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brandy and stared into the fire, although Rory was uncomfortably aware that he had equivocated. Not that Patrick could not trust him where Argyll was concerned. He had never been one to carry tales of others to the duke, nor did Argyll expect that of him. But he had been careful not to assure Patrick that he could simply trust him. He could not do that unless he meant to open the budget about Mab MacKissock. Considering that Patrick was very likely housing a Jacobite traitor, the least he might expect was that Rory would warn him of what he knew. Yet he was oddly reluctant to do so, and oddly eager to meet the wicked wench face to face again.
    Knowing all this, he forced himself to sit quietly with Patrick until they had both finished their brandy. Not until the captain offered to refill his glass did he shake his head and say, “I’m for bed, my friend.”
    Patrick chuckled. “In that case, I shall order a warming pan taken to your chamber at once, sir.”
    “An excellent notion,” he said, his loins stirring at the thought.
    “Unless …” Patrick’s eyes were twinkling. “Will your Thomas already have thought of a warming pan? I could order hot milk instead.”
    “Hot milk! You deserve that I should ruin you with Argyll for making such a suggestion. Not only will Thomas not have ordered a warming pan, he will call me a mollycoddle if he thinks I have sent for one. As for a composer, he mixes the finest toddy this side of heaven. Warm milk, indeed.”
    Patrick was still chuckling when they left the chamber. Parting from him at the narrow, twisting stone stairway that connected the several floors of the castle, Rory made his way to the chamber allotted to himself.
    There he found that Thomas had turned down his bed, a service he believed due to Rory’s rank. Thomas himself sat cleaning Rory’s leathers before the small fire he had built in the arched stone fireplace to take the damp from the chamber.
    “It’s damned smoky in here,” Rory said.
    “Aye, it is,” Thomas agreed. Shooting a look at his master, he said, “Make your complaints tae Patrick Campbell if ye dinna like it. I canna blow it up yon chimney, and if I open yon shutter, it only makes it worse.”
    “Did they give you a chamber of your own?” Rory asked him.
    “Nay, then, this isna Inveraray. I’m tae sleep in the hall wi’ the lads, but I’ll no die of it. There’ll be less smoke there at least. Are ye for bed the noo?”
    “I am, so finish with those things or take them away. I’ve a visitor coming.”
    “Have ye now?”
    “I have, and I’ll thank you to keep that look off your face, Thomas MacKellar. Remember who is master here unless you want to seek a new position.”
    “Aye, and who will clean your leathers then, me laddie?” Thomas rolled his eyes, adding piously, “If the old laird could but hear ye, talking tae the most loyal man in your service as if he were nae more tae ye than a carking carfuffle.”
    “A what?”
    Thomas appeared to have gone suddenly deaf as he busied himself with dignified dispatch, picking up the leathers and his tools.
    “You mind your tongue, Thomas MacKellar, and help me off with these boots before you go,” Rory said, trying to speak firmly while fighting his amusement. He sat on a stool near the bed and put out one foot expectantly.
    Thomas looked at him. Then, with a sigh, he put down the things he had gathered and knelt at Rory’s feet. Catching the heel of the proffered foot in one hand and the instep with the other, he tugged, muttering, “Nae doot ye’ll dizzy yourself if ye tug them off yourself, or mayhap ye’ve et too much and canna bend in the middle. Or ha’ ye wearied yourself wi’ our long day’s journey, and all?”
    “That will do, Thomas.”
    “Aye, sure.” Pulling off the second boot without another word, Thomas picked up both of them. Awkwardly collecting the other gear, he moved toward the door. When he reached it, he looked back to say with grave dignity,