Demon Sword

Yet here they were making public rejoicing at the death of an English fusilier. Some of the guard would certainly rat. It would only take one. And even if none of the guard did, what of the hundreds of servants in the castle? Where was their loyalty?

Phonies!

The cheering ended, the castellan conducted the guests to a table laden with food. Hamish set to with a will, but Toby was beset by men twice his age coming to shake his hand and laud his heroism in tackling an armed soldier with his bare hands. They made him feel like the biggest idiot in the history of the Highlands.

Eventually the procession of admirers ended. Most of the guard departed. At last he could do justice to the cold pheasant and blood sausage. He drank only water.

CHAPTER FIVE

He was distracted by more scraping of boots as the remaining men again rose to their feet. This time they were acknowledging visitors. One of them was Rory, almost unrecognizable in the dandified dress of an English gentleman — hat, kid buskins, embroidered shirt, fur-trimmed, full-skirted surcoat, and his legs encased in stocks of contrasting colors, one blue, one striped red and green. The outrageous outfit must be the latest fashion in Sassenach-loving Edinburgh. Even a woman whose taste ran to popinjays would never class him as handsome, surely? Damn him!

And the lady on his arm… Demons! It was Meg, decked out as if she had just arrived from the court, looking five years older and a hand taller. How could she even stand up in all that material? — laces and stitchery, flounces and puffed sleeves, plumes and pleats. The braids had gone and her hair was gathered in a silver net. She was a child playing at dressing up — no woman could have a waist that slender! Realizing that he was the only man in the hall still sitting, Toby staggered to his feet as she approached on Rory's arm. That neckline? How did the dress make her look so, er, buxom? That night he had rescued her, he had seen… There must be some sort of padding to push her up like that.

She was certainly enjoying the attention. She simpered. She curtseyed. She had a brief struggle with her gown, and then perched on a stool.

At the far end of the mess, the kitchen staff decided the young lord was here to stay. They unobtrusively started work again as quietly as they could.

Rory took the end of a bench beside Meg and looked up reprovingly. 'Longdirk,' he murmured, 'it is permissible to notice a lady, but that gawky ogle is overdoing things by far.'

Toby was the only one still standing… he sank back on his stool.

'Better!' the master said. 'Now close your mouth and dry your chin.'

'You approve?' Meg asked, her cheeks bright pink.

Toby gulped and stammered helplessly. The only word he could find was, 'Gorgeous!'

Rory frowned. 'I came to issue a warning. Hello? Can you hear me?'

Toby tore his eyes away from Meg. 'Yes.'

'Sure? Noose? Gallows? One hundred marks, dead or alive, remember? We have a small problem.'

'What sort of problem?'

'Grandmother has a house guest.'

'What sort of house guest?'

'A gentleman, of course. Master Maxim Stringer — an English merchant. He owns an import business in Dumbarton. He may not take quite the same attitude toward outlaws as we natives do.'

Reality began to seep into Toby's churning wits. 'The natives? Does one more matter? Somebody here is going to squeal to the Sassenachs.'

'No.'

'A hundred marks—'

'It's tempting,' Rory said sharply. 'One or two may be tempted, but the Campbells won't betray a guest. Lady Lora has already made her feelings known, and so has Sir Malcolm. Believe me, any man who tips off the English won't live long enough to enjoy his reward. So you needn't worry about the chief's men, nor the house staff. But Master Stringer may be different. He won't care as much for the money, you understand, but he is English, poor fellow. His servants are living on the ship or billeted in the village, so they're no problem. Just him.'

'I should leave!'

The master shook his head impatiently. 'And go where? You're posted on every tree now. Even the Campbells can't shield you in Oban or Glasgow or Dumbarton. You stand out like Ben Cruachan, laddie.'

Toby clenched his teeth. 'So I have to stay here?'

'Not indefinitely. When the weather clears, Master Stringer will be sailing back to Dumbarton. Other ships, too. Father Lachlan's convinced that he must get you to Glasgow before you start causing terrible damage.'

'What? What sort of—'

Rory shrugged. 'Ask him. I think he's floundering. But that doesn't solve the long-term problem, does it? You're an idiot, but an interesting idiot, and not unlikable. You saved my life in the bog, even if you did provoke the bogy's spite in the first place. I owe you a debt, and I pay my debts. I want to see you settled, Master Strangerson.'

He smiled reassuringly at Meg. Oh, he was very sure of himself now, was Rory! No one could call him to account in Inverary, except his father, away on the far side of Scotland. He could even parade around in the motley of a court jester without making a mess hall full of Highlanders collapse in earthquakes of mirth. There had been grins, yes, but no more. He must have proved himself a demon of a fighter at some time to have earned such respect.

He had the woman he lusted for trapped in his web. He could afford to be generous to the serf who had assisted in arranging this desirable turn of events. He could patronize him now.

'Muscle is no substitute for clan or land, boy. The law says you're a vagrant, even without the price on your head.'

So again Toby faced the question: Whose man will you be?

'Which side are you recruiting for today?'

His insolence brought a welcome flush to the master's handsome cheek, and a most unwelcome stare of dismay from Meg. Rory's voice did not waver, though. He has charm, she had said. There was no need for him to lose his temper now, no need to resort to swords to keep the foolish girl from running away.

'Do not discuss politics in this house! Never! Only the Campbell himself decides such matters. Clear?'

'Yes, Master.'

'Good. I'm recruiting for Inverary. My father can adopt you into the clan. Sir Malcolm is always looking for strong young men. So you'll be Pikeman Toby Campbell of Inverary, and then the Sassenachs can stuff their warrant in a bombard and blow it to hell.'

Hamish made a noise perilously close to a whistle of astonishment. Meg beamed ecstatically.

Everything a man needed: a name, a job, a home — a master.

'Just pikeman? Not official Clan Hexer?'

Rory stared at him through a long silence. 'Can you?'

'No. Whatever wonders happen around me are not my doing. I don't call them.'

'That limits your value, but I won't believe it's all just luck. If I was marching into battle, Longdirk, I'd rather have you at my side than all the MacDonalds in the Isles.'

'Wouldn't he be better protection in front?' said Meg.

Toby winced. The ice in her eyes said he was being unnecessarily mulish.

The master guffawed at her humor and then returned to business. 'It's time to make up your mind! Whose man do you want to be?' He adjusted a lace cuff thoughtfully. 'Of course, you are the king's man. Every man is the king's man first. Every bond of manrent excludes fealty to His Majesty.'

Toby could only nod. In theory that was true, although it did not prevent the earl of Argyll from deciding