Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  There was nothing in the world that could stop him now.

  Powerless to resist her pull a moment longer, he caught her in his arms and with a groan, lowered his lips to hers.

  Safe

  Safe. She was safe. ‘Twas the first thought in Moll’s mind as Taran caught her close. Then, his lips brushed hers. There was no fear. No revulsion. No desire to escape. His touch was tender, warm, and so surprisingly soft.

  After a long, lingering moment, his lips were gone.

  Moll’s heart began to thud. Had she disappointed him? Before she could panic, his mouth returned. Again, ‘twas a brief kiss, so light a touch, yet somehow more powerful, more intimate than she’d ever imagined a kiss could be.

  She sank against him and closed her eyes.

  This time, when his lips returned, the aviary around her faded. There was nothing but his arms holding her against the hard planes of his chest and his palm cradling her cheek, his thumb ever so lightly tracing the line of her jaw.

  His lips were soft yet demanding as he deepened the kiss, pulling her lower lip between his to graze it lightly betwixt his teeth. She shivered. ‘Twas an entirely different kind of kiss than she’d ever experienced before. Then, his tongue slid into her mouth. She tensed at the intrusion, fearing he would summon the demons of her past, but she’d scarcely thought it before the fear melted away.

  With him, she wanted to feel. He tasted fresh, of strength, his tongue teasing and dancing over hers. Mayhap, ‘twasn’t a kiss at all? It couldn’t be. A warm tingle shot down the back of her neck, as a foreign heat kindled deep within.

  As his tongue explored deeper, she leaned forward, for the first time moving her own tongue to tangle with his as slowly, his hand slid down her spine.

  His fingers splayed low to cup her buttock. As he squeezed, a flash of panic erupted. ‘Twas instinct that wrenched her lips from his and lifted her hand.

  She slapped him. Hard. Across the cheek. The sound resounded through the aviary like the crack of a whip.

  In an instant, fingers of steel captured her wrist.

  Moll gulped. “Forgive me,” she choked, fear and shock warring with an overwhelming sense of regret.

  “Why?”

  How could she explain when she wasn’t entirely sure herself? ‘Twas as if her hand had been spelled. “Forgive me,” she repeated in a strangled whisper.

  “I dinna ask for an apology, lass,” came his soft reply as he slowly let her wrist go. “I thought ye were enjoying yourself.”

  He stepped back, but she caught his shirt with both hands. She didn’t want him to leave. “I was,” she breathed.

  She felt his chest expand beneath her breasts as he inhaled, deeply. ‘Twas so very astonishing. He was a mountain of a man, a man nearly twice the size of Thomas and so very much stronger, yet inexplicably, she felt safe, protected—even after slapping him across the face.

  Two fingers slipped under her chin, forcing her face up to his. ‘Twas dark, she couldn’t see his expression, but there was no denying the gentleness of his touch.

  “Dinna think of him, lass,” the deep rumble of his burr vibrated through her as much as she heard the words. “Let him go.”

  There was no doubt of who he meant. Thomas. She shuddered. Thomas was dead. He and his horrors had no place in her life—especially not now. Here.

  “Aye,” he murmured, taking her response for the admission it was.

  Slowly, the warmth of his arms returned to cradle her as if she were something precious, fragile, made of glass. With a long, shaky breath, she lay her ear against his chest. ‘Twas calming to hear the steady rhythm of his heart, her witchy instincts reaffirming with each beat that this was a man worthy of trust, even though she already knew it from the bottom of her soul.

  She stood there, frozen in time, until he shifted, ever so slightly, pulling her into an even closer embrace. The lazy ripple of muscle moving beneath her cheek brought the words finally to her lips.

  “You’re not angry with me.”

  “For that wee slap?” he asked lightly. “How could I? Ye warned me fair from the start.”

  Moll lifted her head. “Warned you?”

  “Aye, ye told me I’d be missing a piece...”

  Moll drew a wavering breath, torn between amusement and the sudden desire to weep.

  “There’s time, lass,” he whispered in her ear.

  She did weep then, all of the tears she’d wanted to shed over her marriage to Thomas but never had. Just how long she stood there locked in his arms, she could not say. Gradually, she became aware of his hand softly stroking her hair.

  “Trust,” she heard herself whisper, at last. “I do trust you.”

  She felt him tense beneath her, and for a fleeting moment, she feared she’d erred, but he was only wrapping her closer still.

  “Ye sound angry, huffing in the dark—” Taran’s deep voice began.

  Again, instinct guided her. She threaded her arms about his neck and pulled his head down.

  ‘Twas an awkward kiss. Never before had she willingly kissed a man. She pressed her mouth to his in more of a quick mashing of flesh than anything else. Embarrassed, she pulled away, but he caught the back of her head with his hand and dipped his head to catch her mouth with his. ‘Twas elegantly done, a move of consummate skill that, in the back of her mind, begged a question of just how many bumbling maids he’d ensnared. Then, such foolish thoughts faded as, once again, she fell prey to his magic.

  This time, as his tongue teased hers, she met him, thrust for thrust. Time vanished. There was nothing but their tongues, dancing a delightful, heated dance.

  Unfamiliar tingles swept over her entire body. She heard a moan—hers?—as a thrill of heat began to pool deep in her belly.

  “MacKenzie,” a voice called, sounding as if from far away.

  Taran groaned into her mouth, the sound sent a fresh onslaught of shivers skipping down her spine.

  “MacKenzie,” the voice called again, louder, closer to the aviary door.

  Taran’s lips left hers, and a blast of cold air rushed between them, shattering the spell.

  At the sound of boots scuffling against the cobblestones, Taran slid his hands free from her waist as she stepped back. She held her breath, grateful for the surrounding darkness. What had just passed between them felt raw, too intimate a thing to be seen in the light.

  “’Tis Hay and Maxwell, my lord,” Doughall said, his large frame blocking what little light filtered in through the aviary door. “They’re calling ye to the hall.”

  “Aye,” Taran answered.

  Then, Doughall’s rough voice softened to add, “My lady.”

  My lady. He’d seen her there. She felt the heat rush to her face, but before she could reply, the man was gone. Then, Taran’s fingers caught hers to lift them to his lips to brush her knuckles with a kiss.

  “Later, lass.” His melodious baritone made her shiver even more then his lips.

  Then, he was gone.

  She ran to the aviary door, a foreign, sharp pang of longing stabbing through her as she caught a glimpse of his tall, shadowy figure crossing the courtyard in long strides.

  She closed her eyes.

  What had she done?

  The question popped in her thoughts, again and again, as she hurried to the laundry to prepare Lady Haddon’s brew.

  Why had she kissed him? Even more…why had she enjoyed it so very much? Of all men, why had she picked him? They had no future.

  ‘Twas a dark thought, to be sure. Forcing her thoughts from Taran, she busied herself with the potion. Lady Haddon hadn’t responded to the brew as much as she’d liked. She added an extra mushroom, even though it caused her to fret. Her supply was dwindling, along with the time to find the cause of the lady’s ills.

  Frowning, she finished the brew and hurried to the keep.

  “My lady.” Moll forced a warmth in her smile to mask her concern as she offered Lady Haddon the cup.

  “I do feel stron
ger, Moll,” the woman said with a smile as she sat in her chair.

  Moll could only nod and smile wider. While the frail lady had gained a noticeable measure of strength, ‘twas clear whatever ailed her heart was far stronger. ‘Twas a battle they were clearly losing.

  Dutifully, Lady Haddon took the cup and grimaced as she drank. “I fear it tastes worse by the day, Moll.”

  “’Tis worth the suffering, my lady. Soon, you’ll have roses on your cheeks.”

  Lady Haddon flinched, her fingers flying to the locket on her neck. “Roses in your cheeks,” she whispered as a look of sadness fell over her like a blanket.

  Moll hesitated. Again, ‘twas the locket. Was it, somehow, a hint to her heart?

  With a sigh, Lady Haddon whispered, “My mother said that, often. Roses in your cheeks.”

  Moll held still as a sense of foreboding washed over her. There was no mistaking the deep pain in Lady Haddon’s eyes now. Was it that of a broken heart? If ‘twas a broken heart that lay at the root of her ills, she’d never survive the birthing, regardless of what the physician might try. Curing a broken heart ranked amongst the most difficult challenges a Witch of the Heart could face.

  Moll sank to her knees and took Lady Haddon’s cold fingers between hers. “My lady, ‘twould help me restore your health if you would but let me listen to your heart,” she whispered. She had to know. If her heart was truly broken, there was so very little time.

  “Listen, if you will.” Lady Haddon replied, her voice wavering as if the response greatly taxed her strength. With a sigh, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Holding her breath, Moll leaned close and placed an ear against the woman’s heart. ‘Twas so weak a beat, only a soft fluttering like the wings of a bird. Pain. Sorrow. Utter loss. With each beat, the nature of the woman’s suffering became clearer. ‘Twas the loss of a pure love, that of a mother.

  Tears burnt Moll’s lashes as she sank back to her knees. There was only one face she knew the locket could hold.

  “I lost my own mother, as a child,” Moll whispered, the pain of the woman’s loss triggering her own.

  Lady Haddon opened her eyes. With trembling fingers, she unfastened the clasp of her locket. “Mine passed naught five months ago.”

  Moll stared at the fine miniature of a woman with brown hair and laughing eyes. “She’s beautiful, my lady,” she said, rising to her feet. “Keep her close to your heart. Such things hold power.” Indeed, ‘twas likely the locket’s presence that had kept Lady Haddon alive this long.

  The chamber door opened abruptly, and Lord Haddon entered, every muscle in his frame taut and his thin face clouded with worry. Ignoring Moll entirely, he hurried to his wife’s side and dropped to his knee to gently take her small hands in his. “And how do you fare, my love? Stronger?”

  Lady Haddon summoned her strength to give him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “Do not worry so, my lord. I am well. Your heir simply saps my strength, growing stronger by the day. ‘Tis no cause to fret. Return to your business in the hall. I am well enough.”

  The man’s lips curved in a smile but there was little joy on his face.

  As Lady Haddon brushed the hair back from his face, Moll slipped away.

  She hurried down the keep’s stairs, chewing her bottom lip with worry. A broken heart, broken by the loss of a pure love, was the worst heartbreak to cure—bar that of losing a child. Lord help her, but Lady Haddon was doomed. The mushrooms to aid in the healing were rare, and—

  Moll drew up short.

  The stables. When she’d arrived, she’d seen the mushrooms, growing along the stable wall. Were they there still? Had the snow damaged the stalks? ‘Twould take only six, perhaps five, to cure her.

  Hope rolled over Moll, quickly followed by alarm.

  The castle gates were locked still.

  Moll flew down the remainder of the stairs. ‘Twas just to the stables and back. Surely, Lord Haddon would allow her to run there? Surely, he’d listen if his cherished wife’s life depended on it?

  Heartened and filling with hope, she hurried to the hall. Hadn’t Lady Haddon told him to return there? ‘Twould be simple. She’d lurk in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to speak with the man. ‘Twould be tricky, of course, but with his lady fading before his eyes, truly, what had he to lose?

  “And now, with the plague razing the borderlands, he’s certain ‘tis witchcraft,” the ominous words boomed as Moll stepped into the hall.

  She froze and squinted through the darkness to where Lord Hay and Lord Maxwell sat at the table nearest the fire.

  Just outside the circle of light, Taran lounged against a neighboring table, absently fingering the dirk hanging from his belt.

  “The king is ever quick to judge,” his brogue filled the silence that had met the ominous words.

  Moll inched closer, hugging the wall.

  “’Tis witchcraft, plain and simple,” Lord Hay disagreed. He jabbed the parchment before him on the table. “A score of witches have already been burnt.”

  “And has the plague halted?” Taran asked acidly.

  “’Tis clear why it has not,” a new voice inserted from the darkness behind Moll.

  She held her breath as Lord Haddon passed before her, within arm’s reach, his shoulders hunched and every line of his lanky form tense.

  The others fell silent, waiting for him to join. Then, Lord Hay queried, “And what causes the plague’s spread?”

  “’Tis clear, there are more witches to be found,” came the man’s immediate reply.

  Moll’s heart jumped to her throat. There would be no frank talk with Lord Haddon. She’d have to find another way to save his lady’s life.

  Taran hefted himself off the table with a snort of disdain. “I dinna agree, but the king will do as he wills, regardless of our beliefs. If ye’ll excuse me?”

  With a brusque nod to them all, he wheeled and strode toward the door opposite from where she stood. Moll picked up her skirts and returned the way she’d come. Taran. Surely, he’d aid her quest. She dashed to the courtyard and scanned the wall’s above.

  ‘Twas dark and cold, but the torches burned brightly enough. She spied Taran almost at once, striding toward the northern tower, his shoulders bent against the wind.

  Quickly, she took the nearest stairs and called out his name, “Taran! Wait!”

  He turned toward the sound of her voice. ‘Twas strange. His name felt so natural on her lips, mayhap because of the kiss? With a private smile, she flew to his side.

  Then, his hands were cradling hers, his skin rough, warm. She looked at his fingers over hers. He was so kind, a man truly worthy of trust, a man she hadn’t known could walk the face of the earth, and even though they had no future together, she still wanted to kiss him again.

  “Taran,” a woman’s low voice sliced through the air like a sword.

  Over Taran’s shoulder, Moll saw Euphemia approach, moving slow, unhurried, her velvet, fur-trimmed mantle whirling in the breeze.

  Taran tilted his head.

  “Taran,” Euphemia repeated as she drew abreast. Ignoring Moll outright, she pulled out a letter from the depths of her mantle. “’Tis a decree, from the king,” she said, looking quite pleased. “His Majesty has made his choice, my lord. He sent me a letter, as well.”

  “Choice?”

  “Aye, my lord.” Euphemia looked smug, a conqueror gloating over the vanquished. “By the king’s command, we are to be wed. Straightaway.”

  By the King’s Command

  Cold anger swept through Taran as he broke the red wax seal. As Euphemia’s simpering tones faded into the background, the words leapt from the page, words he’d never expected the king to pen. “We have decided,” “Delay no longer,” “Take Euphemia Hay to wife,” followed by “This is our command”.

  Wed Euphemia? By command? Hellfire and damnation, she must have had a hand in the matter—mayhap even two. ‘Twas not how alliances were created. He’d have none of it.

/>   Still standing next to the fireplace in the great hall, he read the letter again, stunned into silence.

  “’Tis wondrous tidings,” Euphemia purred.

  Taran lifted his head.

  Moll hadn’t followed them. He had a dim recollection of her honey-blonde head vanishing into the tower as Euphemia had spewed the fateful words of ‘we are to be wed’.

  A hand touched his arm. Euphemia’s. The sight of her fingers brought a shudder of revulsion.

  Irritated, he brushed her hand away.

  From birth, he’d been reared to place the welfare of the clan above all else. He’d never failed in that. But now? He’d much rather cast a millstone about his neck and jump in the nearest loch. He’d not let the Hay clan force their way into his house. He knew the MacKenzies would support him in that, at least.

  “MacKenzie.”

  ‘Twas Lord Hay, bearing down upon him like an angry bullock.

  “Father,” Euphemia greeted, curtseying low.

  The man ignored her to look straight at Taran,

  “Ye’ve insulted my daughter enough, MacKenzie,” Lord Hay accused, his face a dark red. “You’re betrothed to my daughter now, and now, I’ll see her treated with respect. From this moment forward, ye’ll turn out that whore and those bast—”

  Taran stopped him with a brow. “Have a care.”

  The muscle on Lord Hay’s jaw twitched. “Ye’ll wed my daughter, as the king commands.”

  Taran folded his arms as a bitter anger began to burn. He’d never wed the spiteful shrew, and as for the king and his decree?

  Locking his gaze with Lord Hay, he crumpled the king’s letter and tossed it into the fire.

  Euphemia gasped as the flames caught hold.

  He didn’t care. He owed them no further explanation. He wasn’t their puppet on a string.

  Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  * * *

  Taran pondered the empty parchment. He’d burnt the first missive he’d penned to the king. While he’d found the authoring quite freeing, calling His Majesty a “spineless scut”, “a shiftless will-o-the-wisp in the wind,” and a “bumbling moldwarp with the courage of a mouse, unable to stand against even a witless fool” would only prolong—and unnecessarily—complicate the issue. He’d wait until he’d resolved the matter, then have his say.