Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  Such a bold act of disobedience would not be left unpunished. Moll suppressed a groan. Almost, she preferred escaping the castle to face the plague.

  The food began to arrive. A pork, chicken, and cheese pie topped with figs, a pot of toasted bread in wine sauce, and a platter of rabbit with cabbage and pomegranates.

  As the children attacked their meal with vigor, Moll found herself pulled from her thoughts. “Slow down, poppets,” she warned, scowling in disapproval. She couldn’t have the hall gossiping about Lord MacKenzie’s uncouth children. “Mind your manners.”

  James responded by reaching for Charlotte’s almond cake.

  Moll rapped his knuckles with her spoon. “Share and share alike, James. Greed is unseemly. You’ve had yours.”

  “But I’m bigger, Moll,” he objected. “And Charlotte’s not even eating a whit.”

  Moll frowned. Indeed, the girl had scarcely touched her food. She was about to ask why when Charlotte jumped to her feet and waved her arms.

  “Athair!” the young girl called with a bright smile. “Here, Athair. Here.”

  Puzzled, Moll tossed a glance over her shoulder

  Taran was almost upon them, his long stride carrying him quickly across the hall. With his white shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders and his fine, dark green kilt hugging his lean hips, he was a magnet for the eyes. As large as a horse? Before she could stop herself, her gaze dipped again, but the quickening of her pulse and the foreign warmth in her belly, startled her attention back to her plate.

  “Athair,” Charlotte greeted Taran with an eager smile. She held out a small red fruit. “I’ve saved a pomegranate for you…for ye.”

  Moll arched a brow. Ye?

  Then, the Highlander arrived. The bench creaked under his weight as he settled by Moll’s side, his thigh brushing against hers.

  ‘Twas a feather-soft touch, yet it felt like fire. Tense, Moll inched away.

  “Your pomegranate,” Charlotte repeated, leaning across the table to thrust the withered fruit under his nose.

  “Aye.” Taran thanked her with a polite nod.

  Charlotte melted back to her seat to rest her chin on her hands and stare, a grin splitting her face from ear-to-ear.

  Whatever had gotten into the young girl? The arrival of more food prevented her from asking.

  As a serving woman plunked down a platter of roasted veal and eggs, Taran’s deep voice murmured, “My lady.”

  Moll tensed. Lady? Under her uneasy gaze, he again placed the first choice cut on her plate.

  “Wine, my lord?” someone asked.

  Again, Taran saw Moll served first, then he tossed his head back and drained his goblet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. ‘Twas oddly captivating. His black lashes even more so. They were so thick and long, the kind a maid would envy. His lips? Along with his jaw, they were so pronounced, seemingly carved from stone. She’d seen lips like his before on a Greek statue in London. He set his goblet back on the table then, moving with the grace of a dancer, his muscles sliding sensuously beneath his shirt.

  Then, Moll noticed the curl of his lip.

  Lord help her, she was staring again.

  She averted her gaze back her plate. The man must think her a bumbling, gawking fool—but then, wasn’t she one? She sat at his side, so very mismatched, a fine swan and a country duck. How could a single soul in the hall believe them lovers? She snorted at the thought.

  “Aye?” Taran asked.

  Moll shook her head. Why share what was so painfully obvious?

  “Eat, lass,” he suggested in his smooth, lilting burr. “Ye haven’t touched your wine.”

  At his soft chuckle, Moll gazed at him. The wicked gleam in his blue eyes had returned. With a fresh hint of a smile playing over his lips, he slowly crossed his arms and leaned closer. She hesitated. Something about the gesture…along with his expression…seemed so familiar. Again, fuzzy images teased her memory. Perched on the edge of the bed? She was warning him…something about keeping his distance…

  Then, she went stiff.

  Her memory returned with a rush. Missing a piece. She’d told him to keep his distance or he’d find himself…missing a piece. A pox on the man. He’d been toying with her in the bedchamber. Missing a piece, indeed.

  “I believe we both know right well spirits don’t suit me, my lord,” she snapped.

  Taran’s chuckle deepened. “On the contrary, lass, spirits suit ye fine.” He paused and then leaned even a mite closer. “Dinna hide the wee beastie that lurks inside ye.”

  Heaven help her, how did the man continually set her nerves on edge? She was a widow, well-versed in the ways of men…or was she? Perhaps, being wed to a tailor she detested was less of an education than she’d thought. She looked away.

  Suddenly, the eldest James shoved the other as the youngest jumped to his feet on the bench. The table jerked. The wine flasks rattled. Then, time slowed. Moll could do nothing but watch the wine flask wobble, tip, and then send a spray of red wine, splattering in a red arc, straight across Taran’s white shirt.

  He sat there, expressionless, then with a muffled oath, sprang to his feet.

  All at once, time resumed.

  Moll and the children gasped.

  Several tables over, the MacKenzie clansmen began to laugh, and the sound released Taran from his spell. With a curt nod, he spun on his heel and left the hall without a backward glance.

  “Is he angry?” Francis hissed.

  Moll eyed the children’s worried faces and rose. “I’ll speak to him. Don’t fret, poppets. I’ll make it right.” She forced a calm she didn’t feel.

  A range of relief flooded the faces of the children, all but Francis and George. They knew better. With them, Moll exchanged a terse, silent look, and then lifting her skirts, hurried after the man.

  Doubtless, he’d gone to change. Already, in the short time she’d been at Haddon Hall, she’d seen him change his clothing more in one day than Thomas had in several months.

  “’Twas an accident, my lord,” she said as she entered into the room. “A child’s blunder, my lord. I’ve come to beg forgiveness on his behalf.”

  As she’d thought, he stood before his clothing chest, shirt in hand.

  Her gaze locked on the red stain. “When I’m through washing the shirt, ‘twill be as good as new, I swear, my lord,” she promised. “He’s only a small boy. He’s lost his mother and father, my lord. Please, punish me instead. I—”

  “Punish?” He seemed genuinely surprised, then cut her short with a wave of his hand. “’Tis not the first time I’ve stained a shirt, lass, nor will it be the last.”

  Moll lifted her gaze to his. There was no anger there. Indeed, was that amusement twinkling from the depths of those blue eyes?

  “You’re not angry, then,” she breathed, flooding with relief.

  The Highlander’s dark brows rose. “Angry? With a wee lad?” He snorted. “’Twas clear I frightened him. I merely sought to leave afore I frightened him more.”

  He stood there almost as if he were…embarrassed. How could such a bear-of-a-man be so charmingly awkward?

  “You know nothing of children, then,” she blurted with a smile of surprise.

  “Aye,” he admitted readily enough, then added, “Well, I know that wee ones find me fearsome.”

  “I imagine, ‘tis more than the wee ones who find you fearsome, my lord.”

  Then for the first time, she noticed he stood bare-chested and with his kilt hanging low over his lean hips.

  Her mouth went dry.

  A Soul of Fire

  Taran drew an audible breath. His admiration only grew for the lass with each encounter. She stood at the foot of the bed, breasts heaving, uncertain, seemingly wanting to trust even as she bristled like a hedgehog—an incredibly suspicious one. Then, she’d smiled. ‘Twas a smile that summoned a pleasant hum over every inch of his flesh, and a smile that evoked the desire in him to protect. ‘Twas clear she’d suffe
red at the hands of her churlish husband…the man was fortunate he was dead…

  He shook his shirt and plunged his arm into the sleeve. “The bairns dinna belong to ye, aye?” He knew the answer already, but he was fair curious if she’d trust him with even that much of the truth.

  Wary, Moll swallowed, then replied, “They do now, my lord.”

  A sense of satisfaction swept over him. “’Tis a noble sentiment.”

  “Noble?” she repeated. Her eyes flashed with passion. “What else could one do? How can one abandon children in need?”

  Aye, she was one to be admired. Her very soul was made of fire.

  As he watched, she raised her chin and caught her soft, pink bottom lip between her teeth.

  His body’s swift reaction took him by surprise. He drew a sharp breath and turned back to his trunk. ‘Twas oddly amusing. As much as his body didn’t appear to know, he wasn’t an untried lad. How long had it been since he’d reacted to a woman so strongly? Years?

  “Dinna fret, lass,” he assured as he snatched a fresh shirt—any shirt. “I’ll speak with Wee Jack, later, if ye wish. I’ll not be back ‘til late.” If at all, if truth be told, not when his manhood had suddenly resurrected a mind of its own.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  He dropped the lid on the chest and turned on his heel. ‘Twas then the worn, faded condition of her gown caught his eye. Ach, he couldn’t have his lover dressed in rags. Why hadn’t he noticed the thing before? He’d always clothed his lovers as befit their station. She needed a proper gown. With her coloring, MacKenzie green would fit her right well. An image of her flashed through his mind, one of her clothed in a green silk that caressed her delicate frame, one with a square bodice cut low enough to offer him tantalizing glimpses of the soft flesh beneath, as often as he pleased.

  “My lord?” Moll queried, obviously puzzled by the length of his stare.

  Taran arched a self-recriminating brow of dry amusement. He could hardly share such thoughts. “Ye need proper clothing, lass,” he said instead. “The lads and lassie, as well.”

  Moll frowned, yet again. ‘Twas all he’d seen her do the past hour.

  “My lord, I cannot possibly afford such a luxury or debt.”

  Taran locked his jaw. “I’ll see ye dressed proper, Moll. I canna have my men thinking I dinna see to my lover’s needs and those of my offspring.”

  Moll hesitated, clearly torn, and then an incredulous laugh escaped her lips. “Surely, no one truly believes we’re lovers, my lord.”

  “Why not?”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed, again drawing his attention to her soft, pink lips. Those lips would be his undoing if he weren’t mindful. ‘Twas most unfortunate she wasn’t the dallying kind. He could set the matter straight, then and there, and demonstrate the truth. He’d start with a kiss and end with a romp—a very prolonged one—on the bed less than a mere arm’s length away.

  “I can scarcely parade myself in finery, pretending in earnest to be your lover, my lord,” she said. “I know nothing of you or your ways. I’m sure to blunder.”

  His ways? He shrugged. Beneath it all, he was simple enough. “I’m a man of action and few words, lass. The bairns should be proof enough.” He let his eyes drop over her figure. Indeed, if she truly were his lover, he’d spend so very little time talking with such a feast of delightful flesh to hold.

  Ach, these were dangerous thoughts.

  He stepped toward the door.

  “Where?” Moll asked. “I should know where we met, at least, should someone ask.”

  ‘Twas a good point. He stopped with his hand on the latch. “The borderlands. I’ve traveled there often enough.”

  Then, he was standing on the castle wall, in the cool night air, unable to recall just exactly what route he’d taken to get there. ‘Twas pure carnal attraction, nothing more. Of late, he’d buried himself too long in the king’s affairs and clearly, he’d gone too long without a woman. ‘Twas only natural he’d find himself attracted to the lass, especially as bonny a one as Moll.

  The sound of feet scraping against stone caused him to turn. Two women had emerged from the west tower, the flickering torchlight illuminating their faces swathed in velvet fur-trimmed mantles.

  A closer inspection revealed them as Lady Haddon and Anne. Her nostrils flared the moment their eyes met.

  Taran nodded, once, in respect. He owed her that much, at least.

  She turned her head.

  Strangely, the gesture washed away some of the anger he’d harbored against her. At least she wasn’t making a fool out of herself like Euphemia. From her point of view, she was right to be angry. He couldn’t find fault in that. The presence of Moll and the children was an insult of the highest order. At least, she possessed a measure of dignity.

  Then, his gaze shifted to Lady Haddon, and upon her smile of invitation, he approached and bowed his most courtly bow.

  “Taran.” Lady Haddon nodded in acknowledgment before she tilted her head at Anne. “You may leave, Anne. I’m sure Lord MacKenzie will escort me back to my chambers.”

  “Indeed.” A gust of wind tore the word from his lips, but his polite brush of lips over Lady Haddon’s hand confirmed the sentiment clearly—enough that Anne left, at once.

  The moment she vanished into the darkness of the tower, Lady Haddon looped her arm through his and pointed to the wall. “I can’t walk much further. I merely wish to stand for a breath of fresh air, then hobble my way back to the keep,” she said with a light laugh.

  “As ye wish.” Taran stepped forward.

  To his surprise, she leaned heavily upon his arm and took her time, moving as a woman of advanced age. Concerned, he studied her face again, this time noting the torchlight lent her face a sallow cast, one he wasn’t entirely sure was the fault of the flames.

  “Shouldna ye be in bed, my lady?”

  Lady Haddon rolled her eyes. “My bones ache from lying down, Taran.”

  He was tempted to sweep her up and simply carry her where she wished to go, but he knew better. In the first months of his arrival at Haddon Hall, he’d found its lady to be a true friend. They’d enjoyed many a game of dice and chess until idle tongues had begun to wag. They’d rarely kept company after that, lest Lord Haddon misunderstand.

  “What have you done, Taran?” Lady Haddon asked as they reached the wall and the wind died enough to speak.

  “Done?” he queried.

  Another flurry of wind delayed her reply. She waited until the banners above them ceased to snap, then explained in the lull, “Euphemia? You’ve truly chosen her?”

  A snort of contempt escaped his lips. “Nay, my lady.”

  “So, ‘tis idle gossip then.” She laughed. “Will you be allowed to choose another?”

  Taran locked his gaze on the northern stars. Would he? What if the clan or the king insisted he choose between Euphemia and Anne, anyway? Could he bed either lass—even once—to father an heir? The thought made him shudder.

  Lady Haddon read his face well enough. She sighed on his behalf. “You could always deny them both and wed for love.”

  He didn’t reply. He knew better. For him, there was no choice. He must wed for the greater good.

  Wordlessly, Lady Haddon reached up and patted his cheek. The smile that lit her wan face ‘twas sad to see. She was such a sweet lass. She deserved health, happiness, a healthy babe in her arms rather than suffering from lack of strength and constant worrying if she could survive the birthing.

  “You’ll do as I did,” she said firmly, once the winds stilled. “In the end. I know it.”

  “Aye?” he prodded when she fell silent.

  “I wed for love,” she confessed with a small smile. “As Queen Elizabeth’s lady-in-waiting, I was to wed when and as she saw fit. Her fury when she discovered I ran off with the captain of her very own guard was…terrible.”

  Taran arched a surprised brow. He hadn’t known Lord Haddon had been the Captain of Queen Elizabeth’s
Guard. He certainly didn’t appear the rebel.

  Lady Haddon’s silvery laugh recaptured his attention. “There is much you don’t know of him, Taran. ‘Twas a dangerous path we tread, I assure you. For a time, the queen sought my lord’s head, but time brings tolerance, in the end. Finally, she withdrew the orders for our arrests, though, she has, as yet, to acknowledge either of us. Mayhap she never will.” She raised her hand in a broad, sweeping gesture that took in the entire castle. “Meanwhile, our castle stands empty. We are in exile, in our own country. The only people who fill these walls are our servants, their families, and the rare visitor who fears no retribution from the queen.”

  Taran eyed Lady Haddon anew. He’d always thought her quiet and unassuming—fair opposite a lass to oppose a queen.

  Her smile faded in favor of a yawn. “I’ve missed you, Taran, but, I’ve had enough fresh air, for now. I would return to the keep.”

  Silently, he held out his arm.

  The way back to her rooms took what felt an age, but ‘twas pleasantly passed. Neither spoke, and neither felt compelled to fill up the space with idle talk. As ever with Lady Haddon, he could truly relax.

  At her door, he bowed and took her fragile hands between his. “A good evening and health to ye, my lady.”

  “The same to you.”

  As she turned to leave, he tightened his grasp on her fingers as an idea flashed across his mind. “A boon, my lady.”

  Her brows lifted. “To be sure, Taran. As always, anything within my power, I will give.”

  “’Tis a small thing,” he assured. “A dress, for Moll.”

  Lady Haddon’s smile brightened. “’Tis plain to see what you see in her, Taran. She’s so full of life and spirit. I’ll send for her, once I’ve rested.”

  Taran brought her fingers to his lips and brushed them in a light kiss. She turned away and vanished into her room. If only her story could have a happy ending, but deep in his heart, he feared the opposite true.

  * * *

  It was late when Taran lifted the latch and stepped inside his chamber. He’d thought, at first, to spend the night in a guard tower or mayhap find a different room amongst the wealth of empty rooms about the castle, but the castle occupants would notice. He couldn’t undermine Moll’s tenuous position is such a way…or at least, that’s what he told himself.