He was less sure of his way back to the shelter. After he had awakened screaming for the second time, he had stumbled off into the woods to sleep by himself. Now he had to find his way back — preferably without having to yell for help. He peered around at the trees. There could be more than one dwelling hidden here.
There could be a whole army. The haunted glen might be a major rebel base, and King Fergan himself on hand to extract Toby's oath of allegiance with a dirk under his chin, as Iain Miller had predicted.
He wanted breakfast, although long habit made him feel that he ought to milk Bossie first. He stamped his feet and blew smoky breath through reddened fingers. Which way to go? Northeast, probably. If he did not find the others in that direction, he would come to the bog very shortly. The hovel had not been far from there, although everything would look different in daylight.
Then he heard Meg laughing, surprisingly close. Relieved, he strode in that direction, crunching dead leaves underfoot and combing them out of his hair with his fingers.
His companions were picnicking outside the hut. They looked up as he arrived, but only two of them smiled. Their ears and noses were red. Meg was huddled in her cloak, and Hamish had pulled his plaid over both shoulders and was heaped like a tartan-wrapped parcel on the grass.
Rory sat on a boulder as if it were a throne. He was younger than he had seemed in the night, his sandy hair looked lighter, the stubble on his chin had a reddish tint, and his eyes were a pale, silvery gray. The permanent sneer was more evident; his failure in the bog had obviously caused him to lose none of his superior airs. With the sword on his belt and the dirk just visible under the fold of his plaid, he could probably be as deadly as he chose to be. The crow's feather still jutted from his bonnet.
Hamish had one, too.
"Toby!" Meg exclaimed. "Hungry?"
"Starving." He knelt down and inspected the fare. It had come from his bundle — Annie Bridge's offerings — and had been well looted. He chose a hunk of blood sausage and bit into it eagerly.
"Do you always sleep so loudly, Longdirk?" Rory inquired.
"No. I'm sorry I woke you all."
"A clear conscience is a great advantage. I did hear you letting rip a few more times. Will you tell us what troubled you?"
"No."
"Was it the bogy?" Hamish inquired solemnly.
Toby shook his head. He would not describe his visions of Lady Valda to anyone.
"I slept like a log!" Meg proclaimed. She seemed to be in very good spirits, considering the ordeal she had been through. Either she was still buoyed up by the excitement of the adventure or else she was one of those vexing people who came awake chirruping like birds. "What do we do now, Master Glencoe? Head on to Dalmally, I suppose? And then Oban?"
Rory chewed for a moment. "We wait here. I'm expecting a friend."
Or several friends.
But poor Master Rory had lost his shoes in the bog, and poor Master Rory was not accustomed to walking on bare feet.
"There's no need for you to trouble yourself further on our account, sir," Toby remarked with his mouth full. "We are grateful for all your help, but we can be on our way now."
"My friend and I are coming with you."
"No, that won't be necessary," Toby said sweetly. "We can manage by ourselves now. Of course, we do appreciate the way you guided us through the bog."
Amused to see Rory's silver eyes narrow at the gibe, he turned to Hamish. "How far to Oban, do you suppose?"
Unlike Meg, Hamish had noted the dangerous undertow. He glanced uneasily at Rory, then said, "Twenty-five or thirty miles."
"Then we must be on our way." Toby laid his sausage on the ground and began repacking his bundle. "Should make it before dark."
"I think we ought to wait for Master Glencoe's friend!" Meg declared firmly. "Traveling with company is more fun. Please, Toby?"
She smiled appealingly at him.
He was disconcerted. She was a distraction from deadly serious business.
Hamish was amused, Rory openly smirking.
Very funny! In the long sleepless ordeal of the night, Toby had realized that Fat Vik's accusations were not entirely baseless. Meg's presence at the castle that evening had been part of a pattern. He had been running into Meg Tanner quite often lately. He had not been pursuing Meg, but she had been pursuing him.
Stupid kid! His only asset was his size. A child might fall for a man just because he was big, but mature women knew that large Highlanders just made easier targets. Meg had been hanging around in his path for weeks, and the dramatic rescue from the fusilier must have confirmed all her romantic fancies. When he had met up with her the previous evening, she had expected him to kiss her.
Small wonder the other two were laughing. She was pretty enough in a childlike way, but by any standards she was small; she had a tiny, upturned nose, a pointed chin, and dark eyebrows. Muffled in her cloak, she seemed younger than ever: a starry-eyed kid with a juvenile crush on Strangerson, the big bastard.
He'd promised her father he would guard her like a sister. He must not encourage her romantic notions.
"No, let's go." Toby looked around — the others' bundles were in evidence, but not his broadsword. He rose to fetch it.
Rory sprang up and blocked his path. Moving with deliberation, he drew.
Toby tensed — here came the violence. Most likely, he was about to be given the choice of swearing to bleed for the rebels at some time in the future, or bleeding on his own account right now.
The rebel's silver eyes glinted. "You'll never make it to Oban, boy." He tossed his sword, hilt-first, so that it landed at Hamish's feet. "You'll never get by Dalmally. There's only three ways out of Fillan — think the English can't count?" Then he pulled his dirk. "I told you last night you wouldn't last a week in the real world, and I tell you now you won't live out the day without my help. From now on, you take my orders." Dirk followed sword.
Well! So it was to be fisticuffs was it? Toby folded his arms and looked down at Rory MacDonald with fresh confidence. "I'm not your man."
"You're nobody's man — at the moment. That makes you fair game."
"Not this way, sir. I'm bareknuckle champion of Fillan."
Rory smiled. "So Meg said. Show me." He raised his fists and put his left foot forward.
On the face of it, he was being suicidal. Granted he had fair shoulders, Toby had a full head advantage in height and probably weighed half again as much. So there was some other game in play that Toby hadn't worked out yet. If Rory was trying to keep Toby here until his friends arrived, then why discard the blades? The smell of a trap was too strong — and in the background Hamish was shaking his head violently.
"No."
"Oh, you are a gentle giant, aren't you? Hit me. Try! Just try!"
"No."
"Won't you spare the maiden's blushes and even pretend to be a man for her?"
"She knows what I can do when it's needed."
Rory put his fists on his hips and sighed in exasperation. "I hate explaining! Let me put it this way — you don't know how to use your strength. If I had stumbled on that Sassenach getting out of line, he would have wakened up an hour later with a sore neck, and there would have been no further trouble. Now be your age, sonny. Get mad! Hit me!"
Again Toby said, "No. I might hurt a little man worse than I meant to."
The rebel did not enjoy being called a little man. "I order you!"
"I am not your man."
"Then defend yourself." MacDonald shot a couple of very fast lefts at Toby's face, followed by a right. Toby's arms blocked of their own accord. Rory came in under his guard, hammered him twice in the midriff, and danced back out of reach. He was fast, very fast. The blows stung, but that was all. A small man's speed might help compensate for a big man's strength, but nothing could counterbalance the bigger man's ability to absorb punishment. Toby could take fifty such blows and then win with one.