'Sorry, Toby darling. Yes, he is. You turned every girl's head in the glen, but Rory could turn them back again.'
None to go — last stone. Toby could think of nothing more to say, so he kissed her again. She did not refuse him, and he twisted around so that Rory, waiting on the previous boulder, would have a clear and unobstructed view. It was only when Meg broke away that he realized he had an audience on the bank as well.
He set her down on the turf and stepped aside as Rory came ashore and the welcoming committee surged forward.
He had done it. He had kissed her.
Sir Torquil Campbell of Shira must rule a minor clan of his own. He was a loud, short, broad man with a flaming red beard. The woman at his side could be assumed to be his wife, and she had flaming red braids. They had brought a retinue of men, women, youths, maidens, boys, girls, toddlers, and babies. As every one of them was loud, short, broad, and afflicted with flaming red hair of varying amounts, they must all be related. Every one of them had been waiting in the rain, while Toby…
While Toby kissed his girl! Pipe bands and drumbeats! He had kissed her!
'Master,' Sir Torquil exclaimed, 'er, Rory, that is! And the good Father Lachlan! And who's the bonnie lass? You'll all be coming in out of the weather, it being a touch damp now.'
The visitors were led indoors and upstairs. Meg was rushed away by the women into one room, and the men directed into another. It was a big chamber, with a ceiling so far above Toby's head that he could barely have touched it if he tried, but there was not much space for five men to stand between two chairs, several oaken chests, and a real bed — complete with feather mattress and curtains and bolsters and all.
Sir Torquil had followed them in. 'Doff your wet things now. There's cloths there to dry yourselves, and dry plaids. You'll not mind that, Father, while the women see to your robe, now? And I've brought a dram of something to warm you. That's a terrible bruise on your chest, Master, er, Master Rory. Was it a horse kicking you?'
'It felt like that,' Rory said.
He took a long swig from the flagon and handed it to the friar, who in turn passed it to Toby. Toby tilted it, but did not swallow. The trace of whisky he got in his mouth was enough to paralyze his tongue and dissolve his teeth. Eyes watering, he passed the bottle to Hamish in necessary silence.
Sir Torquil continued his soliloquy. 'You'll be putting on these dry plaids now, Master — Rory. We have no robes here, I'm afraid, Father. I don't know about your man, there. He can just wrap himself in two of these for now, and we'll see what we can find for him after you've all come downstairs and—'
Hamish exploded.
Father Lachlan rescued the flagon; Rory and Toby took turns thumping the corpse on the back until it began breathing again.
'You'd best have another drink, lad,' Sir Torquil said solicitously. 'Like being thrown from a horse — a man has to get on again right away to show who's master.'
'Very sound idea!' Rory agreed. 'Don't you think so, Longdirk?'
'Two might be safer,' Toby said.
Hamish looked at them despairingly with red and weeping eyes, then manfully took another sip.
Swathed in borrowed plaids, they went downstairs to eat.
The kitchen was almost as big as the one in Lochy Castle. Sir Torquil sat at the table with his guests and the rest of the space was filled by redheads, who stood around and stared. They varied in size from wet-nosed toddlers to pregnant mothers and thick-armed laborers smelling of cattle.
The food was superb. Before every guest was laid a slab of bread cut from loaves straight out of the oven; on that were piled beans, juicy hot meat, and fresh fish. There was whisky to drink, although the fainthearted might dilute it with water if they wished. The refugees from the Reverend Murray's meager hospitality fell to with avid purpose while Sir Torquil talked — of the weather, of the ships in the loch, of reports of fighting up near Banff, of rumors that the Sassenach king had razed another town in Europe somewhere with his customary fearful slaughter. His assembled clan stood with folded arms, listening, studying the visitors, and speaking only when their patriarch addressed them.
Toby did eat enough for four, but Hamish came a close second, and the others did not skimp. If a man was going to die, it was best to do so on a full stomach. The world mellowed to a kinder, easier place. He could forget for a little while that he might be possessed by a demon, that a notorious hexer was hunting him, that the Sassenachs had probably set a price on his head, that he was responsible for seeing Meg Campbell of Tyndrum safely to Oban. What matter? He had escaped from the prison of his childhood. He was no longer Toby the Bastard, he was making his way in the world. He was going to make his name also.
Toby of Tyndrum, Toby of Fillan? Never!
Toby of the Highlands? Too vague.
'Annie,' Sir Torquil told one of the redheads, 'Master Longdirk needs more beef.'
'Nonsense, Father! He's got more beef than I've seen in years.'
Toby heard his own laugh over all the rest.
Gradually the voids were filled and the eating slowed. Rory wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, licked his fingers, and folded his arms. He refused offers of more. He began to talk, ignoring the huge audience with apparent confidence that his words would never be reported to outsiders.
'What news of Lord Robert?'
'The Campbell's in Edinburgh still,' Sir Torquil said cautiously, 'with his lady. Attending Parliament.'
Rory did not repeat his earlier description of the chief of Clan Campbell as a boot-licker — his hosts lived only an hour's walk from Inverary. He did not parrot the usual rebel description of the current parliament as a farce of traitor puppets.
'And the master?'
'He's gone hunting up Fort William way.' The caution was even more marked. 'So they say.'
Rory nodded. 'I gave Keeper Murray money for the wood we burned and the food we ate — the most expensive meal in the history of Scotland, that was. But he'll never spend it. Would you take a load of peat and —'
'I was planning to, soon as the rain stops. I do that every year.'
'Good!' Rory reached for his sporran and his host growled like a dog at a bear-baiting.
Rory smiled thanks. 'Apart from that, we have a couple of problems. The Sassenachs are after my man Longdirk, there, and you have a hexer loose in the district.'
Sir Torquil nodded. 'Aye, you told me. Nobody's seen any strangers.'
'She's around.'
'Well, you're safe here.'
'But we can't stay!' Rory raised a hand to balk argument. 'You're close enough to the shrine that the spirit will guard you, but if we hang around, we may endanger the spirit itself.'
'Like that, is it?'
'Very much so. We need to decide where to go. Father?'
The little friar blinked, suppressing a burp. 'Glasgow. Master, er, Longdirk, needs to visit the sanctuary. Failing that, Dumbarton. But we must get past Inverary.'
'That can be arranged,' Sir Torquil said, smiling yellow teeth in his red beard.
'Then we should go by Glen Kinglas, over to Loch Lomond. Two days should do it.'
Rory nodded thoughtfully. 'Hamish Campbell?'
'I go with Toby, sir.' Hamish was very pink, fighting an attack of hiccups.
Rory's eyes turned to Meg. 'You'll be safe here.'
Meg glanced at Toby and then down at her hands.
'You're a Campbell with Campbells in the middle of Campbell country, miss!' Sir Torquil thumped a hairy fist on the table. 'No one will lay a hand on her here, Master, er, Rory.'
Except perhaps Campbells. Toby had already registered that there were many more males than females in this household. Several young faces were displaying interest already. If Meg wanted a husband, she would have a wide selection available in Glen Shira. Why should that prospect alarm him? It was no business of his, even if she
