Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  “Aye,” was all he said.

  The lassie had barely gone when Moll stirred at his side. “Athair?” she queried. “Charlotte believes the word means ‘father’.”

  Taran drew a sharp breath. “Aye.”

  “Aye?”

  Taran arched a brow and faced her. As he watched, she pursed her lips. How he itched to trace his thumb over that soft, pink lip, aye, then slide his finger inside. A flash of hot desire burned through him like fire.

  “My lord?” Moll’s face had knit into a puzzled scowl.

  “Taran,” he repeated again, his voice sounding gruff even to his own ears.

  Was that a faint blush of pink dusting her cheeks? The sight strangely lightened his heart.

  She swallowed, and then drew a deep breath. “I fear she believes you are, truly her father.”

  The words anchored him back to the matter at hand. ‘Twas time, then, to clear the misunderstanding. “Did ye tell her otherwise?” Something about the wee lass tugged at his heart.

  “I will,” Moll answered at once. “I merely sought to understand, first, why you…might have said such a thing?”

  The lassie was so vulnerable. Such news would devastate her, undoubtedly. “Where’s the harm?” he shrugged. “She’ll become disenchanted soon enough. ’Twould be kinder to tell her then.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “She will,” he assured.

  His response perplexed her—as well as himself. Frown lines deepened between her brows.

  Then, he was no longer paying heed to the conversation. How could he when, again, he caught sight of the edge of her shift peeking so tantalizingly beneath her collar? Ach, he wanted to bed the lass, ‘twas clear, and most definitely, more than once. With a firebrand like Moll, would take many times to sate the need she aroused in him.

  Abruptly, he swung his legs off the bench. “If ye’ll excuse me, lass.”

  He’d interrupted her, he was sure, but to save his life, he hadn’t a clue of what she’d been speaking about.

  He stalked away.

  * * *

  ‘Twas several days later when the sound of a trumpet sounded from the gates. Taran was there before the rest, eyeing the messenger astride his gray gelding, his arms resting loosely on his knees.

  “Tidings?” he called down to the man. “Of the queen?”

  The man lifted his head, pulling the reins as his horse shifted and stamped nervously beneath him. “Nay, my lord,” he raised his voice in reply.

  “The plague?” Lord Haddon’s voice boomed by Taran’s side.

  “My lord,” the messenger shouted his greeting back. “The plague still ravages Birmingham, my lord.”

  Lord Haddon expelled a loud breath. “No further north?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  “Then, go. Return in a week,” Lord Haddon ordered, dismissing him with a curt wave of his hand.

  The messenger wheeled his horse and galloped away.

  Taran watched the man disappear around the bend in the road. There was little hope now of his own messenger returning. He could only hope the man had, indeed, escaped to France and wasn’t hanging from a gibbet by the queen’s gates.

  “MacKenzie,” Lord Haddon grunted, acknowledging him at the same time as bidding him farewell.

  Taran didn’t reply.

  He resumed his walk on the wall, the wind pulling at his hair only served as a reminder he was not free but still trapped. He clamped his jaw, his sympathy for caged birds only increasing.

  As the sun climbed the sky, he joined the others gathered on the wall above the courtyard where his men trained. Even though he was healing remarkably well, he was still a week away from joining them. As the crowds cheered and the buzz of voices followed as new bets were laid, he spied two familiar red heads bobbing through the crowd below.

  ‘Twas George and Francis.

  Taran arched a suspicious brow. They moved, almost as if in a pattern…was one providing distractions for the other? As he watched, Francis slipped behind Sean the Iron Fist, a burly, pock-faced MacKenzie clansman with a particularly foul temper.

  Suddenly, the man whirled, and his angry voice rose above the surrounding din, “Show me your hand, lad, afore I chop it off.”

  The hum of voices died in an instant.

  Taran straightened.

  There was a scuffle, a short-lived one. Then, Doughall emerged, his gray braids swinging from side-to-side as he shoved George before him with one meaty hand and with the other, pulled Francis by the ear.

  “My lord,” several MacKenzie clansmen called.

  All eyes turned to where he stood on the wall. Taran nodded his chin at the great hall. Once. As his men bundled the twins through the crowd, the onlookers around him parted, opening a path to the stairs leading below.

  Taran locked his jaw and descended, keenly aware of the calls of ‘thief’ and ‘pickpocket’ swirling around him. Just what had the foolish lads done? Why? Did they not know the danger?

  As he strode toward the hall, a procession of onlookers formed behind him.

  “My lord,” Sean the Iron Fist growled as Taran arrived.

  George and Francis stood by the high table, surrounded by a mix of clansmen and guards as curious castle residents streamed in through the doors at the opposite end of the hall.

  “Caught him with his thieving hand in my pocket, my lord.” Sean pointed an accusatory finger straight at Francis.

  Francis raised his chin and boldly met Taran’s eyes. George stared straight ahead, straight-backed and stoic.

  At Taran’s left, the crowd suddenly parted and Moll rushed forward, her face lily-white.

  “Found this under the lad’s shirt,” a bulbous-nosed man standing next to George said, holding up a leather bag, plump and full.

  There wasn’t a sound to be heard as he loosened the drawstrings and shook the bag over the table. A jumble of brass hinges, silver rings, along with a small silver spoon tumbled out.

  “Why?” Moll gasped, stricken.

  Immediately, the eyes of the crowd locked onto her.

  “What’s this?” Lord Haddon’s voice boomed as he entered. “Thievery?”

  Taran skewered the lads with a look. ‘Twas fortunate they’d only victimized MacKenzie clansmen.

  “My lord—” Moll began in a strangled voice.

  Taran stepped forward and gave her arm a gentle squeeze as he raised his voice over hers. “’Twas an ill-thought jest, Haddon. A foolish prank the lads played on my men. Nothing more.” He’d deal with the twins later—a proper punishment to set them on a straight path, a path that would keep them there.

  “Yes, my lord.” Francis seized the explanation and immediately folded in a contrite bow. “’Twas a bet, my lord. A game. A challenge how far we could filch afore the clansmen noticed, my lord.”

  The lad’s smooth delivery seemed so genuine, so natural, that Taran felt sore tempted to applaud his performance.

  Doubt and irritation flashed across Lord Haddon’s face and on more than one face in the crowd.

  Lord Haddon scowled and ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I’ve more pressing matters,” he growled. “I’ve not the time for such foolish pranks. Next time, in addition to whatever punishment your father heaps upon your head, I’ll whip you both, myself.”

  “Aye,” Taran agreed.

  With a curt nod, Lord Haddon left.

  Appearing disappointed, the crowd began to disperse.

  Taran turned on the twins. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. They read his anger right well enough. When he pointed in the direction of his bedchamber, they quailed and scrambled to obey.

  The door to his bedchamber had no sooner closed then Moll whirled on both lads.

  “How could you, Francis?” she choked, her eyes red with unshed tears. She reached up and twisted his ear, repeating the word ‘why’ again and again until he ducked out of her grasp.

  “La mercy, Moll,” Francis began with a glare, but upon noticing T
aran’s censorious gaze, clamped his mouth shut and skulked to the window.

  Moll turned to George then. “Why, George? Why? We’re on the edge of ruin already. Why endanger us all?” This time, she could no longer hold the tears back.

  The sight of Moll in tears disturbed Taran mightily, but as he moved to intervene, ‘twas clear her weeping sobered the lads more than anything else could. They stood there, stricken, apparently for the first time realizing the enormity of what they’d done.

  ‘Twas when the younger children began to cry that Taran cleared his throat. ‘Twas enough.

  But Moll was not yet done. “I trusted you,” she gasped. “Where shall we go now? ‘Tis winter.”

  “Winter is precisely why, Moll,” Francis was quick to reply. “How else can we eat when we’re tossed on our arse in the freezing cold?”

  “We can’t see you starve yourself again,” George interjected hoarsely. “Not when this lot would most likely never notice anything missing.”

  “They wouldn’t have if…” Francis began but after glancing at Taran, he fell silent.

  All eyes latched onto Taran, nervously. Moll covered her mouth with her hands, her breasts heaving, as the children watched, wide-eyed, their wee faces pinched with worry.

  Taran inhaled a long breath. Of course. The lads merely sought to see them fed. ‘Twas little to blame. Their hearts were in the right place.

  Slowly, he raised a hand and fixed the twins with a stern look. “Men dinna steal. Men work. ‘Tis dishonorable to risk the lives of those in your care.”

  Their nostrils flared.

  Taran tilted his head in challenge. “Can ye care for Moll and the wee ones if ye rot in prison or even hang?”

  Silence greeted his question.

  “Aye, then.” He folded his arms and assumed a voice of command. “From this moment forth, ye’ll work from dawn till dusk. Honest work will keep ye safe from mischief.”

  “Work?” Francis retorted hotly. “There’s no work to be found for the likes of us. We’ve tried, time and again.”

  George clenched his jaw in silent agreement.

  ‘Twas likely true enough. Folk were leery of pickpockets, but now, ‘twas time to change that.

  “Ye’ll return what ye stole,” Taran continued in a hard voice. “Report to Doughall, at once. Ye’ll make amends with the clansmen by polishing their boots, washing their plaids, or whatever else they wish from ye until I say otherwise. And for so foolishly infringing on Lord Haddon’s time, ye’ll clean the aviary from top to bottom, starting this very day.”

  Their jaws dropped.

  ‘Twas just the beginning of what he had in mind for the lads. He’d erred by not keeping them busy from the start.

  Pointing a finger at the door, he uttered a single word, “Go.”

  They didn’t need to be told twice, they headed for the door, but Moll stopped them along the way. Silently, she twisted their ears. Hard. ‘Twas a gesture that expressed so much, fear, relief, love.

  He didn’t miss the sheepish looks of apology the twins tossed her in return, the bond between them all so plain to see. He recognized the look. ‘Twas the same kind of bond he’d long shared with his men on the battlefield, a bond he’d found nowhere else.

  As the three younger lads began to relax and smile with relief, Charlotte threw herself at Taran.

  “I knew you wouldn’t toss us out, Athair,” she wept as she wrapped her thin arms about his waist in a fierce hug.

  Pain sliced through his sore ribs the harder she squeezed, but he only patted her on the head. “Dinna fret, lassie,” he murmured. When he could bear the discomfort no more, he gently extricated himself from her grasp and stepped back.

  Soft fingers touched his arm. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Indeed, he was certain he could recognize her by the feel of her skin on his alone.

  “How can I repay you for your mercy?” Moll whispered hoarsely.

  What he wanted she couldn’t give, his freedom, release from putting the welfare of everyone else above his own. Beyond that, there was only one thing he truly wanted. Gently, he placed his hand over hers. “Trust, lass. I would ye repaid me with trust.”

  ‘Twas only then that he turned to face her.

  A single tear spilled down her cheek. Slowly, he traced the glistening trail with his thumb, breathing deeply all the while. If only he could hold her close, offer her the comfort of his arms whilst he kissed her tears away.

  It took every ounce of discipline in his possession to will his hands to drop and turned his feet toward the door.

  * * *

  Snow fell that night. Taran stood in the gray morning light, peering out at the white expanse covering the castle grounds. He’d returned to his bedchamber the previous night, determined to keep a closer eye on the wayward twins.

  Again, he woke in the morning to discover he’d slept through the night without waking, and again, Wee Jack had crawled down from the bed to fall asleep on his chest.

  Carefully, he eased the lad aside, and then stole a look at Moll. ‘Twas an act of self-torture, nothing less. His groin tightened at the sight of her lying on the bed, a dangerous mix of soft flesh and shapely curves, the blanket dipping between the vulnerable spread of her thighs. Just as quickly as he’d glanced, he forced his eyes away, back to the snow. Aye, ‘twould take both snow and the icy water of the well to cool the heat of his blood this morn.

  He stalked to the twins still snoring on their pallets.

  “Up,” he ordered in a whisper, toeing them both awake. They began to groan, but he silenced them with a sharp jab of his foot and hissed, “Dinna wake the others.”

  Grumbling, they stumbled after him out the door.

  They detoured to the guardroom first. There, Taran nodded at the three-legged stool. “Bring that with ye, George. Be quick.”

  George obliged, balancing the stool on his shoulder with a black look, but obeying all the same.

  Taran led them down the tower stairs and into the cold morning air. The snow had stopped, and in the distance, the clouds had parted enough to let the sun shine through. Silently, they trudged across the courtyard to the great hall, their boots crunching loudly on the crust of the snow.

  The meal was a quick, but hearty one, warm bowls of sage-seasoned barley and venison custard, then, ‘twas off to the aviary, this time Francis lugging the stool, instead.

  The courtyard stood empty, ‘twas early yet for the men to arrive, and with the snow, they’d likely delay their practice even further.

  “Leave the stool here.” Taran pointed at the section of wall opposite the aviary door, then pointed at the spades and buckets stacked against the wall. “My men have readied your tools. ’Tis time ye started.” He nodded at the aviary, and then masking his nose with his plaid to ward off the smell, settled himself on the stool and leaned comfortably back.

  “’Tis foul,” Francis objected, at once.

  George shot his brother a look and rolled his eyes.

  “Aye, ‘tis why you’re here,” Taran chuckled, giving voice to the lad’s expression. Tipping the stool back on two legs, he added, “Dinna expect a harvest if you’re too lazy to plow, lads.”

  With black looks on their faces, they grabbed the tools and vanished inside.

  For the first hour, they glanced out the door a dozen times or more. Each time, their faces fell further upon discovering him still there, lounging quite comfortably against the wall. After a time, Doughall relieved him. Then, Sean the Iron Fist took his place. After that, ‘twas Taran’s turn once again.

  The hours passed.

  Realizing there was no escape, George and Francis finally set about their task in earnest. ‘Twas then the fun for the men began. They took to wagering how fast the lads could carry the buckets of dung, slipping on the cobblestones on their way to the kitchen herb beds.

  Finally, when they were done, Taran strode to the aviary for an inspection.

  “Aye, ‘tis done,” he said, pleased with
the result. He turned to the lads, covered in muck from head to toe. “Off with ye now, ‘tis time to wash.” He shot them both a stern look, then added. “From this day on, ye’ll rise at dawn to train with the men.”

  They exchanged a look between them, a combination of resentment and Taran knew not what else, and then followed the clansmen into the gathering gloom to wash away the grime.

  Taran closed his eyes and stretched. Only a dull twinge of pain shot through his shoulder to quickly fade away. ‘Twas astonishing how fast he was healing. He flexed his muscles, pleased with the results.

  “Taran.”

  Taran held still. The sound of his name on her lips could undo him. What a fool he’d been to ask such a thing of her. Slowly, he turned to see Moll hovering outside the aviary door, the wind playing with her skirts to smooth them provocatively over her curves. She held an earthen cup close to her breast, covering the top with the palm of her hand.

  “I’ve brought your brew,” she said.

  Wordlessly, he invited her inside the aviary with a wave of his hand.

  The perfume of her hair teased his nostrils as she stepped close and handed up the cup. She waited until he’d downed the entire thing before squinting at the aviary walls. “Are you pleased with them?”

  “Aye.”

  “’Tis a wonder to see them finish an honest day’s work,” she murmured, clearly surprised herself. “They’ve been living by their wits since they could walk, but you’ll find none more stouthearted or loyal.” She hesitated and then confessed in a lower voice, “They only wished to keep us fed, but I fear they’ll meet a dreadful end if I cannot change their ways.”

  “A year in the Highlands would set them to rights.” He doubted ‘twould even take that long. ‘Twas abundantly clear the lads were honorable and only a little misguided.

  Moll gave a wistful sigh. “If only I could send them there, nay…go with them even. Mayhap, we could find work enough for us all.”

  The thought of Moll cleaning chambers or scouring pots in a scullery turned his stomach. Nay, ‘twas not something he’d permit. She the kind of lass who belonged in a man’s bed—his.

  If she still spoke, he didn’t hear. His gaze had locked on the swanlike curve of her neck and then down over her curves, accentuated by the shadows.