"The evening meal's still an hour or so off," Malcolm proclaimed cheerfully. "But I expect you'd enjoy a little something to keep you going until then. Have you any preference in whisky, Master Toby?"
Toby shook his head, causing the soldier to nod his.
"Then I'll see something is laid out for you and, er… your friend. If you'll just come back to the mess whenever you're ready." He reached for the door.
"What do we do with the water?"
"Oh, it gets ladled back into the boiler. But don't you mind it — I'll send a lad."
The door closed.
Toby rounded on Hamish. "What by the demons of Delia is going on? Why this sudden back-slapping, nothing-too-good, long-lost-brothering?"
The owl blinked. "You don't trust him, do you?"
"Of course not!"
"Do you ever trust anyone, ever?"
"Tell me what's going on!"
"Why ask me? How can you trust what I tell you? I'm just…" Hamish's smirk wavered and he backed away as Toby advanced menacingly on him. "Well, think about it! They knew what you did."
"So?"
"Now Sir Malcolm knows how and why." With an impudent grin, the kid added, "You're a big hero, Longdirk!"
Toby resisted the urge to dunk the kid's head back in the bathwater. He was probably right, as usual. Any story coming from Meg would be well embroidered. Rory's might have no resemblance to the truth at all. He might as well go out and see what sort of trouble the two of them had gotten him into. Besides, it was a long time since breakfast at Sir Torquil's.
The shirt would have to go on first. He pulled it over his head and then tried to put an arm into a sleeve. The tussle ended in a sound of ripping as the stitches surrendered.
"You'd think the Campbell could afford better seamstresses!" Toby discarded the remains. Who needed a shirt? The plaid was smaller than his own and smelled unpleasantly of soap, but a plaid was an accommodating garment. Best of all, it was dry. He wiped mud off his belt and sporran with the remains of the shirt and struggled into the unfamiliar socks. Wee Wilkin's feet must have been longer and narrower than his, but the shoes would do if he did not have to walk far.
When the two still-faintly-damp visitors emerged from the corridor into the kitchen, at least fifty of the castle guards were assembled there, lounging around on the stools and benches. Sir Malcolm was waiting at the entrance. He took Toby's hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised it overhead. The men surged to their feet in a tattoo of boots and a fanfare of scraping furniture.
"Huzzah!" cried the castellan. The ensuing cheer rippled the banners overhead. "Huzzah!"
Toby felt his face going red, redder, reddest. He was being applauded because he had misjudged a blow and killed a man? That was ridiculous! This was rank hypocrisy. No matter how lustily they shouted for him, some of them must be planning to become rich off him before tomorrow's dawn. Earl Robert was known to favor the English governor; his men could not possibly all support Fergan — a few perhaps, in secret, but not all of them! 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."