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 which king his people would support.
"Which king, Longdirk?"
The tables had been turned.
"You just told me not to discuss politics here, my lord."
"May I intrude?" Meg asked, intruding. "When an ox can't be led, it can sometimes be driven. Lord Gregor has made you an incredibly generous offer, Toby. You spurn it. What do you want?"
He scratched his head. "You safe in Oban, to start with."
Rory smiled like a well-fed wolf. "You need worry no more about Meg. My grandmother is even now writing a note to her parents, and it will go by runner tomorrow. They will know that she is safe."
Safe from whom? Meg had lowered her gaze to the forgotten food on the boards. Her parents would be enraptured at the news. The tanner was a rich man in Tyndrum, but the humblest scullery job in Inverary Castle would be a great advancement for his daughter. Toby was relieved of his promise.
"Next wish, Longdirk?"
"To be free of my hex, or demon, or whatever it is."
"That means Glasgow. And after that?"
The ox was being driven. "I don't think Valda's dead." Mindful of Meg's reproach, Toby added, "That's why I can't accept your offer, my lord. If I stay here, she'll find me, and I may not be the only one who suffers then." That was true, if only part of the truth.
"It would have been tactful to say so sooner," Rory murmured. "I told you I'm grateful. So what do you want? What will you be when you grow up, Little Toby? Soldier? Farmhand? Miner? Shepherd? Highwayman?"
The barn door closed. He said the words he'd never spoken aloud before. "I'm going to be a prizefighter." He saw Meg shudder. "It's all I've got! I'm big, and I can box. I can't do anything else. There's good money to be made in the ring in England."
Even Rory seemed disappointed. "There's also gambling, and cheating, and criminals. A very low crowd."
"Making a living by hurting people?" Meg said. "Breaking bones, smashing faces? And what do they do to you? In a few years you'll be a pug-ugly, shambling hulk with no brains at all!"
"Note that I refrain from making funny remarks here," Rory said airily. "Prizefighting sponsors I cannot produce. The best I can do is to refer you to Sir Malcolm. He has some of the finest trainers in Scotland. No boxing instructors, so far as I know, but you can brush up on your holds and throws. They need work."
He rose, graceful as a swallow. "Come, Miss Campbell. We must leave the lads to their meal and go see what Grandmother has provided for us. Our solar is greatly praised, but your beauty will transform it." He offered her a hand. "Hamish — you want books? I'll show you the library."
Hamish sprang to his feet, food forgotten. "That would be wonderful, my lord!"
"There's about a thousand volumes, I'm told. Reading is not my favorite pastime. Help yourself. You, Knuckles, have to keep under cover. Master Stringer is another idiot, but stay out of his way if you value your cervical vertebrae."
Toby's nails dug into his palms. "For how long?"
"Until the storm blows over and the boats can leave. Then we'll ship you and Father Lachlan off down to Dumbarton. It's a good idea to let a hue and cry die down — people always assume after a week or two that the fugitive has fled to foreign parts, and they forget. Do keep your mouth shut."
Rory nodded a mocking farewell and departed, with Hamish tagging at his heels like a puppy and Meg on his arm in her courtly gown.
Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!
CHAPTER SIX
Toby was trapped. Even if he was allowed to leave the castle, he would never escape from Campbell country against Rory's will. In any case, he could not desert Meg, although she had not asked for his help and probably never would. He must just accept the master at his word and wait for the Atlantic to stop throwing gales at the coast. Then, if Rory were to be trusted, he could risk his neck in Dumbarton, seeking an exorcism at the sanctuary.
So he had time to kill. The Campbells were respectful but distant; he must not talk politics with them and he had nothing else to discuss. Meg and Rory and Father Lachlan could float amid the gentry, hobnobbing with Master Stringer and dining with Her Ladyship. Hamish would be happy to eat, drink, breathe, live, and sleep books. Not Toby! Reading had always been torment for him, one plodding word at a time.
Much as he disliked admitting a debt to Rory, the idea of wrestling lessons had a strong appeal. The next morning, he accosted Sir Malcolm.
The castellan scratched his red beard as if perplexed, but a twinkle in his eye hinted he had already been warned. "Just wrestling? How about a few of the other manly arts as well? Fencing? Musketry? We can't do much on archery or horsemanship without going outdoors. That's true of artillery, too."
"All of them!"
"Then all of them you shall have. If you'll just come with me, Master Toby." Sir Malcolm led him upstairs.
Toby followed, wondering if he had been overly brash. He might have chopped down more than he could saw up. "This is very kind of you, Castellan."