Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  “Athair,” Charlotte’s eager young voice travelled through the air to Moll’s ears. “Face and ears all washed. Aye, the lot of us, Athair.”

  “Then off with ye,” the Highlander’s deep voice boomed. He stepped aside as he waved the children into the hall.

  The boys bounded through the door, clearly anxious to eat, but Charlotte lingered on the steps. As Taran tilted his head her way, she suddenly threw her arms about his waist and squeezed tight.

  Moll blinked, surprised.

  The Highlander appeared somewhat astonished, as well. After several seconds, he gave Charlotte a clumsy pat on the head and pried himself free.

  “Go, lassie,” he ordered, pointing to the door.

  Happily, she skipped inside.

  Moll lifted a puzzled brow. She’d been amiss in asking the meaning of Athair and just why the young girl, at times, sought to mimic his accent. ‘Twas an error she would correct, and right quickly.

  A flurry of wind whistled through the arrow-slit window, blowing back the hair from her face, but even more, in the courtyard below, molding Taran’s kilt to his lean hips and muscled thighs. How long she remained there, staring, she couldn’t say. The next thing she knew, a woman’s low, musical voice echoed up the stairs from below.

  “Taran is your father, then?”

  Alarmed, Moll held her breath.

  Two voices buzzed in response, but she couldn’t make out the words. Horrified, she fled down the stairs, her mind awhirl. The other children had just entered the hall, only George and Francis remained. Surely, they knew better than to drop any hint of the fact they came from London. Surely?

  She rounded the last curve to find the twins lounging lazily against the tower door, as through the opening, Euphemia minced her way across the courtyard, heading toward the great hall.

  Euphemia. She should have known. Her sense of alarm only grew. “What did she want?”

  George shrugged. “I cannot fathom the woman. She asks the same question again and again, as if in the asking, the answer will change. It’s ever ‘is he truly your father?’”

  “La mercy, George, what’s to fathom?” Francis rolled his eyes. “’Tis plain as day, the woman’s madly in love with him.”

  The words stung, but Moll had greater worries on her mind. “Does she ask from where we harken?”

  Francis appeared insulted. “You needn’t fret, Moll.”

  “We’re no fools,” George added.

  Then, Francis grinned and adopting an overly innocent tone, continued, “Why, Lady Euphemia, yes, Taran MacKenzie is our father. Why, yes, we’ve seen plenty of him over the years in the Borderlands, my lady. How else could our beloved Ma bless us with so many siblings?”

  Moll shuffled the clothing to one arm and shooed the boys away. “Get you gone. ‘Tis time to eat.”

  They snickered, but left easily enough, leaving her alone in the tower, and with a huff, she swept back up the stairs.

  ‘Twas a short time later that Moll stood in the bedchamber inspecting two fine linen shifts edged with lace, a fur-trimmed cloak, and four dresses, in all. A blue velvet with a lace collar, a green and black silk, a rose brocade with a bodice of glass beads, and a small cornflower-blue frock that Charlotte would adore. They were finely made, dresses for a lady—certainly, something she’d never thought to wear. She ran her hands over the soft fabrics, simply admiring the workmanship for a time before choosing the rose brocade. She chose a shift next, one with a lace-trimmed collar and one so sheer that when she held it up, she could see the light from the window streaming through.

  Quickly, lest she be caught undressed, she unlaced her worn gown and shrugged out of her rough-linen shift. She smiled as they dropped to her feet in a grubby heap. They both reminded her of London and Thomas. ‘Twas oddly freeing to be rid of them.

  The fine linen shift slipped over her shoulders and fell over her hips in soft, smooth folds, kissing her skin like a cool mist. The brocade gown was a challenge and took some doing to properly lace, but at last, with much adjusting of both the pillow and bodice laces, she was done.

  For several, luxurious moments, she twirled in a circle, the skirt fanning around her in a pleasing blur of gold and rose. Then, ‘twas back to the tasks at hand. She made short work of her old shift, tearing it into square strips, some to store and boil the lichen and mushrooms, and the rest, she used to plump the flattened pillow. The remaining gowns, she folded and stacked neatly at the foot of the bed, after, of course, leaving out the cloak for herself and the cornflower-blue gown for Charlotte. Already, she could see the little girl’s face, filled with delight.

  Ready at last, she swirled the cloak around her shoulders, picked up the linen squares, and left the room. The fine shift caressed her skin and the glass beads of her bodice whispered as she descended the tower steps for the third time that morning and stepped out into the bright sun.

  ‘Twas early yet, and the castle residents still ate their morning meal in the hall, but she wasn’t in the mood to join, not when she had only an hour or so to find the perfect lichen patch. The lichen is to be gathered under the noonday sun, her mother’s voice whispered comfortingly through her mind. ‘Twill provide the strength. The mushrooms should be cut when the sky turns crimson, ‘twill bring the strength of the sun to the blood. Moll cocked a gauging brow at the deep-blue sky. If ‘twere to remain cloudless by nightfall, she couldn’t have asked for a better day.

  Humming a tune under her breath, she began her search.

  It must have been an hour later, as she emerged from behind the chapel, she heard Charlotte gasp, “Moll, you look like a queen.”

  Moll looked up to see the little girl standing before her, mouth agape.

  “’Tis a gift from Lady Haddon and Lord MacKenzie,” Moll said, bending to brush bits of bracken from the knees of her skirt. “There’s a dress for you, as well. ‘Tis on the bed—”

  The words had no sooner left her mouth, then Charlotte squealed. There was no stopping her after that. Moll could only shake her head, amused, as Charlotte flew to the tower as fast as she could run to vanish inside.

  George and Francis appeared on the wall to the left then, the heads of the younger children trailing after them. Curiosity bubbled. Moll watched them a few moments, then shook her head. She had a potion to make.

  With an ever-watchful eye on the sun’s ascent, she returned to her task.

  Once or twice, a castle occupant greeted her from afar. Each time, the exchange only drew Moll’s attention to the castle’s emptiness. ‘Twas strange, that so large a place held so few. One might expect such of a ruin, but every stone in Haddon Hall stood neat, tidy, with nary even a blade of grass out of place.

  As the morning waned, she drew closer to the shouts of the men practicing arms in the lower courtyard. No doubt, Taran stood among them. He’d yet to miss a single day of practice, just as she had, as yet, to watch a single match. With the crowds lining walls ringing the lower courtyard, she knew Euphemia would be there. A chance meeting with the woman wasn’t something she cared to risk.

  A roar welled up from the practice area as Moll ascended to the castle wall. She focused on her task. While she’d found a patch or two that might suffice, she still held out for the perfect lichen. Lady Haddon needed every jot of help possible. She eyed the sun. ‘Twas near noon. She had just enough time to inspect the walls behind the aviary, the only stones she’d left unsearched.

  The sounds of fighting grew louder with every step. A third of the way to the aviary, a small patch of green caught her eye. She knelt in awe. She’d found it. The perfect lichen. Pleased, she ran her fingers over the brittle patch. ‘Twould serve Lady Haddon well. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and waited.

  The wait was a short one. As the sun reached its highest point, Moll whispered a prayer and scraped the lichen from the stones. Pleased with her success, she carefully tied the corners of the linen square over the harvested lichen into a tidy package, and then rose to her feet.


  The mushrooms were next. She’d yet to find what she needed, but no doubt, the older stones would yield what she needed.

  A sharp whistle drew her attention to the castle grounds below, just in time to see George and Francis vanishing into the guard tower directly opposite from where she stood. The whistle combined with the furtive way they moved, sent a shock of alarm straight through her body.

  Surely, they weren’t stirring mischief?

  Battling a rising suspicion, she tore down the nearest steps and ran to the tower, fear lending an extra urgency to her step. ‘Twas empty when she arrived. Before her, only empty, worn steps wound out of sight.

  “George! Francis!” she called up the stairwell.

  Only the forlorn wailing of the wind replied.

  Moll bit her lip. Surely, they wouldn’t risk pickpocketing, not when their safety was at stake? Unsure, she raced up the stairs and out onto the castle wall.

  This time, she spied them at once on her left and caught up before they could disappear.

  “Not one more step!” she growled, snagging George by the sleeve.

  The gangly boy halted and grinned. “And a good day to you, Moll.”

  Moll cast a quick glance at the scattered men walking the walls, but they were too far away to overhear, especially with the ever-present wind robbing the words from their mouths. Still, she leaned even closer to ask, “Promise me you’re keeping those fingers of yours safe in your pockets?”

  Both twins feigned shock.

  “Come now, Moll.” George laughed.

  “We’re not fools,” Francis added, slapping his hand over his heart.

  ‘Twasn’t an answer. She scowled.

  “There’s no need to fret, Moll,” George assured, noting the strength of her glare. “We’re merely making ourselves useful.”

  Francis smothered a cough.

  ‘Twas the cough that roused her suspicion even more. Her heart sank, even as her temper flared. “I’ll have no trickery or mischief from you, naught that could risk our food and shelter—”

  George interrupted her with an eye roll. “Moll, trust us, will you? We’ll not give you cause for worry, I swear.”

  Moll turned to Francis and frowned outright. “And you?”

  “La mercy, Moll, I want to eat as much as the rest.” He snorted, then pointed to the tower across the courtyard that led to their chamber. “Wee Jack and Jamie are taxing Charlotte sore. I’d best see if she needs help.”

  His offer of assistance only deepened Moll’s concern—‘twas quite out of character, indeed—but he was off before she could stop him and with George at his heels.

  She watched them go, torn between running after them and continuing her mushroom quest.

  She closed her eyes and forced her thoughts to still. Trust? Why, of late, did everyone ask her to trust?

  She exhaled and scowled. Lord help her, she didn’t have a choice, not really. She had a potion to finish and a castle the size of a city to search for the mushrooms needed to save Lady Haddon’s life. ‘Twas clear where she should focus, first…but, once she did find the mushrooms, she’d have hours before she could harvest them.

  If she hurried, she’d have time aplenty to track down the twins and set them to rights—trust be damned.

  Feeling at once better, she turned toward the aviary and the castle well.

  The clang of weapons and the roars of the crowd filled Moll’s ears as she stepped around the eastern tower. Men and a few women, lined the inner wall, blocking her view of the fight taking place below. She didn’t mind. She skirted the walls behind them, praying Euphemia wasn’t there, and hurried behind the domed aviary, built close to the castle walls.

  The rank stench of dung wafted up from below, overwhelming her nostrils. She covered her nose with her hand. There were no observers there, not with the aviary blocking the view of the fight. Quickly, she scanned the stones. To her astonishment, she found the red-tipped mushrooms, at once, growing near the aviary’s base, peeking out amongst the stones and within easy reach.

  Relieved, she straightened her shoulders.

  ‘Twould be a simple enough task to return at sunset, then with an hour to brew, Lady Haddon would have her potion before ‘twas time to retire.

  Fortune had provided her the most unexpected gift. Pleased, she turned back the way she’d come.

  Now, ‘twas time to mind the twins.

  “God’s blood, the man is a fool,” a man complained as Moll emerged from behind the aviary.

  The man beside him cupped his mouth with his hands and shouted, “Roderick, are you drunk already?”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd hugging the inner wall as Moll threaded her way past them.

  “Brian stands no chance.” A man at her elbow laughed. “The MacKenzie’s stronger than a wild boar.”

  Moll’s breath hitched. Taran? Then, the men around her shifted, providing her an unimpeded view.

  ‘Twas Taran, indeed, fighting below in a chain-mail hauberk, his strong legs planted wide and with a large basket-hilt sword in one hand and a buckler in the other.

  As if in a dream, she maneuvered closer, near the top of the stairs that descended directly into the courtyard below.

  After all, who could blame her? The Highlander compelled the eyes to watch.

  He stood on the cobblestones, projecting an easy confidence as he calmly observed his wary, circling opponent. Several times, the man feinted, but Taran didn’t move. He waited, appearing as if he would let himself be run through. Then, as quick as a flash, his blade arced. The next moment, his opponent’s sword clattered to the ground.

  Laughter moved through the crowd.

  Taran leaned against his sword as his opponent caught his breath, and then the men clasped hands.

  Men stepped forward from the crowd to assist in the quick removal of the chain hauberks, and once divested, both Taran and his opponent stepped back into the ring, this time, clearly prepared to wrestle to finish the fight.

  Moll swallowed. Lord help her, he stood bare-chested now, every inch of his tanned physique impeccably sculpted. Was he impervious to the chill in the air? He began to move, a fluid mass of force. ‘Twas mesmerizing, the way his muscles bunched and rippled beneath his skin. She couldn’t have walked away if she’d tried, her feet felt like anchors, cementing her to wall.

  A roar went up around her, startling her attention from Taran’s wide shoulders and lean hips back to the fight. As she watched, the Highlander flipped his adversary onto his back.

  A cheer tore from her lips. She raised her hands and screamed with the rest.

  ‘Twas then that Taran glanced her way.

  He paused as their eyes met in a connection she could not break.

  Her heart began to thud as her traitorous lips curved into an even broader smile. The crowd about her faded. Only Taran stood there, his dark hair blowing in the wind.

  She didn’t see his opponent until it was too late. Seemingly out of nowhere, the man delivered a backhand blow, striking Taran’s collarbone hard.

  The force of the impact knocked him flat on the ground.

  An Awakening of Need

  ‘Strewth, but Moll was beyond bonny, a vision in rose and gold where she stood at the top of the steps, the breeze ruffling her honey-blonde hair. Taran couldn’t wrench his gaze away. Fate was strange. He’d only meant to help a stranger at the castle gates, a woman with children undeniably in need. But now? With the beauty standing before him, ‘twas his own need that jolted through his body—a need of a vastly different kind. He gritted his teeth. ‘Twas impossible for a man to avoid a bodily attraction to the woman—

  A sharp backhand blow sliced through his thoughts and sent him reeling back. Pain lanced through his collarbone and over his shoulder. He stumbled. Then, losing his footing entirely, fell straight back, landing on the cobblestones with a teeth-jarring force as the onlookers gasped.

  “Ach now, that’s a blow, lad,” one of his clansmen called out amidst a cho
rus of whistles and hoots.

  Taran winced.

  “’Twill hurt more than one day, I’ll warrant,” his opponent, one of Lord Haddon’s men named Roderick, panted as he rubbed his own jaw with a rueful smile. “Though, after the drubbing I received, I fear I may lie abed longer, my lord.” He braced himself with a hand on his knee but held out the other in an offer of assistance.

  Taran grunted and took the man’s hand, rising to his feet amidst the peals of good-natured laughter. Ach, his neck, shoulder, and the side of his head ached sore. There would be no more practice this day—mayhap the remainder of the week, as well.

  “’Twas an unfair distraction, lad,” his right-hand man, Doughall, teased as Taran arrived at the sidelines. “No man could ignore a lass so bewitching, aye?”

  “Women shouldna be watching,” someone grumbled nearby. “I’ve lost good coin.”

  Taran tossed a glance back toward the stairs, but Moll had gone.

  “Let’s sit ye down, lad.” Doughall’s meaty hand fisted against Taran’s back as he manhandled him toward the great hall. There was no denying Doughall once he’d made up his mind. The grizzled man was as large as a bear. His gray braids swung to his hips as he kicked back the hall door and practically shoved Taran inside.

  With a groan, Taran sank back on the nearest bench, closed his eyes, and stretched out his legs. A throbbing ache pulsed through his head, as with each breath, a pain shot from his collarbone straight across his left shoulder.

  “Colin will fetch the physician, lad,” Doughall’s loud bass began from close by.

  “Nay,” Taran grunted, keeping his eyes shut. ‘Twas not needed—especially when the man’s treatments consisted only of bleeding and leechcraft.

  Doughall chortled from the next table over.

  Taran paid the man little heed. He grimaced. ‘Twas quite unlike him to fall prey to distractions during a fight. No doubt, his men would tease him for days, but well he deserved such a mocking.