"A man, of course. A woman would have had the same trouble."
The foot tapped faster. She heaved her cloak higher on her shoulders. "I was doubly fortunate that you recognized me in time, though."
He looked up, puzzled by her tone. "Recognized you? I didn't. I didn't know it was you."
Meg said, "Oh!" very violently. "You crude, oversized, shambling ox, Toby Strangerson! What does it take to get an idea into that lump of granite you call a head? Why don't you ever even try?" She whirled in a dance of braids and stalked away.
He shrugged to himself, remembering that last night's experience would have been terrifying for a child and this wild flight into the unknown could hardly be helping calm her down. He should have swallowed his stupid pride and let her rotten brother accompany her… Fat Vik: her half-brother and probably his, too. She would have felt safer with someone she could trust. Now, if he could fasten the bundle to the hilt of the sword, he would have both hands free…
"Do it this way," Rory said, kneeling beside him. "Fine lass, that one."
"She's a nice kid."
"You think so?" Rory chuckled softly. "Feisty, I'd call her. There, try that. So you are leaving home, Toby Strangerson? It may be a long whiles before you are able to return safely."
"When the Fillan flows up Beinn Bheag will be soon enough."
The pale eyes regarded him steadily, shining in the moonlight. "What of the grieving friends you leave behind?"
"They'll survive." In truth — no friends.
"Och, but they will mourn!" Master MacDonald shook his head in sorrow. "And surely there is some small window with a candle lit for you! You have left your heart in trust?"
To admit that there was no one at all who cared whether Toby Strangerson lived or died would be a statement of cold fact. It proved curiously difficult to say out loud. He could easily lie, of course, but lying would itself be a confession that the truth hurt, and it didn't. He had accepted long ago that a strong man must stand alone. He had no need of friends and he would find a woman to love when he had something more to offer than the shame of bastardy and an empty sporran. He had no need to explain all that to this stranger in the night. Besides, he had begun to wonder if the man already knew the answers and was making fun of him. He just shook his head.
Rory sprang to his feet. "We'll be on our way, then. You'll all do exactly as I tell you, because Glen Orchy is no romp in a featherbed."
"Just how does one get across the bog?"
"You talk nice to the wisp, of course."
Hamish said, "The what?" very squeakily.
"The wisp. The bogy, if you prefer. Bogy, boggle, wisp… a wild hob. It's not malicious as a rule. It won't meddle with you if you don't meddle with it, but it can get playful, like a bear cub. Come on." Rory hung his lute on his back and turned to go. "Bring the rope, Longdirk."
"Take it yourself."
Meg and Hamish gasped aloud. Toby had surprised even himself. He should not be refusing orders from a man of rank, and especially not one armed with a sword. Darkness and remoteness did not matter — he would be in mortal danger in a crowded street now.
"Indeed?" said the sandy-haired man softly. "Whose man are you, then, that speaks to me so? Who must I deal with when I have taught you your manners, little laddie?"
Toby Strangerson was an addlebrained idiot! His bundle hung on the hilt of his sword. By the time he had disposed of that and drawn the monster blade from its ramshackle scabbard, Rory would have put more holes in him than a charge of grapeshot. Even if Rory sportingly waited until they were both armed and ready, he could still win easily.
Himself, Toby did not need this self-proclaimed MacDonald of Glencoe. Himself, he would brave the hills and take his chances on starvation or freezing or betrayal, but he had given his word to Kenneth Tanner. He had Meg to consider, was responsible for Meg. Hamish Teacher would be no protector for her with Toby lying dead in the bog. He must back down, and quickly, and count himself lucky if he did not get his tongue slit anyway. Yet the apology stuck in his throat.
"Just don't call me that!" he said.
Rory made an incredulous sound. "I'll call you anything I want, boy. You'd rather be Toby the Bastard? I said, 'Bring the rope, Longdirk!'"
In silence, Toby went for the rope and slung it over his shoulder.
"When I give you an order, Longdirk, you answer, 'Yes, sir!'"
"Yes, sir."
"And run, Longdirk."
"Yes, sir."
"Remember in future, Longdirk. Come along, everyone. May I carry your pack, Miss Campbell? Will you stroll with me this evening?"
Toby stalked off with the rope. He did not know what use it was going to be and would rather not know any sooner than he had to. He wondered why he had been so surly and pigheaded. He certainly did not care about his name. He was determined to find himself a new one, so why insist on the old? That was just dimwitted. And why had he made the snippy remark about lutists earlier? Why had he taken such a dislike to Rory of Glencoe?
He was not usually so childish. Boys of his own age had spurned him, but by the time he was twelve, he had been looking most adults straight in the eye. He had learned that if he acted his size instead of his age, he would often be accepted as one of them. Now the Rory man was here to help him in his time of trouble — a gentleman, probably a noble, well-educated, and wise in the ways of the world. His fancy talk might have been an offer of friendship by gentry ways. So why was Toby Strangerson behaving so loutishly?
Perhaps because he was sure that the stranger was one of King Fergan's Black Feather rebels and intended to enlist another. If the help was conditional on that, then things were going to be tricky.
A few moments later, he was annoyed but not at all surprised to find Rory walking at his side, with the two kids following. The questions began:
"Tell me about your fight with the Sassenach."
"It was nothing much."
"Tell me anyway."
Toby considered his options. If he again challenged the man's right to give him orders, then dawn might find him still trapped in the glen, or lying dead on the heather. He had responsibilities to Meg and in lesser amounts to Hamish. He must cooperate.
"There wasn't much to it. He was pestering the girl. I knocked him down, he drew his sword, I found his musket lying in the grass, I hit him with it, but too hard. I didn't mean to kill him."
"Just like that? It's beautiful! And how did you escape from the castle?"
"Their manacles were old and rusty. I managed to free myself in the cell. Then Lady Valda came down to—"
"Who?"
"I'm told that's her name. Her emblem's a black crescent on purple. She rode in from Fort William."
"Spirits preserve us!" MacDonald muttered. "Black crescent? Black hair and a face to drive men insane?"
"Black hair, yes. Beautiful, certainly, but not my type."
"No?" Rory said skeptically. "Lad, if she decided you were her type, then nothing would save you! You'd howl outside her window for the rest of your life. What exactly… Roughly, what did she want of you?"
"She said she wanted to sponsor me as a prizefighter. I didn't believe that was what she really wanted. I knocked her men down, got out, stole a horse, and rode home."
Put like that, it was gibberish. He wondered how in the world he could expect to be believed. He wasn't.
"A singular narrative!" Rory MacDonald of Glencoe faked a yawn. "Can you add a few plausible details to undermine my native skepticism?"
"Only that I was raised by the witchwife. I think she enlisted the hob to rescue me."