Anice began to pant. She knew not why but a wave of panic raced through her, and what began as a motion of comfort raised every hair on her body. Gooseflesh covered her and she fought the scream that pushed up her throat as well as the bile from her stomach.
The next moment she was looking up from the floor of the cottage. Firtha’s face came into focus and Anice grasped the hand held out to her.
“What happened. Did I pass out?”
“Aye, Anice, that ye did,” Moira answered. “Sit here and have a sip of this water.”
Anice sat back on the chair and took several deep breaths, trying to calm her rapid heartbeat. The babe kicked and rolled, as agitated as she at the memories dragged to the surface by that position and touch. Moira, with her discerning eyes, watched her closely. She could almost believe that the clan’s seer knew the truth of that night.
“I feel fine now. Firtha, let’s go back now.”
“Wait, lass. Pol is outside and I want him to walk with ye back to the keep. If anything happens to ye, Struan will have my head.”
“Moira, there is no need for—”
“There is every need, Anice. Ye just fainted dead away infront of me. If it happens again, ye will need someone to help ye. Pol will do that.”
A shiver of fear shook her body at the thought of his touch, those big hands on her....
“Pol kens no’ to touch ye, lass,” Moira whispered in her ear. “He’s a good man and he will protect ye. Trust me, Anice.”
She did trust Moira. Moira and Firtha were the only two on this earth who had her trust. The only two who knew her secrets. Well, most of her secrets. She worried, too, about the babe. The fainting was becoming more frequent in the last weeks. She would not jeopardize her babe.
“Pol may come with us.” Anice nodded at Moira.
“That’s a good lass. Now go afore Struan himself charges in here looking for ye.”
Anice walked to the door and passed through it. Turning back, she looked Moira over. The woman’s long brown hair formed a braid that fell below her hips. Not a wrinkle marred her face, nor could a gray hair be seen among any of those on her head.
“How is it that you make me obey you as I obeyed my mother when I was a child? You use that tone of voice and I believe that you are so much older than me. But you are not, are you?”
“’Tis my natural talent, lass. Ye are right, I am no’ much older than ye.” Moira laughed as she answered. “Come again and I’ll teach ye how to use it so ye can ready yerself for yer bairn.”
Anice laughed with Moira and it felt good. She walked the path through the village with Firtha and Pol at her side. She looked at the ground, watching her step among the ruts in the frozen mud. That’s what she told herself, but she knew it was to avoid seeing the looks on the faces of the villagers.
The pity in their eyes for the once over-proud Anice MacNab.
2
“Robert, a messenger awaits ye in the hall.”
The young boy’s voice rang out in the tense quiet of the evening. Guards had been posted around the mill and the northern edge of the clan’s holdings and all was in readiness. Let those damned MacNeils try a raid this night!
“Robert, did ye hear me?” The voice grew in strength.
“Aye, Kevin, I heard ye, and so did every man from Aberdeen to Skye.” Deep guffaws added to his own. The laird’s page waited on his answer. “Tell the laird I come directly.”
Robert Mathieson made his last review of the defenses and strode towards the main door to the keep. He looked down at his filthy plaid and knew the laird would pardon his appearance—once he reported his findings to Duncan MacKillop, laird of the Clan MacKillop and ally to the MacKendimens and the MacLarens, he would have time to clean up.
He took the steps two at a time and approached the door. The guard nodded and pulled it open for him. Running up another flight of stairs brought him onto the main floor of the keep and into the entrance of Duncan’s great hall. Normally filled with people and food and activity, it was quieting down for the night. Those of the clan who slept within the walls of the main building were rolling out their pallets for the night.
Robert made his way towards the dais where the laird and his son stood talking with the messenger. He pushed his long black hair behind his ears and walked up the steps. A servant came forward immediately with a goblet of ale. He smiled his gratitude at the girl who was so late about her duties and turnedhis attention to his leader.
“Ah, Robert, ’tis about time ye joined us.” The laird reached out to clasp his arm and bring him into the conversation. “Why is my castellan running over our lands like a common soldier this night?”
“The damned MacNeils do no’ rest so neither can we, Laird.” Robert drained the last of the ale and handed the goblet back to the servant. “They attacked the mill on the far side of the village.”
“In the middle of winter? Are they daft?” James MacKillop, his friend and heir to the clan, interrupted his report.
