by Carmen Caine
Ignoring the door, he stalked to the table and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “I’ll stay,” he said.
Startled, she glanced up to see the spark of dry amusement still lurking in his eyes. ‘Twas clear he thought her seeing him without a single stitch of clothing quite humorous. As fresh images of his fine, unclothed physique danced once again in her head, she blew back a wayward strand of hair from her face with a huff.
Grabbing the knife, she began to chop the lichen again, vigorously, keenly aware of the Highlander lounging at the end of the table, studying her every move.
“Welsh herblore, aye?” he queried after a time.
She hardly heard the words. The lilt in his voice was dangerous. No doubt, he’d ensnared many a maid with that deep rumble and the soothing way the syllables slipped from his tongue…what had he asked? Ah, herblore.
“I know only of lichens and mushrooms,” she admitted with a shrug, sprinkling the last of the lichen into the pot and reaching for the second bundle. “My mother mastered herbs, barks, and even weeds of the sea. Folk came from leagues away to seek her wisdom and be cured of their ills. They crowned her Wales’s most powerful witch.” She smiled, recalling the awe in their eyes under her mother’s gentle touch.
“Witch?”
Moll glanced up, startled. His blue eyes bore into hers as a fine sense of horror crept down her spine. Lord help her, she was a fool. She’d let the man’s mesmerizing ways lull her out too far from her shell.
The sound of the fire cracking and popping filled the room.
Then, Taran nodded. “Sorcha, my cousin’s wife, is a witch.” His chiseled lips lifted in one corner.
‘Twas a comforting smile, one clearly meant to set her at ease. Still, ‘twas fair difficult to breathe. “That’s a dangerous word to say, my lord,” she whispered.
Taran shrugged and lifted a wry brow. “Aye, but there are none here, save ourselves.”
Still somewhat on edge, she finished with the lichen and began to pick through the mushrooms.
“I’d warrant ‘tis your eyes that marks your gift,” his deep baritone observed after a time.
Moll paused. ‘Twas odd he should know the true mark of a witch lay in the eyes. Few folk did.
With his gaze locked on the flames dancing under the cauldron, he spoke as if merely thinking aloud, “Sorcha dreamt of events to come. I witnessed her gift with mine own eyes…though, ‘twas a day of sorrow—great sorrow, that she saw. Aye, a day best unseen by any.”
The raw pain in his voice summoned a wave of sympathy.
For a time, a companionable silence fell, one in which she returned to the fire to fill the pot again.
Then, strangely wanting him to know, she confessed, “I know only of the heart. ‘Tis my gift to listen to the hearts of others, should they allow, and then assist in healing what I might find.”
“The heart?” Taran shifted, another smile dancing on his lips. “Can ye tell me then, what does mine say?”
He was powerful, strong, with the body of a warrior. She didn’t need to listen to his heart to know that. “Your heart holds little that is ill, my lord. You are a man of thought, strength, and discipline.”
“Is that all ye hear?” he asked when she paused, his voice deepening.
Moll swallowed. “’Tis all I can determine, my lord, without…without…” The last thing she wished to do was place her ear upon his chest.
“Without?”
“Without listening to your heart.” She turned back to the fire.
“As in, truly listen?” There was a genuine curiosity in his voice.
She drew a breath and nodded, pretending to inspect the cauldron’s bubbling water.
“Then, lass, I beg ye put your ear to my chest,” came the words she dreaded to hear.
As a Witch of the Heart, she couldn’t ignore an honest entreaty. Slowly, she straightened and faced him.
He watched her approach. His eyes were so blue, a blue as deep as the sea, and his body, something she suddenly feared to touch—not because she feared him, but because…she didn’t.
“Shall I stand?” he asked, a note of something in his tone that quickened her pulse.
“Yes, my lord,” she murmured.
He rose to his feet, towering over her as she locked her gaze onto his chest and attempted to focus her thoughts. She failed. With her own heart thumping so loudly in her ears, she doubted she would even be able to hear a single beat of his. Biting her tongue, she stepped close, and turning her head to the side, placed her ear against his chest.
‘Twas far too intimate a position, standing so close to the man. Heat radiated from his body, a warmth strangely luring her closer. Why did he feel so intensely familiar? A sense of safety washed over her, mingling with a heightened awareness that prickled her skin. He smelled of soap and spice. She inhaled the heady scent, simply wanting to breathe him in, suddenly wanting more…but more…of what?
In her confusion, her gift steadied her thoughts, stilling her mind and drawing her focus to his heart, echoing so strong and steady beneath her ear.
Honor. Strength. Loyalty. A man truly worthy of trust…yet, about his own heart wound a shell of stone. Yes, he was a man of trust, but a man who trusted few. Her mother had oft claimed no potion could cure a heart of stone. Only one thing could. ‘Twas love.
Then, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck and her senses leapt, sending a foreign pulse of longing straight down her spine.
Her head snapped up and she stepped back, rattled. The eyes staring back at her were cool and so boldly unrepentant. Had his touch been accidental? With the honor she’d heard beating beneath her ear, she thought so, for truly, he was a man to trust.
Drawing a breath, she pronounced, “Your heart is strong, my lord, honor, discipline, and duty abound, yet…’tis overly fortified.”
Taran lifted a brow, seeming only amused. “’Tis a flaw?”
“Hearts are meant to feel,” she murmured, for a moment, becoming the Witch of the Heart more than the uneasy maid. “Hearts are not meant to be stronger than stone, my lord.”
At the word ‘stone’, the line of his dark lashes fluttered in surprise, but he recovered quickly to comment, “Mayhap some hearts must set feeling aside in favor of duty and the greater good.”
‘Twas her turn to be surprised. His words dredged her father’s voice from the depths of her mind. Moll, you must wed the tailor for the greater good. Listen to your father now. ‘Tis for the greater good.
“Greater good?” she snorted and returned to the lichens steeping in the water. “’Tis the greater good that made me a tailor’s wife.”
She grabbed the knife and began to chop, attacking the lichen with a near savagery, mincing the lobes until they could be minced no more.
“A great wrong was done to ye, lass,” Taran murmured when she was done.
Moll clamped her jaw. She disliked sympathy. It only threatened tears. She jutted her jaw and replied, “It matter’s little, my lord. Now, I cherish my freedom all the more. Never will I wed again.”
To her surprise, she saw he’d moved closer, leaning now against the table, practically by her side. As she watched, his expression lightened, and a twinkle of mirth entered his eyes.
When he didn’t speak, she raised her chin. “And?”
“I’ll wager you’re wed within the year, lass,” he replied without hesitation.
The confidence in his tone made Moll snort. “I assure you, ‘tis absurd.” She stretched out her hand to pick up the pot when he chuckled. “My lord?” she snapped.
Taran crossed his arms and leaned close. “How?”
“How?”
“How is it absurd?” He leaned even closer still.
There hadn’t even been the slightest hint of stubble on his jaw that morning. Now, a day’s growth of beard graced his chin, setting her fingers twitching with the temptation to touch.
“How?” he repeated, softer still, a voice merely more than a breath.
>
Moll shivered and abruptly focused her gaze on her task. How was it absurd to find herself wed in a year? She snorted again. “Setting all else aside, my lord, what man would take on the raising of six children?” she asked briskly as she picked up the knife. “Six children, not of his own flesh and blood?”
Silence fell.
Then, Taran stirred at her side and hefted himself off the table. “I’ll be going, lass. I’ll send Doughall for the brew.”
Surprised at his sudden departure, she nodded and murmured, “My lord.”
On the threshold, he paused with his hand on the latch. “What man?” he asked suddenly, turning his head enough that she could see the firm line of his jaw. “I assure ye, Moll, there’s not a Highlander alive who wouldna want ye—nay, cherish such a bonny, bold lass so stoutheartedly willing to raise six wee ones naught of her own flesh and blood.” He snorted. “Aye, ye’ll find yourself wed in even less than a year. ‘Tis clear, ye were made for a man’s touch.”
The next moment, he was gone, leaving Moll standing by the table, her lips parted in surprise.
* * *
“Drink deeply, my lady, afore the life escapes,” Moll encouraged from where she knelt at Lady Haddon’s side.
The frail woman held the earthen cup in her trembling hands, and with a weak smile, drank. When she’d finished, she handed the cup to Moll with a grimace. “It tastes rather like pond water.”
“Mayhap closer akin to mud, my lady.” Moll laughed. “’Tis fortunate you must drink this only once a day.”
The humor on Lady Haddon’s face faded. With a sigh, she touched the locket hanging about her neck to her lips, departing a reverent kiss.
‘Twas a telling gesture. “’Tis such a beautiful locket, my lady.”
An expression of pain flashed over Lady Haddon’s face. “I do believe I shall sleep, now, Moll,” she said with a yawn. “Until the morrow, then?”
Moll curtseyed.
With an absent smile, the woman waved to Bridgette for assistance as Moll took her leave, letting herself out of the room.
As the massive iron-studded door closed behind her, Moll expelled a breath. What would it take for Lady Haddon to trust her? To allow her to listen to her heart? ‘Twas clear the locket held a key to some secret pain, mayhap even the pain that stood at the root of her ills.
Slowly, Moll descended the keep’s winding stairs. Of all ills of the heart, those of sadness were the hardest to cure.
The moon inched above the castle walls as she exited the keep and crossed the grounds, hurrying toward the tower stairs leading to Taran’s bedchamber. Torches flickered in their iron brackets, sending shadows dancing across the cobblestones beneath her feet.
Had George found Taran? She’d sent the boy out with his potion, just before she’d left to deliver Lady Haddon’s. Had he drunk the brew?
A figure stepped out from the surrounding darkness. “Moll.”
Moll jerked.
‘Twas Euphemia, swathed in a blue velvet mantle caressing her statuesque form in elegant folds. She looked like a queen, so regal, powerful, but even in the dim torchlight, Moll could see her eyes were cold, detached, with all the warmth of a snake.
“My lady.” Moll dipped dutifully.
Euphemia sniffed in disdain. “Can ye not learn your place, Moll? ‘Strewth, be ye canna stay.”
Alarm gripped Moll. Her heart began to pound.
Euphemia stepped closer and lowered her voice, “Aye, I tolerated ye, out of the kindness of my heart and pity for the wee ones, but soon, I’ll be Taran’s wedded wife. I’ll not have ye as a distraction.” Her hand snaked out and caught Moll by the arm. “Know your place, or when I’m his wife, ye might just find yourself without a roof over your head where the winters are cold. Aye?” She dug her fingers deep into Moll’s flesh.
With a twist of her arm, Moll wrenched herself free. Would Taran truly wed this harridan? ‘Twould be a match made in hell. Then remembering just how miserable Euphemia could make her life, she obediently lowered her chin.
“Aye,” the woman purred. “’Tis best ye hie yourself off. Your time with Taran is done.”
“Euphemia?” a voice called.
As Euphemia glanced over her shoulder, Moll used the distraction to escape.
With the woman blocking the tower door, she’d have to enter the tower from the wall above.
Picking up her skirts, she slipped behind the great hall and raced up the steps near the aviary. A guard nodded her way as she passed him on the wall. ‘Twas dark, but every line of his body had denoted respect. Mayhap, word of her efforts with Lady Haddon had spread.
With a quickened pace, she sprinted along the wall, half afraid Euphemia would be waiting for her at the top of the tower stairs.
She’d just entered the north tower, when someone moved in behind her.
Startled, she whirled.
A tall figure of a man stepped into the circle of light cast from the torch on the wall.
‘Twas Taran, his dark brows drawn into a scowl.
“And what was Euphemia torturing ye over, lass?” he asked, his eyes boring through hers.
He caught her hand in his, ‘twas a light touch, but one that strangely rendered her incapable of noticing anything but the heat of his fingers, so gently circling her wrist. If she stepped back, he would let her go, no doubt. She held her breath, powerless to move.
“Did George give you the brew?” she asked, her gaze snagging on the cleft in his chin and his strong jaw still so enticingly shadowed.
“Aye, I thank ye,” he murmured, still holding her hand. “Euphemia?”
“’Twas nothing,” she hedged, her heart again beating loudly in her ears. She didn’t want to think of the woman’s spite or the fact she might very well wed the man standing before her, so very close.
He seemed to mull this over, then slowly, let her hand slip free from his grasp.
Neither moved.
They stood so close. He seemed to be everywhere. Then he inhaled, drawing her gaze first to his pulse beating hard at the base of his throat, then up to his lips, so distinct, as if cut from stone. What would those lips be like, touching hers?
Almost as if summoned by her thoughts, his head began to drop.
Her mind went blank.
A Weakening of Resolve
Desire burned in Taran’s chest. God’s blood, he wanted to kiss the lass. He wanted—nay, sore needed—to taste those lips. He ached to pull that soft, warm body hard against his—king’s will be damned. Moll stared up at him, her stunning eyes shimmering in the torchlight, the expression in them almost inviting. Mayhap ‘twas what he wished to see.
For a moment, his head dipped to live his desires, then, years of discipline gave him the strength to step back.
From where he’d lounged on the wall, he’d seen Euphemia accost Moll at the base of the tower. ‘Twas clear the woman was up to nothing good.
“Euphemia.” Her name alone brought the bitter taste of gall to his lips. “Dinna mind the woman.”
“I shan’t, my lord,” Moll assured with a polite nod.
With difficulty, he forced his feet away. There would be no sleeping in his chamber tonight, not with knowing she lay but a few mere steps away.
Bitterly, he walked the walls. He’d served the king’s will and placed his clan above his own his entire life. ‘Twas for the greater good…but now?
Must he give up his very soul?
* * *
As the dawn touched the surrounding hills with a soft pink light, Taran rose, stiff and sore, from his makeshift pallet on the guardroom floor. He’d found little sleep. He couldn’t place the blame on the occasional guard that had eyed him in curiosity as they’d passed through during the night. Nor could he fault his injuries. They ached still, though surprisingly far less than he’d expected.
Nay, there was only one cause, a particularly bonny lass with stunning eyes. Their encounter in the laundry played through his mind, again and again. Aye, he’d
been outright amused at her reaction upon seeing him naked, but when she’d laid her ear to his chest…
Clearing his throat, he quit the guard chamber.
The morning meal had nearly finished by the time he strode into the great hall, and he’d scarcely ducked under the door than Charlotte was there to greet him.
“Good morning, Athair.” A smile lit her young face, aye, she was fair grinning from ear-to-ear at the mere sight of him.
He felt the corner of his lip curl in response.
“How do you feel? Did you drink Moll’s brew?” she asked, her eyes clouding with genuine concern.
He reached over and tousled her head. He couldn’t have the wee thing fretting over naught. “I’ve suffered far worse, lassie. ‘Tis of no concern.”
A sigh of relief escaped her lips and she leaned to rest her cheek against his arm. “’Tis well,” she murmured. Then, speaking slower, added, “Ye should rest well, Athair. Dinna practice, aye?”
Taran chuckled. ‘Twas endearing, truly, the way she sought to mimic him.
Then, he spied Moll, sitting at the table with Wee Jack at her side. His gaze trailed over her appreciatively. Somehow, she looked even bonnier in her rose-and-gold gown than she had the day before.
“Off with ye, now, lassie,” Taran murmured, patting Charlotte again on the head.
She skipped ahead of him, leading the way.
“My lord.” Moll moved as if to rise.
He dropped a staying hand on her shoulder, letting his fingers brush the bare skin of her neck. “Taran,” he murmured into her ear. ‘Twas such a delicate ear, one that begged a nibble. Then, recalling what he’d begun to say, finished, “I beg ye, call me ‘Taran’, lass.”
The slender shoulder beneath his fingers tensed.
“Athair, I saved ye porridge,” Charlotte piped as she shoved a bowl across the table.
“I thank ye, lassie.” With care, he arranged himself on the bench.
“’Tis time to take Wee Jack to the others now, Charlotte,” Moll said with a firm nod.
For a moment, Charlotte appeared as if she would object, but then thinking better, rose to her feet instead. “I must leave now, Athair, but I’ll be back.”