Page 160 of Tales of Highland Loyalty

Ten years ago, it had all been so different. Then, the hall teemed with life. But now, the spiders were the only things living here. Ainslee struggled to make out the portraits on the back wall, but a sudden shaft of light illuminated them. Ancient nobles peered out from their cobwebbed frames. But as she came to the present day, there was an abrupt gap.

Ainslee blinked. The previous laird's portrait was missing, and beside it, a newer canvas, in heavy oils, depicting the wiry face of the new laird; tall, proud, with a good head of dark hair .

A pang filled her; this should be Malcolm's portrait.

Morosely, Ainslee was lost in herself, when a sharp voice made her spin around.

"Who are ye, and whit are ye doing here?"

Ainslee's heart almost stopped. Searching furiously, she struggled to see the owner of the voice.

She couldn't.

Squinting, Ainslee looked around. A shuffling came towards her, making her flinch aggressively. Hands wrapped around the sword, she kept it slow and steady in the air.

"Put doon yer blade!"

She still couldn't see a face. But the glinting of a knife came quickly into view. Ainslee gasped.

"I said, put doon yer sword! And show me yer hauns!"

The voice was chilling and fierce. Trembling, Ainslee kept her cool.

"Nae til ye tell me who ye are!" she swiped back. Inside she was tensing, but outside she was hard.

A sudden noise jerked from beside her. The man had moved, and was now right beside her. Finally she caught a glimpse of his eyes, pale and watchful in the semi-light.

Ainslee froze.

"I asked ye first!" he growled, bringing his blade right up to her throat.

"Ye came wandering into ma castle waving a sword - drop it!"

Ainslee almost stopped breathing. This was not what she was expecting. Reluctantly, she dropped the sword, its heavy frame clattering on the grubby stone floor.

"Noo who are ye!"

The eyes glinted again, but most of the face was darkened. All the same, Ainslee could smell the remnants of the fish he had had for his tea. A stench wafted closer, as her nausea thickened.

"I...I am Ainslee McDonald, daughter o' the smithy, Alasdair McDonald," said Ainslee, in a small voice. She suddenly felt very scared. "The guards let me in, I am here to deliver this sword to the laird..."

Ainslee watched. The man scooped up the sword, and began examining it.

"Och, McDouglas, fetch the light," he muttered to an unseen servant. A prickly, nasty sensation came over Ainslee. She still genuinely thought the man to be a brigand, or at least a servant out to rob her.

Ainslee shivered, as the man came close, bringing the candelabra over. The flickering light cast an orange glow over his features. Ainslee was still none the wiser as to who he was, but was beginning to suspect a belligerent guard.

He took the sword, examining it archly.

"Hm, hm, nae braw," he muttered, holding the weapon aloft. He ran his finger up and down it, as Ainslee watched in barely concealed fury. The man pulled a face again, before throwing it back down on the floor.

Squaring up to him, Ainslee stood her ground.

"Whit's wrong wi' it?" she asked, angered. A strange mix of indignation and trepidation built in her. She was unsure of this impertinent servant, but she certainly was not about to let him disrespect her father's handiwork!

Hotly, she looked up, as the man towered over her.

Now she got a good look at his face; his brown hair was slicked and greasy, and his pallid eyes followed her all about as she examined the blade.