The Scottish Witch (continued)

THE SCOTTISH WITCH, (continued.

Desperate to escape she tried to fix an escape route in her mind but terror dimmed her memory.
Mouth watering smells drifted through an open kitchen door. Ailsa's nose twitched. Hunger gnawed at her empty stomach. A few steps past the kitchen, she glanced into a large pantry. Shelves were laden with earthenware crocks. On the floor close by an open window baskets brimmed with fruits and vegetables.
Morgan tightened his grip on her shoulder and dragged her through a labyrinth of passageways. Suddenly he flung open a door and Ailsa paused at the threshold of a vast, lavishly appointed rectangular hall. The waning light of day filtered through the beveled glass of a vestibule door. A brass-studded outer door stood open. It led to a wide terrace and, beyond that, she glimpsed formal gardens.
Morgan shook her. “Move! Lord Redmond wants a look at you before sending you to the magistrate.”
Expecting another blow she cringed away from him. Her stomach in knots she edged across the white and black marble floor. Rich tapestries draped the walls. Burnished sconces gleamed beside closed doors. In every sconce were fresh, unlit candles. A wide staircase of highly polished oak swept up to the second floor.
In an alcove, a long-case clock chimed the half-hour. Its brass pendulum swung back and forth marking time. Doomed by her crime, out of harmony with the silvery chime of the clock, Ailsa's last few seconds of freedom ticked away.
Morgan knocked on a door, opened it with a flourish and shoved her ahead of him. Her broken boots tangled on the thick carpet and she stumbled into the presence of Lord Redmond. Rigid with fear, she struggled to her feet and faced the enemy.
He sat behind an imposing desk. Lips pursed, brow furrowed in an intimidating frown, he leaned forward to examine her.
“Here's the lad, sir. Caught him in the act. He took one of your salmon with his bare hands. A sly character, this one, I've never seen that done before.”
Morgan reached into his leather sack for the salmon. “Have a look at this. He poached one of your big ones.” He glared at the captive. “Take off your cap, boy! Besides being a thief, you've no manners.”
He snatched the cap from Ailsa's head. The tortoise-shell comb holding her braids in place flew off and her two long braids tumbled down her back.
“Bless my soul,” Lord Redmond snorted. “You told me you had a boy. This appears to be a girl.” He came from behind the desk.
Ailsa shuddered and hunched her shoulders as he approached. The bundle dropped from her nerveless fingers.
“Here you,” Morgan snarled. “What are you up to, dressed like a boy? Some new trick is it. Sent to poach by your thieving parents. You'll not get away with it.” Seizing her, he shook her like a rag doll.
Stressed to the breaking point from hunger and exhaustion, the last of Ailsa's strength ebbed. Close to collapse, her knees buckled.
“That will do, Morgan. There's no need to be rough with the girl.”
Lord Redmond smiled at her. “What is your name, child?”
“Ailsa Mary Macrae.” She lowered her gaze and studied the red, green and gold designs on the carpet. The patterns merged and flowed together. How strange, she thought, and narrowed her eyes to make the carpet cease its restless motion.
“And how old are you?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“What part of Scotland do you come from?'
“The north, sir. The highlands.”
“You've come a long way. What brings you here?”
“I...uh.” She chewed her lip. “We have no home...” Every breath wearied her. Mumbling the words, she tried to continue. “We were driven off...driven off our land. My father...”
A gasping sob streaked across her bruised ribs. “Oh no, he is...” The room melted under her feet and she crumpled on the carpet. Eyes closed, too fatigued to raise her head, she longed to disappear.
“I'll put her outside, milord. She's nowt but a tramp off the road. The magistrate will put her away.”
Pain fogged Ailsa's tired brain. Hearing the dreaded words, she struggled to rouse herself. A cool hand rested on her forehead
“The girl is ill. Fetch Mrs. Jenkins at once.”
He knelt on the carpet beside Ailsa. “Stay quiet. Our housekeeper will be here presently. You have nothing to fear.”
Ailsa's eyes fluttered as a plump, rosy-cheeked woman bustled into the room. “Is the poacher dead, sir?”
“Not at all. Fainted I think. Help me carry her to the settle.”
Gentle hands lifted Ailsa. She tried to speak but words stuck in her throat. Helpless as a newborn babe, unable to move, she lay back and rested her head on soft cushions.
“Why she's light as a feather. Hasn't had a good meal for a bit, I'll be bound. If you'll just let me have a little brandy, milord, that should bring her round.”
Ailsa tried to sit up and toppled back when the room spun in dizzying circles. A glass clinked behind her.
“That will do fine.” Mrs. Jenkins sat beside Ailsa and slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Sip this, child.”
The fiery liquor burned down her throat. Sputtering and coughing, words tumbled out. “I must go to my father. He's very ill and doesn't know where I am. Please let me go. Please.” She lurched to her feet, wavered briefly and kept her balance.
Mrs. Jenkins stood and patted Ailsa's hand. “Where is your father?”
Confused, not sure what to do, Ailsa's leaned against the ample bosom of the housekeeper. If she told them where to find him would they send him to a workhouse?
(to be continued)

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