Once Forbidden Read online

  "Did ye forget something... Anice?"

  She smiled at him, at his discomfort in using her given name. She had the right to be called "my lady." She had it by her birth and by her marriage. But "my lady Anice" was someone else, someone she used to be, someone she would never be again. No, she was just "Anice."

  "Nay, Calum, the list is complete. I will speak to Struan to make the arrangements. Oh, good Lord! I forgot that the laird summoned me to the solar. Come, Calum, help me move these boxes back."

  "Anice!" Struan's deep voice echoed down the hallway leading to the storage rooms.

  "Here, Struan, I am in here." She started pushing a pile of wooden crates out of her way when she saw the laird come through the door.

  "Good God, lass, stop where ye are! Calum, move those boxes now. Now!" Struan bellowed when Calum didn't move quick enough.

  Anice hesitated, staying where she was until the path was clear. Nodding her thanks to Calum, she walked to the laird.

  "I beg your pardon, laird, for keeping you waiting. I got caught up in taking an inventory of the supply rooms."

  "And how many times have I told ye not to do this?"

  She looked at his face and saw the concern under his bluster of not being obeyed. The flash of pity that followed caused her to look away. Fighting back the burning of tears, she tugged on her shawl and wrapped a bit of the old pride around her once again.

  "Again, I beg your pardon. The tasks were not done in the autumn when they should have been and I feared that we would not have enough to make it through the rest of the winter."

  "Calum, leave us."

  The cook nodded and ran from the room, as fast as his bulky body would carry him. Poor man, he did not want to be in the middle of another battle between the laird and his daughter-by-marriage. The gossip of the last one still made the rounds in the castle and in the village beyond the walls of the keep.

  "Sit. Here." Struan pulled out a large cask and ordered her to it. She obeyed without resistance. Her back did ache and her feet were beginning to swell. A short rest before going on to the next room would be a good thing. Anice sat down and straightened her plain gown around her and pushed the loose hairs behind her ears. When she had gathered herself she looked at the laird.

  "I have told ye more times than I can count, Anice, not to do this work yerself. We have more than enough servants and clan here in the castle to do this for ye."

  "Struan, I can do this. I feel fine."

  "Ye work yerself like a slave when ye are a lady, Anice. There are others who will do these duties."

  "I told you when Dougal was taken ill that I could handle it, Struan. Do you have a complaint about the way I do things? About things not getting done?" She allowed herself some measure of pride in her ability to get things done. No one could complain about that.

  "Things have changed since then but ye refuse to change with them."

  "I have told you... I am fine." A glance at his face would have warned her about the coming explosion but she hadn't bothered to look.

  "Ye are no' fine, Anice. Ye look pale and ye have no' been eating as ye should."

  She closed her eyes and let his words pass over her. They had been through this before—it was not new ground to them.

  "And, ye havena been sleeping and ye canna fit into yer shoes any longer."

  Her eyelids popped open at this newest charge and she tucked her stockinged and wool-wrapped feet under her skirts. Damn that Firtha! The woman should learn her place. The anger must have shown on her face.

  "Dinna think to rebuke your maid. No one else can keep a watch on ye as she can." Struan glared at her. Then, taking her hand in his, he continued, "Ye canna ignore that carrying yer babe is causing ye problems. Moira says ye need to try to rest more, off yer feet."

  "You have spoken to Moira about this?" Would nothing about her ever remain private? She knew the answer before she asked the question—not while she carried a possible heir of the clan in her belly.

  "Aye, I have. She wants ye to visit her in the village."

  "No, Struan. She may come here but I will not go there." Anice shivered at the thought of her last visit to the village— the furtive glances, the questions on the faces of the clan, the pity in the eyes of those who knew. No, she would not go.

  "Ye will, lass, if I have to drag ye there myself."

  She stopped herself from laughing out loud at his threat. He truly meant well. He cared about her in his own way. But under it all was his soul-deep commitment to the future of the clan. And she may well be carrying that future inside her now. She knew he wouldn't relent in any matter where the clan stood to lose.

  She stood and gathered her shawl around her, rubbing her arms to warm them. Taking a deep breath, she faced her father-by-marriage and nodded.

  "I will see her, Struan."

  "Today. Now." His voice was insistent.

  "Aye, Laird, today."

  "Now that's a good lass." He took her arm and wrapped it around his to escort her out of the storage room. "Yer maid awaits ye in the hall with yer boots and cloak. She will walk with ye to the village."

  Realizing that she had no choice in this either, she walked without resistance up the stairs and through the kitchen rooms. Without conscious thought, she placed her free hand over her belly and pressed against the movement from inside. Would this babe be a girl or boy? If it was a boy would he carry all of his father's traits? That fear had driven her to Moira the last time. If only there was an answer for her, a resolution to her fears.

  * ~ * ~ *

  "Come in, lass, come in." The door swung open and Anice entered the cozy warmth of the healer's cottage. There was a blazing fire in the hearth and it called to her. Warmth, so good for the coldness that lived inside her now. She tugged the leather gloves off and rubbed her hands together near the heat. When she turned back to the door, her maid was gone.

  "Where is Firtha?" The woman's presence gave her peace of mind.

  "I have asked her to run an errand for me to Pol."

  "And she went?" Firtha usually held herself separate from the villagers, as Anice had for so long.

  "Well, Pol is at his brother's house." Moira's eyes twinkled. Anice felt she was missing the joke.

  "And?"

  "Ramsey is a widower with three children. His wife died of the fever last year."

  "Moira, I still don't see your point." Anice shook her head. She kept to herself, steered away from gossip.

  "Ramsey haes an eye for Firtha. He is going to ask her to be his wife."

  "What? You canna be serious! Firtha and Ramsey? She does no' ken him—she canna be his wife."

  The steel-strong hold over her feelings, her dreams, her fears slipped—and her accent did too. Many years of tutoring had rid her of most of her accent. She had wanted to be the perfect wife for the heir of the clan, a man who had spent five years at the English court. She had learned the English customs, English dress, and English speech. If she were ever to be presented at Edward's court by her husband, he would not be embarrassed by her behavior. She slipped only under great stress.

  Stress like this. Like the thought of her faithful maid Firtha putting herself under the control and power of a man. Shaking her head, she clasped her hands tightly to keep them from shaking. And such a large and powerful man. Anice remembered watching the two brothers work side by side one day in the village last summer. Huge men, with bulging muscles, wielding the enormous tools of their trade in the overpowering heat of the smithy. They had to be strong to do what they did but the thought of them turning that power against someone else, a woman...

  "I beg yer pardon, Anice. I didna mean to tell tales about Firtha. I thought ye ken'd about her attraction to Ramsey."

  Anice struggled for a moment to regain control of her thoughts and fears. She told herself that she would have to trust Firtha in this.

  "Come, lass, sit here." Moira dragged a chair to the place where she stood by the fire. "Ye should sit as much as ye can with ye
r feet raised like so." Moira placed a small stool by her feet and lifted them into place. The clan healer knelt by her legs and looked at her. "May I?" Moira pointed to the boots she wore.

  After a moment's hesitation and preparation for the onslaught of emotions that accompanied any touch, she closed her eyes and nodded. Moira pushed Anice's skirt to her knees and tugged at the straps holding the boots in place until they were loose enough to remove, leaving only her woolen stockings behind. A sigh of relief escaped from her reluctantly.

  "Are ye drinking the water as I suggested?" Moira touched and prodded her swollen feet.

  "I try, Moira," she lied smoothly.

  "Are ye resting on yer side with yer legs drawn up?"

  "Mmm-hmmm." Moira's prodding turned pleasant, if touching could be pleasant. Anice felt herself drifting away, into the sleep that never came at night.

  Peaceful.

  Safe.

  * ~ * ~ *

  "Anice 'tis time to return to the keep." She shook herself awake and rubbed her eyes. Looking around, she noticed that Firtha was back. Anice stretched in the chair and wiggled her toes. She could not believe that she had fallen asleep like this. Without warning, it had crept up on her while Moira rubbed her feet.

  "Aye, Firtha, it's time to go. Can you help me with my boots?"

  "Stay there, lass, I'll get them." Her maid looked to one and all a formidable woman, but she was one of the gentlest creatures in the world. And Anice appreciated every kind act and gesture of concern from her.

  "Anice, may I show you something that may help ye to sleep better?"

  What could she say—no, but thank you? No one knew the true terror that the night held for her. Nothing Moira showed her could rid her of the fear she carried. But Moira meant well.

  "Of course, Moira. What do I have to do?"

  "Sit on the edge of yer bed or in a chair and spread yer knees like this." Moira demonstrated on the footstool. "Now, bring yer elbows down onto yer knees." After Anice took that position, Moira called to Firtha, "Stand in front of her, Firtha, and use yer hands like so on her back."

  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 in front 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.

  Chapter 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 turned his 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.

  "We already ken they're daft, Jamie. They attack when they please. The miller and his family were frightened more than injured. I brought them into the castle until their home can be repaired." He looked to Duncan for approval.

  Duncan nodded and pointed to the man who was seated at the table stuffing food into his mouth. "This messenger is for ye, Robert. Sent by the MacKendimen from Dunnedin."

  An immobilizing tightness began in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout his body. He clenched his teeth and waited for the news from "home." His parting from the clan had not been pleasant—Struan had insisted that he should train... and live... elsewhere. Away from the man who raised him, away from his clan. Away.

  "Well, man, what's the news from Dunnedin?" He was ready for anything now. But if Dougal thought that by making demands he would be successful in forcing Robert's return, he was sorely mistaken.

  "...for some weeks now."

  "I didna hear ye, lad. Would ye say that again?" Robert was so busy with his own though
ts he had missed the start of the message.

  "The MacKendimen sends his greetings to the MacKillop and asks that this request be considered in light of the dire circumstances. Dougal Mathieson, faithful steward of the clan MacKendimen, was struck down by a seizure of the brain and lies near death."

  Robert gasped and the messenger stopped his recitation. Of all the things he'd imagined he'd hear, this was not one of them. He waved his hand to make the man begin again. His chest tightened and would not allow him to breathe. A knot grew in his gut as he listened to the rest of it.

  "The illness overtook him some weeks ago but his condition haes worsened and the healer fears that he willna recover. Ye, Robert, are bid return to Dunnedin as soon as possible. The laird requests that ye come and take over yer faither's duties since ye are trained in them. The MacKendimen kens this may be a hardship to the clan MacKillop, but begs their indulgence until he can find a suitable replacement."

  "Good God, Robert! Yer faither struck down? Ye must go to him before 'tis too late." Duncan grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

  The news did not seem real, did not seem possible. His father near death? Not Dougal. He would never make it this easy for Robert to return to Dunnedin. Without recriminations? Without the hatred and accusations? It could not be this easy.

  As he forced a ragged breath in and out, the ringing in his ears grew louder. He had to leave before he embarrassed himself before his laird. "I will leave tomorrow. If ye will excuse me, I have arrangements to make."

  Robert waited for permission. He saw the quizzical frown on Duncan's face, but refused to acknowledge it—he would not answer questions about... home. Duncan finally nodded and Robert walked away from the table, down the steps, and around the sleeping bodies on the floor.

  Passing through a smaller side room, Robert followed the smells into the kitchen rooms. A fire still blazed in the huge hearth, giving off heat on this frozen February night. 'Twas weeks past the day of Imbolc, the Celtic feast that Ada celebrated along with the old ones of the clan. He'd not missed it in the eight years that he'd served the MacKillops.