Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  Gentle fingers probed his injury.

  Irritated Doughall had ignored his bidding, he swatted the hand away, and keeping his eyes shut, snapped, “Nay, I’ll not be bled.”

  “Bled? I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” Moll’s voice, so soft and soothing, washed over Taran like a gentle breeze after a storm.

  His eyes flew open.

  The mere glance from before hadn’t done her justice. She stood by his knee, her gown falling in graceful lines to the floor. The charming curve of her neck and the cut of her snug bodice caught his attention, the square-cut collar offering a tantalizing glimpse of her lace shift. Well could he imagine what lay beneath. His blood stirred. Indeed, ‘twas fortunate his collarbone throbbed with pain, dampening his body’s response.

  “I brought your lass to tend ye.” Doughall’s grinning face popped over her shoulder.

  Taran shot him a silent order to disappear.

  The man read his look right well. “I’ll be leaving then, lad. Ye’ve fine hands to tend ye,” he said, and with a chuckle, stalked away.

  Taran turned his attention back to Moll. Her gaze had locked on the purple bruise forming on his shoulder and then down to the welts on his ribs. Her stunning eyes flooded with concern.

  “These are ghastly bruises, my lord,” she murmured, gently probing his rib with her fingertip.

  Reflex made him tense, but more from imagining how she might make him forget pain rather than the fact she’d caused any. Schooling his thoughts, he queried, “Are ye a healer, then?”

  “Nay,” she murmured absently, her attention still locked on his bruises. “Though, often enough, ailments of the heart mingle with those of the body.”

  ‘Twas an intriguing answer. “Ailments of the heart?”

  Her eyes shuttered at once. “’Tis Welsh herblore, my lord,” she replied, wary. “Nothing more.”

  Herblore? Tradition called those learned in herblore by the name of witch—and of late, a witch was a dangerous name to be called.

  As so many times of late, their gazes caught and held. He could drown in the pull of those eyes, so bonny and mysterious. Aye, ‘twould be easy to lose himself in those shimmering grays and greens, framed by the thick sweep of lashes fanning her cheeks.

  “My lord,” she whispered.

  He’d much rather she used his name. He’d heard ‘my lord’ one time too many from those lips. His gaze slid down to her mouth. Such pleasing, pink lips, lips he could think of a dozen ways to taste, and lips, no doubt, that felt and tasted sweeter than honey.

  All at once, her fingers felt like a brand on his skin, sending a keen pulse of awareness straight through him, despite the pain.

  Abruptly, he rose to his feet, welcoming, the pain.

  Surprised, Moll held out a hand.

  Instinct made him catch her fingers, but ‘twas only as he rubbed his thumb over the top of her hand that he realized she’d either meant to help him rise or stop him from doing so. It mattered little. Her skin felt like velvet under his touch.

  “There are potions that can help,” she was saying. “But, ‘twill not be ready until nightfall, my lord.”

  He smiled.

  “MacKenzie,” a voice called out.

  As Taran glanced up to see Lord Haddon approach, he felt Moll’s fingers slip from his.

  She took her leave, hurrying across the hall, the provocative sway of her hips sending a pleasant thrum coursing through his blood.

  “Crosses,” Lord Haddon said.

  Taran shifted his gaze.

  Lord Haddon stood at his side, waving a letter, his thin face agitated. “Red-painted crosses on the doors, not even three leagues away from the queen’s residence,” he rasped.

  Taran lifted a brow at the letter.

  “There were no tidings for you,” Lord Haddon read his silent question easily enough. “Only this.” Grimly, he held out the parchment. “The Queen and her retinue left her residence Friday, heading north. ‘Tis by her majesties orders now. None may enter, and none may leave Haddon Hall. These gates must remain sealed until she finds haven.”

  “And where’s the harm in leaving?” Lord Maxwell asked, joining them to stand at Lord Haddon’s side, ignoring Taran outright.

  ‘Twas clear the man meant to insult him, but Taran cared little. He answered the man anyway, “Should her majesty’s birds escape their cage, ‘twould not be known we died of the plague until ‘tis too late. She seeks a haven free of illness. She’ll keep her birds caged until she’s certain, only then will she set ye free—if she has no need of ye.”

  The gray-haired lord shot him a sour look, but continued to address Lord Haddon with his concerns, “I’ve plans to return to Scotland, soon.”

  Lord Haddon shrugged. “Then, I fear you must wait.”

  Taran left them there, glowering and sparring words, and instead, headed for the castle well on the upper courtyard, away from the crowd and once again let his thoughts turn to Moll.

  What would she be like, completely unfettered, free of her past? No doubt, with the strength of her spirit, she’d be a firebrand—in bed and without. ‘Twas most unfortunate she wasn’t the dallying kind, or that he couldn’t wed as he pleased. Nay, he’d soon find himself politically matched, and Moll? No doubt, she’d have her pick…the sudden thought she was destined for another man strangely darkened his mood.

  Grimly, he tossed a few buckets of cold water over his aching bones, then noting the state of his plaid, stalked toward his chamber.

  When he opened the door, ‘twas to see the wee lassie, Charlotte, hopping across the room, playing some kind of game with Wee Jack, James, and Jamie.

  “Athair!” Charlotte’s young face lit with a smile, so heartbreakingly raw. She held out the skirts of her blue dress and curtsied deep. “’Tis so beautiful—bonny, is it not? Do I please ye, Athair?” she asked in her best imitation of a Scottish brogue.

  Ach, he should have told the wee lassie from the start he wasn’t her father. ‘Twas becoming harder with each passing day. Already, he feared ‘twas too late.

  “Aye,” was all he said.

  The little girl lunged, clearly intending to squeeze him again, but upon seeing his bruises and welts, she drew up short.

  “Athair!” she gasped, her eyes growing round.

  He reassured her with a silent nod and then, strode to his chest. As usual, the children watched his every move. He didn’t mind. In fact, he was growing accustomed to their constant presence. With his clothing selection made, he nodded at them.

  All four grinned.

  He quirked his lip in response, and then draping his fresh shirt and plaid over his arm, quit the chamber and headed to the guardroom to change with some measure of privacy. With so few men in Lord Haddon’s household, the guardroom stood deserted nearly every hour of the day. This afternoon, ‘twas no different.

  He kicked the fire back to life, changed his clothing, and then returned to lean over the fire, his hands planted firmly on the mantle.

  For a time, he merely watched the flames, allowing his thoughts to wander as they willed, from the queen’s edict, assuredly, but more often to Moll’s winsome figure. Then as his collarbone began again to throb, he quit the guardroom in favor of the wall.

  As ever, the wind blew against his face. Overhead, hawks soared on the wind. He passed through the eastern guard tower and out the other end, and then paused a moment to inspect the stables. In the grasslands behind the stables, he could see the horses grazing, his among them. If only he were riding home. Aye, he belonged in the Highlands, not dancing to the tune of a fickle queen—and that of a weak king, as well. He missed the call of the moorland birds, the smell of the wild heather, and the spring of the moss and peat beneath his feet. He closed his eyes. The Highlands beckoned—the king and the queen, be damned.

  “I knew I’d find ye here,” Euphemia murmured by his side.

  Taran didn’t have to look to know she stood there with her simpering smile and her bodice pulled far lower
than propriety allowed—as if that could stimulate his interest in her. A fleeting glimpse of Moll’s lace-edged shift inflamed him far more than if Euphemia stood naked, revealing every inch of her flesh.

  Euphemia brushed his sleeve. He did look then, in order to place a decent distance between them.

  “I miss the Highlands,” Euphemia said in a low voice. “Home. The wind on the moors. The selkies.”

  Between each word, she paused and thrust her breasts forward, her bodice—as he’d predicted—pulled down low. He didn’t bother to respond and turned back to the wall instead, locking his gaze over the hills.

  Euphemia mistook his response as an invitation. Her fingers brushed his arm.

  Irritated, he stepped back, but she stayed him with a hand on his arm.

  “I understand why ye would go to her,” Euphemia said in a low voice, her face tightening. “But she is no longer necessary, my lord.”

  Of course, she spoke of Moll, but ‘necessary’? ‘Twas an odd word. He arched a puzzled brow.

  Euphemia stepped into him, brushing her breasts against his arm. “My lord,” she panted in a breathy sort of way. “I’ll keep ye fair interested in my bed. Ye willa need to seek comfort elsewhere. And ye need an heir, my lord. As your wife, only I can give ye that.”

  Was she exceedingly iron-willed or immensely dense? Surely, she could read his distaste? Irritated, Taran shoved himself from the wall.

  “Save your wiles for another. They willna work on me,” he grated.

  He turned, but she threw herself in front of him, blocking his path.

  “My lord, ye canna deny the advantages our union would bring,” she said with a passionate determination. “It matters little what ye feel for me, aye? Love is not required. Indeed, it can come later.”

  Taran paused. He’d often said such things himself, that in a marriage, love was the last thing required, but now, looking at Euphemia, he realized what a fool he’d been.

  Love was the only thing that mattered.

  Without a word, he stepped around her and strode away.

  He spent the remainder of the afternoon with his men, lounging on the large window ledge of the western guardroom, above the castle armory. The MacKenzie clansmen had taken the queen’s tidings in stride and had instead, turned their attention to a tournament of dice.

  Taran hadn’t joined. His body ached, and even more than that, Moll marched through his mind, again and again. The flash of her eyes. Her fingers clenched in fists, defending children she’d picked up from the streets. And, of course, her slender figure wrapped in rose and gold.

  “Ach, ye should soak that shoulder of yours,” Doughall’s rough voice barged into his thoughts. “A bath, piping hot.”

  Taran looked to where the man sat, balanced back on a three-legged stool and with his legs propped on the table. ‘Twas hard to deny the appeal of the suggestion. A hot bath would do him good.

  “Aye,” was all he said.

  The gray-braided man dropped his feet to the floor. “I’ll have the lads fetch a tub from the castle laundry, straightway. North tower?”

  “Nay.” Taran shook his head. “I’ve a mind to bathe there.” He much preferred the silence and peace of the empty laundry room than a place where others might roam.

  “As ye wish,” Doughall replied with a nod. He whistled and jerked his head at several of the younger clansmen. “On your feet, lads, we’ve a task afore the sun sets.”

  As they left, Taran closed his eyes.

  They roused him near sunset. ‘Twas surprising he’d fallen asleep. The morning’s drubbing had exhausted him more than he’d thought. With a nod of thanks, he pushed himself off the window ledge and made his way to the castle laundry, alone.

  ‘Twas a large room—enticingly empty—with low-arched ceilings and several windows on the northern wall that offered a fine view of the courtyard and the great hall to the left. On the hearth, a fire merrily crackled beneath a large, black cauldron, and a long, wooden table took up the center of the room.

  To his left, an open door revealed a smaller chamber filled with barrels of ash, boxes, and tubs. ‘Twas behind a stack of wooden crates that Doughall had filled the largest tub in the room. Steam rose from the water in inviting clouds.

  ‘Twas fair difficult to divest himself of his clothing and even harder to remove his boots. No matter how great the care, his tortured muscles complained until at last, he stepped naked into the water and settled back with a sigh.

  Peace descended as the water’s heat sank into his bones, soothing the stiffness, but playing with the pain. Still, ‘twas relaxing. He stayed there in silence, enjoying his solitude until finally, the water cooled, signaling ‘twas time to leave.

  With a sigh, he hefted himself out of the water and standing by the tub, rolled his shoulders back, closing his eyes.

  It was then he heard a woman’s shocked gasp.

  He opened his eyes to see her in the evening light, standing by the stack of barrels with her lips parted in shock.

  Moll.

  A Locket Most Curious

  Moll hurried toward the castle laundry, pleased with her mushroom harvest, yet worried she hadn’t found enough. Most of the mushrooms growing between the aviary stones had damaged stems. ‘Twas disappointing, but even more concerning. With what she’d gathered, she could only make enough brew for a month, not nearly enough to see Lady Haddon past her birthing, and truthfully, ‘twould likely take even longer to discern the true cause of Lady Haddon ills.

  Yet even more concerning, should she discover what ailed Lady Haddon’s heart, she wouldn’t be able to cure her—unless Lord Haddon opened the castle gates. After spending the day scouring the castle grounds, ‘twas clear the necessary ingredients for almost any serious illness of the heart no longer grew inside the walls.

  Trying her best not to fall prey to needless worry, Moll hurried into the castle laundry.

  ‘Twas warm and bright, with limewashed walls. The black cauldron hanging over the fire bubbled merrily, sending clouds of hot steam into the air. She smiled. Bridgette was wondrously thoughtful to fetch the water and light the fire. She’d also not only found the pot and spoon, but had added a set of earthen bowls, a ladle, and a small knife, as well, on the wooden table in the center of the room.

  Pleased, Moll placed her bundles of mushrooms and lichen next to the small iron pot and stepped to the fire to peek into the cauldron. ‘Twas a third full, more than enough for the potions. She straightened and glanced about. A small room led off to the left, and judging from the array of barrels, buckets, and tubs through the open door, ‘twas clear it was a storage room.

  Moll reached for the lichen. She’d trim them first, then whilst she waited, steep the mushrooms for both Lady Haddon’s and Taran’s potions. ‘Twas the trickiest part of the potion. One couldn’t let them steep for long—

  The sudden splashing of water in the storage room startled her back into looking through the door. Was Bridgette still there?

  Curious, she stepped closer and called softly, “Bridgett—”

  Another splash interrupted her from behind a stack of wooden crates. She hurried around them, then drew up short.

  Her eyes widened in shock.

  ‘Twas Taran. He stood, magnificently naked, next to a large, wooden tub. Water dripped from his hair and over his broad shoulders, forming a pool beneath his feet.

  She stared, stunned, then of their own accord, her gaze slid down, over his tanned chest, first. ‘Twas the chest of a warrior, hard and chiseled. The few faded scars laced under his ribs not only lent him an air of dangerous mystery but pulled her gaze even further down. She swallowed a gasp. The bawdiest of the gossiping women had been wrong. ‘Twas clear she’d underestimated his size.

  Only then, did Moll regain enough presence of mind to cover her eyes.

  “Sweet Mary,” she choked.

  Feeling all at once hot and at a loss for words, she whirled and rushed out of the room.

  At the table on
ce again, she drew a sharp breath and smoothed her skirt, her heart hammering wildly. She had no business acting like an awestruck maid. She’d seen naked men before—well, Thomas, anyway. She scowled to be thinking of him. The old tailor had closer resembled a dumpling bobbing in a pot whilst Taran possessed the body of a Greek god.

  Flustered, she grabbed the ladle and the pot, firmly reminding herself she had potions to prepare. The act of whispering the words of healing grounded her roiling emotions, and as she filled the pot with boiling water, peace returned. By the time she returned to the table, she was once again calm.

  As she reached for the lichen, the sound of boots scraping the flagstone floor startled her into glancing sideways.

  Taran loomed large in the doorway, his blue eyes crinkled with amusement, and just like that, her nervousness returned.

  The cheekiness of the man. He stood there so boldly, so calm and unperturbed. The fact he was now clothed from head to toe in a white, linen shirt and a green MacKenzie plaid did nothing to erase the memory of a bare, muscled with tanned skin, and powerful thighs.

  Feeling her cheeks flame, she averted her gaze back to the lichen and picking up the knife, and began to chop the flat leaf lobes, far quicker than usual.

  “I found no willow bark, my lord,” she said. “There was lichen aplenty, though. I found what you need, growing on the eastern wall. ‘Tis best to hasten the mending of wounds, and ‘twill lessen the pain, as well—even better than the willow bark, some say. That along with a mushroom, will do wonders. It shan’t be long afore it’s ready.” She winced and put the knife down. She was babbling like a madwoman.

  “Aye.”

  ‘Twas only a single word, but his smooth, deep baritone made the hairs of her neck stand on end. He was obviously a man who weighed his words, but then, with eyes and a mouth as expressive as his, he hardly needed them.

  She bit her lip to keep her tongue still and scooping up a handful of lichen, sprinkled it into the pot. “It shan’t be long,” she repeated, willing him to hurry his leaving of the room. “I’ll send George to you with the brew, my lord.”