. She couldn't milk Bossie. The first thing he must do when he got home was milk Bossie.
CHAPTER TWO
The trees around Lightning Rock were almost the only trees in the glen. No one cut the hob's wood except Toby Strangerson, and he took only what Granny Nan told him to take, not a twig more. The cottage cowered on the edge of the copse, glowering under its shaggy sod roof and half hidden in broom. Shaking and panting, with the wind cold in his soaking hair, he staggered around, looking for Bossie. Even if she'd dragged her tether, she ought to be there in her shed, bellowing to be milked. There was no sign of her anywhere. He looked in the pens: no pig, no poultry. Just silence.
Thinking was an impossible effort. He wanted to fall on the ground and sleep for weeks. No Bossie. The Sassenachs couldn't have gotten here yet. They wouldn't have taken the cow — not yet anyway.
The shutter was closed. He could smell no smoke. With rising alarm, he lifted the latch and ducked through the doorway. A tiny fire glowed on the hearth, giving barely any light at all. It was just enough to show her white hair. She was huddled in her chair with her shawl over her lap. He fell gasping on his knees at her side, peering anxiously at her face.
Her voice came softer than falling leaves. 'It was a just fight.'
No need to tell; no need to explain or apologize. He dropped his head on her lap and panted. She laid a
