"And you, Toby? Oban?"
"Not sure… I wish I knew what Rory's up to. What's his interest in me?"
"He's… I don't know." The kid looked so owlish that he obviously thought he did.
"Guess."
"I think… Did you notice Cousin Murray call him 'my lord' a couple of times last night?"
Of course. And it had been right after the first time that Rory had launched into his tale of being imprisoned in London — sons of peasants were not held hostage in Greenwich Palace. But if Toby had worked that out, then Hamish must have.
"Fergan was a hostage, wasn't he?"
Hamish shivered and pulled his plaid tighter on his shoulders. "Rory's too young to be Fergan. Fergan's thirty-two."
"How'd you know that?"
"Read it in a book of course." He lowered his voice in case the trees overheard. "You want to know who I think Rory really is?"
The other three came scurrying and slithering down the steep path, huddled against the rain. Father Lachlan seemed lost in thought, but Meg and Rory were chattering busily together. All three went by without stopping.
"No," Toby said. "I don't want to know." Hamish had not answered his first question.
CHAPTER NINE
They walked a mile and saw no sign of Valda. They saw no one. They could barely see each other — the air was thick enough to swim through. Water danced on the mud and flowed over the fields in sheets. In places the road was ankle-deep.
Sir Torquil's house was a grand affair of two stories, surrounded by a retinue of trees, sheds, cottages, barns, and horse paddocks. It stood on the right bank of the Shira, the travelers stood on the left, and the river foamed betwixt. Bloated by the rain, it was lapping greedily over some of the stepping stones. Rory had stopped to consider the crossing. Toby and Hamish arrived at his back.
"It's risen since I was here earlier," he said. "If you want to wait a minute, Meg, I'm sure Torquil will send a horse as soon as he sees us."
That was funny. The river was considerably more deadly than the one at Tyndrum and the crossing longer, but the stones were closer together and more regular. Meg Tanner could hitch up her dress and skip across there with an agility Master MacDonald had lost years ago.
Meg turned around to Toby and said, "Carry me!"
There was absolutely no accounting for women.
Toby threw his bundle to Hamish and was on the third stepping stone with Meg in his arms before it hit. She looked up at him with a grin and sparkles of water on her eyelashes. He knew there was no use asking why she felt a need to be carried. Whatever the reason, he probably wouldn't understand it. Demons, who cared?
"You weigh more when you're waterlogged."
Her grin widened. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."
"I'm sure I deserved it. Don't try to explain what I did wrong, though. It would waste too much valuable time." Having reached the middle of the stream, Toby stopped. He would never get a better chance.
Devilry danced in her eyes like sunlight on water. "Valuable for what?"
"Toll."
"How much?"
"A kiss, of course."
"Long or short?"
"As long as you like." Then his heart failed him — decent women did not kiss men in public places. "If you don't mind?"
"You big lummox, that's what I wanted!"
Whatever Toby might have said then remained forever unspoken…
It lasted much longer than he expected. He had believed that kisses were brief affairs. He should have picked a stone where the icy water was not running over his feet. He wondered what would happen if he swooned and fell off the boulder. Again, who cared? When it was over he opened his eyes, savoring the taste of her mouth…
"There's two of us," he said hoarsely. "Passenger pays toll for both."
"He's waiting right behind you," Meg said softly. "We've made the point."
Pity. He made a long stride to the next stone. "What point?"
"If you don't know that, Tobias Strangerson, then you are a bigger fool than you pretend to be."
Another stone, leaving only three to go. "It's not pretending, Meg. I really am a fool. Less brains than an ox."
"But more muscle."
"Don't trust him, Meg. He's rich and probably noble—"
"And handsome, and I'm only a tanner's daughter, who can be sweet-talked into yielding her virtue and then be discarded. Have I got that right?"
"No, you haven't. He is not handsome." Another stone. One to go.
"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.