Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  Taran’s strong hand dropped on her shoulder to give her a comforting squeeze. “I have faith in ye, lass.”

  Moll snorted. How could she expect him to understand?

  Then, a new voice spoke, coming from across the table. “Dinna fear, lass. There’s no stronger than ye in all the lands. For this, were ye made. Hurry. There is so little time for them both.”

  As if in a dream, Moll glanced up to see a lady standing there, clothed in white. Mist swirled about her like a cloak and her raven hair fell down to her waist in waves. She was young, beautiful, but ‘twas her bright, unearthly eyes that startled Moll the most.

  “Bertha?” she gasped.

  The moment her lips parted, the vision vanished before her eyes, leaving her staring in shock.

  “Bertha?” Taran’s puzzled baritone rumbled by her side.

  Moll licked her dry lips. Raised by the most powerful witch in Wales, Moll had been trained, and had on occasion, experienced extraordinary things—but never something such as this. She closed her eyes and shivered.

  Making up her mind all at once, she lifted her head, resolute. “I must hurry. There is so little time for them both.”

  She lost herself to the brewing, then. Dimly, she recalled Taran remaining in the room, but he stayed well out of her way. Whispering the words of power all the while, she boiled the water, trimmed the single, lone stalk and with every last fiber of her being, prepared the brew.

  When she was done, she knew not how much time had passed.

  At last, she approached the pot. ‘Twas time. With her heart in her throat, she lifted the lid and held her breath.

  A pool of gold-tinted brew shimmered there. A flame of hope began to kindle. Careful not to waste a single drop, she poured the brew into two earthen cups.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  There was enough. Barely.

  ‘Twas only then she saw Taran still there, leaning against the foot of the table with his arms loosely crossed over his broad chest. “Aye, lass,” he said with a smile. “I dinna doubt ye, not once.”

  She wanted to kiss him, but there would be time, later. Instead, she held out one of the cups.

  “For Charlotte,” she whispered. “’Twill be best if she drinks from the cup in your hand.” She so very much wished to sit by the young girl’s side, but ‘twas not her place, not this time. She knew it in her heart.

  “Aye.” He took the brew reverently, then lifted a brow. “I’ll not send ye to the keep by yourself. Doughall will accompany ye.”

  “’Twould please me right well.” Carefully, she picked up Lady Haddon’s cup. “I will join you as quickly as I may.”

  With one last touch of her cheek, Taran escorted her through the door and into the afternoon sun.

  Doughall arrived, and the exchange between the men was a short one, a mere word of, “Follow,” combined with nods. Then, Taran was striding toward the north tower and the chamber beyond where Charlotte lay.

  Moll closed her eyes, willing Charlotte to hold on, and then followed Doughall across the castle grounds. Several of the queen’s guards milling about the keep watched her in outright suspicion, but with Doughall stalking at her side, they kept their distance and didn’t stop them from hurrying into the keep.

  At last, they reached the iron-studded door.

  “I’ll wait here, my lady,” Doughall announced with a grunt as he dropped his hand to the hilt of his dirk.

  My lady. As ever, he was the courteous man. Moll nodded and attempted to smile her thanks, but the stress of the last day and the direness of the occasion were like anchors upon her lips.

  The door opened on the first knock.

  “Lord Haddon bid me wait for you,” Bridgette whispered as she quickly ushered Moll inside. Her gaze dropped to the cup and her lips trembled as she asked, “Can you save her?”

  “I can only hope,” Moll breathed in reply.

  “This way.”

  A wave of doubt swept over Moll as she followed. What had she done? She wasn’t so strong a witch to attempt such a foolish brew, made of a single stalk. ‘Twas something even her mother couldn’t do. Her hands began to shake. What had she done? Even more, what would Lord Haddon do when she failed?

  The smell of death hung heavy in the air of Lady Haddon’s bedchamber. Lord Haddon knelt at his lady’s side, pressing her fingers against his lips. ‘Twas so dark in the room that Moll couldn’t see. She’d have to take care of that first.

  “Open the shutters, Bridgette.”

  “Nay,” Lord Haddon objected harshly. “The physician ordered them closed.”

  “Nay, my lord,” Moll firmly disagreed. “’Tis life that is needed now. Open them, Bridgette, and hurry.”

  After only hesitating a moment, Bridgette rushed as bid.

  As the sunlight, warm and bright, streamed through the diamond panes, Moll approached the bed.

  Her breath caught in her throat. So much had changed in the short time she hadn’t seen Lady Haddon. She’d missed only one restoring brew, but already, ‘twas clear by her shallow breathing and gray pallor that she stood at death’s door.

  The silver locket still glittered about her neck, seemingly more alive than she herself. Moll brushed her fingers over its engraved surface. ‘Twas filled with a mother’s love, and doubtless, the only thing still keeping Lady Haddon alive.

  The babe in Lady Haddon’s belly stirred as Moll placed an ear against the woman’s swollen abdomen. Concentrating, she closed her eyes and held her breath. As if from miles away, she heard the heartbeat, slow and steady and saw the face of a laughing boy with bright green eyes. The vision startled her, and she blinked and straightened.

  “What say you?” Lord Haddon choked.

  Moll frowned. She couldn’t assure him. Already, she could feel Lady Haddon slipping away. She held out the cup. “’Tis best she drinks from your hand, my lord.”

  He took the brew without question. “Wake, my love,” he whispered in a cracked voice as he slid a supporting arm beneath her shoulders.

  Lady Haddon moaned.

  “Drink, my love,” he repeated.

  Weakly, Lady Haddon lifted her lashes and frowned, and for a brief moment, Moll thought she would refuse, but then to her relief, the woman nodded.

  “Do not waste a single drop, my lord,” Moll advised as he brought the cup to his young wife’s lips.

  The process was a slow one, one in which Moll retreated to the window and closed her eyes. This very moment, in a chamber not so far away, she could only hope Charlotte had chosen to drink the brew, as well. She bowed her head. ‘Twas difficult not to give in to her fears. ‘Twas nigh impossible to think thoughts of only happiness and health, for the sake of not only Charlotte, but Lady Haddon, as well.

  A hand touched her sleeve, and she looked up to see Lord Haddon standing there, the cup empty in his hand. “Now?”

  Moll glanced at the bed where Lady Haddon lay on her pillow, eyes closed. “We can only wait, my lord.”

  Worried, he returned to his wife’s side.

  Moll leaned her cheek against the window’s cool glass. While she wished Lady Haddon well, her heart ached to be with Charlotte, convincing the young girl to return from the shadows, but then, Taran, at least, was there. A blast of wind rattled the glass beneath her cheek and she gazed out, tiredly, over the rolling hills, and for a time, lost herself in memories of her mother and the distant past.

  At times, the occasional crack of the fire brought her back to the present and to the room. ‘Twas when the sun began its evening descent that Lady Haddon moaned.

  Moll flew to the bed as Lord Haddon rose to his feet, alarmed.

  Lady Haddon’s lashes fluttered. Then, looking stronger with each passing moment, she turned her head from side to side. A slender arm escaped the mound of blankets and then pushed them back. “’Tis hot in here. Robert?”

  Lord Haddon leaned close, moving as a man caught in a dream. “Yes?”

  The woman’s smile summoned a t
ouch of color to her face. “I’m thirsty,” she said in a strong voice. “Help me sit.” Even before Lord Haddon could move to assist, she struggled to sit on her own.

  Moll’s shoulders sagged in relief.

  Lady Haddon had chosen life.

  Moll left them there, with Lord Haddon bellowing for Bridgette to bring water and Lady Haddon insisting she rise from the bed.

  Moll flew out the iron-studded door and down the keep’s stairs with Doughall at her heels. The Highlander stayed by her side, his glare alone causing the queen’s guard to step aside as she rushed up the north tower stairs. She must have looked a mad thing, her hair streaming wildly behind her as she burst into the chamber, causing the door to bounce off the chamber wall,

  Jamie and Wee Jack cried out, lunging forward to throw their arms about her waist. She patted their heads, squinting in the gathering gloom toward the bed, but Taran’s broad shoulders blocked her view.

  “Charlotte?” she gasped, filling with dread.

  Then, Francis stepped into view. He was smiling.

  “Moll?” a weak voice sounded from the bed.

  Suddenly, she was at Charlotte’s side as Taran’s arm fell about her shoulders, but Moll only had eyes for Charlotte, for the flush of color on her cheeks and the light in her eyes.

  ‘Twas then Moll sank to the floor and let the tears flow. ‘Twas done. By some miracle, the single mushroom had been enough. She closed her eyes and wept into the crook of her arm.

  “Don’t—dinna—weep, Moll,” Charlotte whispered, patting her awkwardly on the head.

  Moll smiled into the coverlets. Let her mimic the Highlander as much as she pleased.

  A strong hand squeezed her shoulder. “I dinna doubt ye, lass.”

  “’Twas luck,” she whispered into the blanket.

  As she moved to stand, a strong arm caught her about the waist to lift her easily onto the bed. The strength of the man surrounded her, again, making her feel safe, despite the danger they were still, undoubtedly, in.

  “Ye should rest,” Taran murmured, his brows drawn in a concerned line. “Ye look fair exhausted.”

  “Here, Moll.” Charlotte patted the pillow by her side.

  Gently, Taran guided Moll down on the bed by Charlotte’s side.

  “You, too, Athair.” The little girl caught Taran’s sleeve with a smile.

  “Aye,” he agreed readily enough.

  He settled at Moll’s side, sliding an easy arm beneath her shoulders and pulling her head back so that she rested upon his shoulder. He was right. She was exhausted. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before, but now? Now, she felt warm. Safe. Loved. Surrounded by the family she’d never truly had.

  Lips brushed softly over the top of her head and then sleep swept her away.

  * * *

  When Moll next opened her eyes, Charlotte lay, breathing easy, and at the foot of the bed, James, Jamie, and Wee Jack snored in a comfortable pile. The twins lay, mouths open, on their pallets in front of the door.

  Moll smiled in relief.

  Then, the solid warmth pressed against her back invaded her thoughts. Sweet Mary, she lay in Taran’s arms, but she didn’t want to move. Lord help her, ‘twas exactly where she wished to be. She held still, keenly aware of the rise and fall of his chest against her back and the heat of his thighs settled against hers. His hand rested so naturally on the curve of her hip, the pillow-bairn having long since slipped near to her knees.

  Their future was a hopeless one, of course. They had none. Would that he was a simple peasant, or she a lady…he would be more than she’d ever dreamed possible in a man. She must have turned, though she didn’t remember doing so. Suddenly, she was on her back, staring up into his face as he leaned over her, propped on his elbow.

  His lashes were so long and dark, the darkness making the blue of his even brighter. Mesmerized, she could only hold still as he lifted his hand and brushed her cheek with his thumb.

  ‘Twas a touch of fire.

  Lord help her, but she wanted him and from the very depths of her soul. She wanted his lips on her skin, his fingers on her flesh. A wave of heat spiraled through her body. With him, she knew the act of bedding would be something pleasing—nay, ‘twould be near magical.

  Her eyes snapped to his. The invisible weight of his gaze made it hard to breathe. As the corner of his eyes creased into a smile, her insides began to churn. What power did this man hold that a simple brush of his thumb made her feel so much more than ever before?

  The chime of the morning bells rang through the air. About them, the children stirred.

  Yet, strangely, the magic of the moment still held, even as Taran hefted his feet from the bed and stretched. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from his broad shoulders and the sensual drape of his kilt falling over his powerful thighs.

  “Charlotte?” Francis asked, vaulting to his feet.

  The little girl groaned, then snapped, “Hush,” before burrowing deeper into the pillows.

  Francis grinned as Moll began shaking the younger children awake. “’Tis morning, poppets,” she said, so relieved to be with them safely again. “’Tis time to eat.”

  ‘Twas then she noticed Taran before the window, staring out with his lips drawn in a grim line.

  Alarmed, she hurried to join him there. “What is it?”

  He laced her fingers through his and brought them to his lips, then murmured, “I will return.”

  Wordlessly, he strode out the door. As the latch clicked shut, Moll squinted through the diamond-paned glass.

  “’Tis the guards,” George said from over her shoulder.

  “Lord Haddon’s men are gone,” Francis added from the other side. “’Tis only the queen’s guard walking the walls now.”

  ‘Twas disturbing, though exactly why, she couldn’t say. “No matter.” She shrugged and then turned to the boys. “Fetch food for us all, will you? I’m of the mind we shouldn’t leave until Charlotte’s on her feet.”

  “Will that not only draw attention if we were suddenly to disappear?” George asked, concerned.

  Moll hesitated, then shook her head. “’Twill only make Euphemia happy, and with the queen’s arrival, we’ve no place in the hall, most assuredly.”

  “True,” George granted.

  “Then, we’ll be back. Soon.” Francis was already moving toward the door.

  A short time later, they returned with food enough for all. ‘Twas pleasing to see Charlotte eating bread as she giggled and laughed with the others. Moll could only stare in wonder. Fortune, truly, had blessed her. The single mushroom she’d saved had proved an extraordinarily potent one.

  With each passing hour, Charlotte’s strength only grew, and near the hour of the evening meal, a knock on the door startled them all.

  Quickly, Moll fluffed the limp pillow still belted about her waist and lifted the latch to see Bridgette standing there, grinning.

  “Lady Haddon?” Moll asked even though the answer was already clear.

  Bridgette bobbed a curtsey. “Please, her ladyship wishes to see you, my lady.” She rolled her eyes and leaning close, whispered, “She’s already up and about, giving orders.”

  Moll laughed, and after telling the twins to mind the children, stepped out of the room.

  A dark cloud rolled across the sky as they hurried to the keep. A fine sheet of rain shimmered around them even as a peal of thunder threatened the release of a flood. By the time Moll once again stood before Lady Haddon’s rose window, ‘twas near dark with the rain beating hard against the glass.

  “Moll,” Lady Haddon’s soft voice sounded from behind.

  Moll whirled to see her standing there, leaning on Bridgette’s strong arm, but the pallor of death and the lingering sadness in her eyes had vanished. Now, the start of a rosy hue suffused her cheeks and a teasing sparkle lurked in her eye.

  “My lady,” Moll curtseyed with a grin. Yes, Lady Haddon was still frail and far too thin, but ‘twas nothing time couldn’t—and wouldn�
�t—mend.

  Lady Haddon waved her hand with a silvery laugh. “Nay, never will you curtsey to me, dear Moll.” She hobbled to her chair and sank down on the red velvet cushion. “I owe you my life, and my babe’s, as well.” She paused to give her belly a pat before nodding at the chair by her side. “Join me. Please.”

  Moll obligingly took the opposite chair.

  “A gift,” Lady Haddon said then. “Lord Haddon and I would give you a gift. Anything that is within our power, Moll.”

  “’Tisn’t necessary,” Moll murmured. As a Witch of the Heart, she’d been told that a healing was its own reward. Now, after having seen the miracle of Charlotte and Lady Haddon’s recoveries, she could well understand why. “Believe me, my lady. Your health is more than enough.”

  “I insist.” Lady Haddon leaned over the arm of her chair and a mix of shame and sorrow crossed her face. Lowering her voice, she added, “Lord Haddon confessed that ‘tis not only a gift we owe you, but amends, as well. We seek your forgiveness, Moll.”

  ‘Twas hard to hold onto anger when all had ended well. After all, though the man’s actions had been misguided, they had only stemmed from the fear of losing his lady. Clearly, there wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do to save her—even with his obvious fears and misgivings, he’d even willingly consorted with a witch. The thought summoned a dry smile to Moll’s lips.

  “Indeed, ‘tis understandable when one is overwrought,” she murmured and then cast a critical gaze of Lady Haddon’s color. “Truly, you should rest, my lady. Do not sit here and speak on my account.”

  The young woman grimaced. “I must ready myself for dinner with the queen,” she admitted. “If not for that, I would already be in bed.”

  Moll stood, at once. “Then, you must save every whit of your strength.” Again, she dipped into a curtsey.

  “No, Moll.” Lady Haddon caught her hands. “You will always be my sister. Do not curtsey.” She patted her heart and shook her head. “Not to me.”

  ‘Twas clear never were words more genuinely expressed, yet still, Moll found the act of forgoing a curtsey an awkward one. In a bumbling combination of a nervous smile, a laugh, and a bob of the head, she slipped out the door and down the keep’s stairs.