But every shred deserted him as soon as he arrived at Fairmaiden Castle and two of Alan Mor Matheson’s burly stalwarts escorted him into the stronghold’s great hall. Whether the louts appeared friendly or not, he stopped just inside the shadowed entry arch, planting his feet firmly in the rushes and folding his arms over his chest.The back of his neck was prickling and that was never a good sign.Indeed, it was all he could do not to put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Perhaps even draw his steel with a flourish. But he’d come to Fairmaiden as a friend and had thus far seen no true reason for wariness.Even so, the fine hairs on his nape were stirring and it wasn’t the two fool-grinning loons crowding him that caused his discomfiture.Big as he was, he towered over them and every other clansman milling about the aisles between the hall’s well-filled trestle tables.Truth was, he’d surely stand head and shoulders over the table-sitters, too.Though were he to heed the urge to wheel about and leave, he knew he’d be pounced on.
