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She never let Agnes’s harsh words wound her. Anne had long ago understood that bitterness often grew where loneliness had taken root. Agnes had never married, never borne children. Her only sister had passed years ago, though Agnes still spoke of her as if she lingered just beyond sight. Anne never corrected her. Some comforts—however fragile—were meant to remain undisturbed.
When at last everything was in order, Anne wrapped food carefully in cloth and set it within easy reach for the next day. Agnes had already begun to doze in her chair, her sharp tongue finally silenced by sleep, her frail body softened by warmth and quiet.
Anne paused at the door, watching the rise and fall of the old woman’s chest, then stepped quietly outside, pulling the door closed behind her.
Later that day, crossing the village square on her way home, Anne was considering whether she should get another loaf of bread. Earlier she had visited Florie, another elderly woman in the village, but she had only remained there briefly as the woman entertained a friend and seemed to be doing well. She’d left both women chatting and eating the meal she’d brought.
Just then a woman called Moyra came into view. With a curvy body, almond-shaped eyes, and plump lips, Moyra constantly caught men’s attention. The only men in the square were two hammering on the side of the building. Both stopped what they were doing and followed Moyra’s progression. Her hips swaying side to side, shoulders moving in rhythm, arms swinging, and a small smile on her upturned lips.
Anne resisted the urge to reach up and smooth her hair. Unlike Moyra, who wore her hair loose down her back, Anne’s was pinned up into a serviceable bun. After a day of caring for others, she was sure many a stray strand of hair surrounded her face now.
A moment later, her friend Effie appeared. Wearing a man’s tunic and britches, Effie Macrae led a mule. She was a lively sort, well-liked in the village. The opposite of Anne, Effie never hesitated in speaking her mind.
“Effie,” Moyra said, her gaze sweeping over the younger lass. “Ye young women dinnae care about their appearance?”
Effie shrugged not seeming bothered by Moyra’s comment and talked to Anne. “I am looking for yer brother Anne. My mule Sperry is in need of shoeing.”
Not liking being ignored, Moyra circled Effie. “Returning from a day plowing a field?” Moyra asked, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Or perhaps shucking out stalls?”
Effie met the woman’s gaze. “Ye should be with care in how ye walk. The way ye swing yer hips, could leave ye abed for days with an ailing back.”
The woman gave Effie a bland look. “It is my natural way of walkin’, I dinnae trot like a horse like some women.” Her gaze roamed over Anne, her meaning clear.
“I am going to see my Camden. I have nae seen him out today have ye?”
“Yer Camden?” Effie said, her eyes wide. “He is nae yers.”
Moyra gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He will be. Already on the brink of courting me.”
It was a struggle, but Anne kept from asking Moyra if it was indeed true. It had nothing to do with her, and she certainly had no claim on Camden. At the same time, it was difficult to imagine Camden married to Moyra Collins. They seemed to be opposite in every way, but then again, it was easy to see why he’d be attracted to her. Moyra was a beautiful woman.
Somehow she managed to keep her lips pressed together while she silently prayed Effie could ask Moyra more questions.
Unfortunately all Effie did was to narrow her eyes at Moyra and shrug as Moyra turned away, seeming unconcerned by their presence.
“Poor Camden,” Effie said shaking her head. “I hope he is nae daft enough to truly court her.”
Both tracked Moyra’s progress as she walked toward the apothecary, her movements swift and with purpose.
Anne considered that perhaps she could go and see how Brae was, but then she realized it was not the sick man she worried about.
“Come on then,” Effie said, breaking her revelry. “I need to find yer brother. For a brawny blacksmith, he is hard to find.”
Chapter Three
When the front door opened, Camden didn’t pay much heed. Bent over Brae, he was spreading an herbal poultice over the man’s bruised abdomen. The ill man moaned despite having fallen into a restless sleep once the soothing tonic he’d been given had taken effect.
As soon as a body pressed against his arm, Camden knew it was Moyra who’d entered. “What happened to him?” Her breath fanned across the side of his neck.
“He was beaten,” Camden replied shifting sideways to put distance between them. “What can I do for ye Moyra?”
Undeterred by his clipped response, Moyra remained close, thankfully no longer pressed against him, although there was very little space between them. “I can help ye with that,” she said, taking the bowl he held. “Tell me where to put—”
“It is best that I do it,” Camden said, taking the bowl back. “He is very bruised and therefore quite tender.”
She chuckled softly and fanned her eyelashes, her lips forming a pout. “Are ye saying I cannae be gentle?”
The woman was attractive, quite fetching if he were to be honest. There was something about Moyra that called to every instinct in a man, and he wasn’t immune to her beauty. But that was just a physical call of nature. Not a true connection. While Moyra may want him physically as well, what she really sought was a husband.
