Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  The sun arced and waned, and as the evening feast approached, the extended swordplay finally finished. Laughter echoed as the men clapped their erstwhile opponents on the back, stripped off their shirts, and headed for the well near the aviary to douse themselves in buckets of water.

  The shock of the cold jarred Taran’s teeth, but by the third bucket of water, he began to feel warm. Restored, he reached for his shirt when the laughter surrounding him suddenly died.

  “My lord?”

  Taran slicked back his wet hair and grimaced. Euphemia. He watched her pick her way across the wet stones to his side. As she arrived, his men shot him side-length looks and stalked away, whether from the desire to offer him his privacy or from the fact they, too, couldn’t abide her presence, he couldn’t say.

  “My lord,” Euphemia greeted him with a practiced, sultry smile. She dipped into a low curtsey, one—he knew full well—designed to offer him a full view of her cleavage.

  Taran waited, unimpressed.

  “A boon, my lord.” With a provocative flutter of her lashes, she inched closer. “Join me at the feast. Sit as befits your station at the high table. Father will listen. He’ll understand—”

  Taran pulled in a long breath. “Nay,” he interrupted. Apparently, her father had misled her into thinking he’d chosen her as wife.

  Again, Euphemia’s lashes fluttered but with irritation this time. “Taran, if ye join me at table, Father will see this situation is truly nothing…”

  “I’ve not chosen ye,” he said tightly.

  Then, he was walking away.

  It wasn’t until he stood before his chamber door once again that he realized he stood battle-ready with jaw clamped and both fists clenched tight. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his fingers, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  This time, ‘twas only the young lassie, Charlotte, sitting cross-legged on the bed with James, Jamie, and Wee Jack, playing a game with a stick and a handful of pebbles.

  Moll was nowhere in sight.

  Taran strode to his clothing chest and chose a clean plaid, keenly aware of the children watching his every move.

  “And where’s your ma?” he finally asked, a bit more brusquely than he’d intended.

  Charlotte hopped from the bed and dropped an awkward, belated curtsey. “A lady fetched her, hours ago, my lord.”

  Taran paused, his attention arrested. “A lady?”

  “’Twas Lady Euphemia, my lord,” the child replied.

  The mere mention of the woman’s name sent Taran’s nostrils flaring. “To where?” he barked.

  “I know not, my lord,” she squeaked.

  Taran expelled a breath. He’d frightened the wee lassie with his fierce expressions. He didn’t wish her to fear him. He forced his jaw to loosen and summoned a reassuring smile. “Call me Athair, aye?”

  The child’s solemn eyes filled with confusion. “Athair?”

  He nodded, gently. “’Tis Gaelic, for father,” he began. He fully intended to add he had no intention of taking her true father’s place, but the wee lassie interrupted him by bursting into tears.

  “Athair,” she gasped as she lunged, locking her thin arms about his waist to snivel into his midriff. “So that’s why Moll brought us here. Ma always said you were handsome. I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time. Years. I’ve waited, years. I can’t believe I’ve found you. At last.”

  Taran held still and winced. Ach, he’d bungled the matter, but at the sight of her small, hopeful face, his explanation died on his lips. At a loss, he settled for patting her awkwardly on the head.

  Charlotte burrowed deeper, latching onto him like a leech. When she showed no signs of letting go, he cleared his throat and attempted to pry himself loose, but ‘twas nigh impossible. She stuck to him like a cocklebur.

  “I must find Moll, lassie,” he finally said.

  “Of course, Athair,” she replied, still holding on tight.

  The bell announcing the evening meal afforded an opportunity to escape. “’Take the wee ones to the hall, lassie, and eat, aye?” Again, he attempted to peel her hands away.

  This time, after one last squeeze, she stepped back and grinned widely. “Aye, Athair.”

  Aye? Taran winced. Ach, she was mimicking him. He hadn’t meant to mislead her so sorely. Mayhap Moll—once he’d found and rescued her from Euphemia’s clutches—would know how to correct his error without breaking the wee lassie’s heart.

  “I must be going,” he said.

  Finally, he managed to escape the room and headed to the floor above, his thoughts turning to the matter at hand. Faith, but Euphemia flummoxed him. He hadn’t thought the woman dense. Surely, she knew he’d not take kindly to her mistreatment of his lover? Why would she chance his anger? His irritation intensified with each step.

  Outside Euphemia’s chambers, he heard voices, women’s voices, and three feet from the door, he heard his own name.

  “I’ve always thought Taran MacKenzie would be a beast in bed,” someone said with a giggle. “And with as many bairns as he’s fathered, I see I’m nae wrong, aye?”

  “’Tis not surprising. Who could miss what’s under that kilt?” another chimed.

  A series of snorts and giggles erupted.

  Taran arched a brow, somewhat taken aback. ‘Strewth, but he recognized that bawdy voice. Anne’s maid, a shy, middle-aged, quiet mouse-of-a-woman—or so he’d thought.

  Then a new voice piped, “Methinks he puts a horse to shame, from the looks of it. ’Tis a marvel ye can walk, I’d say.”

  “Didn’t ye hear a thumping in the wee hours of the night?” the voice of Anne’s maid rose above a fresh onslaught of ribald comments. “I swear, it lasted forever and a day. I was beginning to think ‘twas a movement of the earth.”

  Again, the giggling.

  “Well, tell us then, Moll. Does he keep ye awake all night?”

  There was a distinct pause, then, came Moll’s reply, “He’s…decent enough, I suppose.”

  Strangely, those words jolted Taran into action. Decent? Suppose? No woman he’d ever bedded had supposed him merely ‘decent’. A wee bit insulted, he stepped into the room.

  Attraction Unforeseen

  Moll stood before Euphemia’s velvet-canopied bed with her arms full of linens. Less than a minute after Taran had left his chamber, Lady Euphemia had summoned Moll to her chambers.

  The woman had been very clear. You’re naught but a servant, Moll. Ye’ll clean my chambers, every inch, afore the evening meal—and not a word to his lordship, aye? I’ll see ye learn your place. Ye’ll put no fine airs on with me.

  Moll had set about her task, immediately. She hadn’t minded the work—after all, she was used to laboring hard from dawn till dusk. She did, however, mind the group of women who followed her from room to room, an interesting mix of kitchen, chamber, and lady’s maids, each pestering her for intimate details revolving around Taran and just what exactly lurked beneath his kilt.

  Their pointed questions had made even her, a woman already wedded, blush. She’d felt the heat rise even to the tips of her ears. But from the constant flow of gossip, she’d learned much about her supposed ‘lover’. He was a warrior. Noble. And as she’d thought, yet unwed—but not for long. The King of Scotland had ordered Taran to choose a wife from between Euphemia or Anne. He’d shown a decided lack of interest in both women, although this morning, new rumors abounded that he had, at long last, made his choice, Euphemia.

  “Come now, there’s no need to be shy.” A rosy-cheeked woman trailed after Moll and plucked her sleeve. “Do tell us, lass. I’ve a wager to settle.”

  “Just a wee hint,” another wheedled. “Taran’s such a braw man. After seven bairns, I should think he is a wee mite more than decent.”

  A round of snorts and giggles greeted this comment.

  The bawdiest of the women laughed. “Aye, now, we’re uncovering the truth, aye? There she is, flaming again as a—” Abruptly, she broke off.

/>   Curiously, Moll glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Twas Taran. He stood framed in the doorway, his dark brows arched, and his mouth curved in a perplexed line.

  Moll swallowed. She’d thought she’d blushed before? Lord save her, she was wrong. ‘Twas nothing compared to the heat that flooded her now. Mortified, she whirled back toward the bed, knowing full well she was redder than a wood strawberry. Was it the wine from the night before? Her head did still ache—

  Hands dropped on her shoulders, strong, gentle hands that turned her around. She wasn’t prepared for the depth of anger smoldering in the blue eyes peering down at her, and when he spoke, ‘twas in a growl like the bear of the man he was, “You’re no chambermaid, Moll.”

  Moll’s heart pounded, then the realization struck. He wasn’t angry with her…but upon her behalf. Bewildered, she searched his face.

  The women in the room tittered.

  His eyes softened, and he seized the linens from her arms and tossed them to the floor. “Come with me, lass.”

  He caught her hand and pulled her along, but on the third step, Moll felt the pillow slip. Lord save her. He’d dislodged the thing. With a gasp, she fumbled to catch it.

  He heard the sound and glanced back. Understanding flashed across his face, mixed with something else. Amusement? With the speed of a serpent and the grace of a cat, he anchored the pillow in place with a large hand and then stepped behind her, pulling her back against his chest.

  “Have a care, love.” His hot breath warmed the tip of her ear.

  Goosebumps flashed across Moll’s flesh. Her heart began to thud.

  “Ye canna be as light on your feet as ye were afore the bairn,” his deep, Scottish brogue resonated in his chest, sending vibrations into her body. “Come, now.”

  She didn’t—perhaps, couldn’t—resist. He guided her forward, one hand still supporting her pillow-belly as he dropped the other lightly on her hip. ‘Twas an intimate gesture, one of a man cherishing his love. ‘Twas enough to send the women around them into giggling, swooning fits.

  Again, the rush of heat flooded Moll’s face as Taran escorted her out the door and down the tower stairs, but as they emerged on the corridor leading to his bedchamber, Moll broke free.

  She couldn’t risk angering Lady Euphemia—especially when he’d chosen to wed her, and most importantly, they were stuck in the same castle for the foreseeable future.

  “No,” Moll hissed and stopped in her tracks.

  Taran turned and arched a curious brow.

  “I can’t leave.” She had to go back. “I haven’t finished my chores.”

  Again, he caught her about the wrist and pulled her down the corridor, gently, but with an unrelenting force. He didn’t speak until they stood safely in his bedchamber once again.

  “God’s Blood, woman, do ye not know who I am?” he asked the moment the door swung shut. He hooked his thumb under her chin and directed her gaze to his. “Aye. How could ye?” he muttered in a half-growl, as if thinking aloud. Then he expelled his breath in a huff of disgust. “Ach, ye’ll not even give that shrew the time of day. Do ye hear?”

  He stood so close, a shiver raced down the back of her neck. She could smell him, a pleasant combination of leather and spice—quite unlike Thomas…but then, he was so different than her husband had been in every regard.

  Something sparked in the blue depths of his eyes, something that summoned a warmth in her blood, the manner of which she simply hadn’t thought possible.

  Abruptly, Taran turned away and stepped to the window.

  Moll drew a steadying breath and forced her thoughts back to her current predicament, Euphemia.

  “My lord,” she began. She could see the hard line of his jaw. He was angry, yet clearly, not at her. “What am I to do, my lord? Lady Euphemia will be displeased, I’ve left tasks undone. I’m a peasant. She’s a lady. I cannot blithely go my merry way now, can I? If she asks anything of me, I am obliged to—”

  “Nay.” A snort escaped Taran’s lips as he faced her. “That harridan has no power over ye.”

  ‘Twas a strange way to speak of one’s betrothed. “Are you not to wed her, my lord?”

  His head snapped back. “What nonsense is this?”

  Nonsense? Moll frowned. Everyone had implied the match—Euphemia included. “The women spoke of nothing else, my lord.”

  “They’re mistaken.” His tone was final.

  Moll blinked. “Then, ‘tis Anne to be your wi—”

  “Nay,” he cut her short.

  Why did those words please her so? Then, he was standing before her again, even closer than before. Her pulse jumped. Breathe, Moll.

  His dark lashes flickered.

  She stepped back, flustered.

  “As lover to the MacKenzie heir, you’re no servant, Moll,” he said tersely. “Dinna forget that.”

  Lover. The word stood out amongst the others and pulled her gaze down to his powerful thighs and groin, unbidden. Good lord, the women were right. He was built well. ‘Twas no small wonder they’d spoken of little else. A pox on those women and their incessant chattering. She jerked her gaze to the floor.

  After a moment, Taran stirred and returned to his trunk beneath the window.

  Her stomach knotted.

  “Mayhap…” his voice trailed.

  There was nothing to be done but meet the man’s gaze. Surely, it wasn’t that difficult. She’d done much harder things in her life. With a deep breath, Moll lifted her head.

  He stood at ease, apparently just waiting for her look at him, and the instant she did, he leaned close. A dark strand of hair fell over his face. “Mayhap I should leave, aye? Afore I find myself…missing a piece?”

  He waited.

  Moll knit her brows in a bewildered frown.

  “’Tis time for the evening meal. I’ll wait for ye in the hall, aye?” With a nod, he strode past her and out the door.

  Moll waited until the latch clicked before she released her breath in a loud whoosh. Missing a piece? The words sounded vaguely familiar, although she couldn’t place why. She was more concerned with her own behavior. A pox on herself. Staring at his privates? She cringed.

  Embarrassed, she lifted her skirts and quickly retied the pillow. ‘Twas a nuisance of the highest order. She’d landed herself in a fine kettle of fish. She’d only meant to grab a quick meal, not wear a pillow for days-on-end whilst pretending to be the lover of a…a…well, if she were honest, one of the most intriguing men she’d ever met. The thought made her scowl. She wasn’t an inexperienced maid…so why was she acting like one?

  The bells in the great hall rang.

  Still frowning, she adjusted the last strap and dropped her skirts. ‘Twas time to forget Taran, and high past the time she checked on the children. Forcing her thoughts back to the present, she left the chamber and hurried down the stairs.

  Evening had fallen by the time she joined the line of men and women filing through the great hall’s doors. Wanting to pass unnoticed, she kept close to the wall and trained her eyes upon her feet. She needn’t have worried. She was ignored outright, though not out of ill will. Talk centered on the plague and whither it ravaged the lands.

  “’Tis deadly, to be sure, but nothing like the plagues of yore,” the elderly man next to Moll commented.

  “Still, ‘tis dangerous enough to earn those from plague-ridden lands a noose about the neck if they dare ride to Her Majesty’s door,” his companion replied.

  Moll inched away, alarmed. ‘Twas worrisome. Whilst she, clearly, could keep a secret close to her heart, she wasn’t as certain of the children. She had to warn them, and right quickly, to keep their lips sealed.

  As soon as she could, she hurried into the warmth of the hall. Already, the musicians played in the gallery above, the strains of the lute mingling with the voices of those gathered. Men and women paraded in their finery, looking for all the world as if they were attending a masked ball and not hiding in a castle, keeping the plagu
e at bay. Glass and silver glittered on the tables, reflecting the torchlight dancing on the walls.

  A flash of green caught her attention.

  It wasn’t Taran, but a half-dozen, kilted MacKenzie clansmen, their dirks belted about their waists and their long hair braided down the sides. As they passed her by, they dipped their heads in respect.

  Rattled, she curtseyed in return.

  “Moll, here, by the fire,” Francis called.

  Moll spied the children and hurried to join them. She’d barely taken her seat when the voices in the hall hushed and all attention went to the high table.

  ‘Twas Lord Haddon standing on the dais alone, the set of his shoulders speaking of worry. He simply stood there for a time, oblivious to the whispers circling the room, before, at last, he lifted his hand. The occupants of the hall fell silent, expecting him to speak, but he merely signaled a server for wine and strode to his chair to slump down.

  The din in the hall resumed.

  Moll chewed her bottom lip. ‘Twas odd, to be sure, but no doubt, his behavior revolved around Lady Haddon’s frail health. Had she worsened? And what of the babe? Had…Moll blinked, taken aback. Why would she think such things? She knew nothing of the castle’s lady…or…did she? Had they met?

  A fuzzy image of a woman’s pale face with laughing brown eyes danced on the edge of her thoughts. Moll frowned. ‘Twas the night before…and the woman had mentioned something about…birthing a babe? They…had met.

  A flurry of activity drew Moll’s attention back to the high table just as Euphemia arrived, resplendent in gold velvet and with her blonde hair elaborately dressed in a bejeweled net. With her lips drawn into a grim line, she stood by her chair and scanned the faces in the hall.

  Moll cringed and quickly turned away, half expecting Euphemia to bellow her name. The woman was the vindictive sort. She wouldn’t simply leave Moll alone, especially after she’d disobeyed direct orders. No doubt, one of her gossipy maids had informed their mistress of Taran’s arrival to ferret her away, as well. After all, ‘twas too juicy a tidbit of gossip to be ignored.