He was so intent on Moira’s words and gaze that he’d forgotten about the witness to their exchange. Anice sat up straighter now, looking back and forth, from him to Moira.
“I’ve been told that my eyes are her eyes. No’ the color, but the shape of them.” Their color, he knew, was a trait passed among many in the clan and even called MacKendimen blue. Their dyers and weavers were even able to duplicate it into one of the patterns they wove into the thick woolen tartans.
“I wouldn’t know, she passed away long before I arrived here. And, Moira, you are too young to have known his mother.”
“Aye, Anice, ye hae the right of it. None of us kenned his maither, but we all ken his faither.” Robert’s eyes narrowed as he watched Moira’s guileless expression. Were her words a deliberate attempt to expose his true parentage? If her visions were stronger than her mother’s, she knew the truth already. Mayhap this was her way of letting him know that she shared his secret?
“Let me see to the lass as we talk, Robert.” Moira left Anice’s side and went to the long table at the other side of the room.
Robert glanced around at the dark interior of the cottage. A drying rack hung low over the table; herbs and plants of different colors and sizes were tied to it in bunches. Jars, jugs, and containers of all sizes filled shelves on the wall next to the table. Moira stood before her supplies, choosing several from the lowest shelf. Pouring, measuring, and stirring, he watched as the healer brewed a potion for Anice.
Moira approached the fire and, wrapping her hand in the edge of her plaid skirt, she drew a large pot from over the flame. Ladling a small amount of heated water into the cup she held, Moira stirred the ingredients and held the brew out to Anice.
“Sip this slowly, but drink it all down, Anice.”
“You are using that voice again, Moira.”
“Aye, but will it work on ye now that ye ken it?”
“Aye, it will. For now.”
Robert watched the exchange between the two women. He knew what Anice meant by “the voice.” He remembered Moira as a lass of ten and two years using the voice to give orders to men many times older than herself.
“Robert, will ye help me by removing her boots?” Moira pointed at Anice’s feet as she walked back to the worktable, carrying the pot of water with her. He knelt in front of Anice, pausing as he saw her stiffen at his approach.
“May I, my... Anice?” He would never get accustomed to calling her by her given name. Too many years of too many “my lady’s” went before her strange request not to call her by it.
Robert looked at her face and waited for a response. An instant of fear flashed through the widened green eyes and was gone quickly, making him doubt that he had truly seen it. Then, realization struck him.
She feared being touched.
His thoughts went back to each of their meetings. Each time he observed her, she held herself separate and apart, never allowing others close. She would not allow him to help her climb the stairs and when he took her arm in his room to stop her from leaving, she tightened. She stiffened when he tried to assist her in walking the path here.
Was it just his touch, as a stranger, as a man beneath her station, that caused the fear in her eyes? No. She withdrew from everyone but her maid and Moira, even maintaining a distance from Struan. Another clue to the riddle of the Lady Anice MacNab, unbeknownst to her, his sister-by-marriage.
“Go ahead, Robert,” Anice said in a quiet voice. He lifted one foot and leaned it on his thigh, unlacing the straps that held the boot in place. After loosening it, he pulled it from her foot and placed it near the hearth to dry. Robert did the same with the other.
“Here now, Robert.” Moira held out a mug to him. “Drink this, it will warm ye.”
He stood, took the mug, and stepped away to give Moiraroom near Anice. Walking around the room slowly, he observed the two from a distance. Moira drew off one stocking and exposed a swollen foot, ankle, and lower leg to his view.
Puir lass, as Ada would say. She was not handling the carrying of the babe well at all. Moira scooped a small amount of ointment from a jar next to her and applied it to Anice’s foot and leg, rubbing it in slowly. He watched as Anice’s head dropped back against the chair and her eyes closed. The tension in her body lessened with each stroke of Moira’s knowing hands.
In a voice too soft for him to hear, Moira plied Anice with questions and listened to the responses. She smiled at several things Anice said as she continued her massage. Finally, the room grew very quiet and Moira wiped her hands on her apron and lifted Anice’s legs gently off her lap. Moira stepped away from her seat and propped Anice’s feet up on the cushion. Signaling him with a finger to her lips, Moira approached Robert, and he waited for her to come near.
“Does this happen much?” he whispered as he gestured towards the sleeping woman.
“Nay. ’Tis only recently that I could get her to come here.”
“Why?” Robert asked. It made no sense for Anice to avoid the person who could offer her the most comfort for her physical ailments.
Moira took her time in answering, moving to the other side of her table and cleaning up some of the recently used ingredients first.
“She stays close to the keep.”
“Ah, her duties keep her there.” Robert could understand how busy Anice would be in her duties as steward since Dougal’s illness.
“Nay, her fear keeps her there.”
