A Cunning Fox of a Lass
Ten days later in Haddon Hall, England
Alexander Taran MacKenzie, heir to the MacKenzie of Leod, brushed a speck of lint from his sleeve, crossed his arms, and leaned against the stone wall. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the crisp air, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun on his face.
A moment later, a familiar, strident tone shattered his solitude. “Taran? Taran? Is that you?”
He clenched his jaw and drew his brows into a line, not even attempting to hide the scorn churning deep inside.
‘Twas Anne. The very sight of the lass annoyed him. He couldn’t abide one second more of her company.
He was a warrior. A lone wolf. Not some courtier to flirt with women and indulge in hours of useless conversation—especially with women he couldn’t abide.
He ducked through an arched doorway and crossed the castle’s lower courtyard with a determined stride.
“Taran?” a lower, musical voice called from his right.
Ach, ‘twas Euphemia. Both lasses were after him now.
He quickened his stride.
There was a time not so long ago that he would have accepted his clan and the king’s bidding without a second thought and simply wed the woman assigned him.
After all, ‘twas for the greater good, a benefit to the clan. He’d nearly wed Lady Helen—but then, she’d hied herself off to a nunnery.
He’d felt nothing over the entire affair.
After all, marriage was a duty, nothing more…
but now? After his time with Alec and Sorcha, he’d changed in an inexplicable way, a way that found him overtly reluctant to choose either lass the king had presented him.
His reluctance only worsened by the day.
As their voices echoed closer, Taran tossed his hair back from his face, adjusted his plaid over his shoulders, and strode out of Haddon Hall’s gates in search of privacy.
Somewhere. Anywhere.
The wind blew, sending a flurry of old leaves swirling around his boots as he broke into a run and ducked inside the stables just outside the castle walls.
Peace. At last. He took a deep breath, welcoming the familiar scent of horse and manure.
Aye, he much preferred it to the cloying aroma of Anne’s perfume.
Horses whickered softly as he passed through the building and out the other end to a line of carriages and carts. He stalked to the nearest coach, slid inside, and sprawled back on the leather seat with a loud, long sigh.
If only he could saddle his horse and gallop back to the Highlands.
God’s blood, but surely King James knew the Queen of England would never return Scotland’s silver?
‘Twas the third time His Majesty had sent a party into England to collect the debt, and judging by matters thus far, Taran certainly wasn’t proving any luckier than his predecessors in collecting the debt.
So far, Queen Elizabeth had surreptitiously avoided his every attempt to arrange a meeting.
She’d kept him waiting in Haddon Hall, months already.
Taran drew his lips in a grim line and slouched further on the seat. Home. His heart ached for the Highlands. If only he were galloping across the rolling, endless moors. Exhaling a long breath, he closed his eyes.
Gradually, he grew aware of soft voices. Feminine.
Alarmed, he lifted his head and peered through the narrow open crack of the carriage door. At first, he saw nothing. Then a lassie appeared to lean against the stable wall directly in front of him, her dark brown hair bound in two braids and her homespun gown patched at the knee.
“Do you miss him, Moll?” the lassie asked, hugging a pillow to her thin chest.
“Who?” a strong voice asked from nearby.
A slim, shapely woman wearing a worn scarlet gown stepped into view, tucking her long, honey-colored tresses into a simple hairnet as she walked.
“Your husband,” the lassie replied. “Do you miss him, Moll?”
Moll snorted and placed her hands on her hips. “Not one whit, Charlotte. I’ll never pine over the loss of that pig. He was the cruelest man to walk Threadneedle Street. ‘Twas a happy day when I became a widow.”
Taran’s brow arched in surprise.
Charlotte appeared taken aback.
With a laugh, Moll reached over to chuck the girl under the chin. “Nay, love, my heart doesn’t ache, nor does loss grip my soul. You listen overly much to love poems. Love is the last thing required in a marriage. Don’t fool yourself thinking otherwise.”
The words arrested Taran’s attention and the corner of his lip quirked as he subjected the young widow to a deeper inspection. He received a fleeting impression of a heart-shaped face and a pert, upturned nose before she turned her back to him and held out her hand.
“Now, Charlotte,” Moll said. “Hand me that pillow.”
“But what of true love?” the young Charlotte insisted as she obliged.
Moll snorted and lifted her skirts, startling Taran with an unimpeded view of slender thighs and shapely legs.
With his lip curving in devilish amusement, he watched the young widow position the pillow over her stomach and begin to fashion a harness by tying thin strips of material around her waist.
“Love is a myth, concocted to fool young dew-eyed maids into an old man’s bed, Charlotte,” she said as she anchored the pillow firmly to her belly. “Believe me, there’s no delight there. And kisses?” She paused to shudder.
“Did your husband fool you?” Charlotte prodded.
Moll shot her a querulous glance. “Why the sudden interest in marriage, now? ‘Tis naught be misery. If you must know, I had no say in the matter. ‘Twas how my father got himself a new pair of breeches and freedom from having to feed me. Thomas was an old man, near fifty with rotten teeth, a foul temper, and he stank like the pig he was. ‘Twas nigh a year of hell, Charlotte. When he wasn’t bedding me, he was beating me with a stick. I’ll never wed again, nor will I trust any man. They’re fools and, Sweet Mary, they stink. They just want a full stomach and a woman in their bed, and when they’ve had a bad day, one to beat as well.
Heaven help me, but I bless the day he died. ”
Dead silence met the end of her heartfelt speech.
Taran couldn’t help but eye the lass with a deepening curiosity.
It was almost a full minute before Charlotte muttered, half in disbelief and half in dismay, “Sounds nothing like the tales of love. Surely, not all men are so evil? Some are exceedingly handsome, and they don’t smell, Moll.”
Moll snorted and turned her attention back to the pillow ties.
“Then you didn’t get close enough, poppet,” she grunted.
“Nay, my widowhood suits me fine, and what need have I for a man when I’ve the lot of you to warm my heart?
We’ll find ourselves an abandoned house, grow a garden, and find some pigs.
” The pillow she’d strapped to her waist suddenly slipped. “A pox on this pillow!” she swore.
As she gave a few other choice curses, Taran suppressed a chuckle and allowed his eyes to rove appreciatively over her lithe, winsome figure.
“There,” Moll said at last. She dropped her skirts and smoothed the lump, pleased. “I’m a respectable widow with children and expecting another. Who can refuse us a bite to eat? Fetch young James, now.”
Charlotte crouched and held out her hand. “Come, James, be quick.”
Almost at once, a small boy with a shock of red hair slithered out from under a cart to grab her fingers.
“Good then.” Moll shooed them forward but stopped. “Well, look at that.”
“What?” the lassie asked.
“Mushrooms,” Moll replied, pointing to a small cluster of mushrooms growing along the base of the stable wall. “Those are rare, Charlotte. They can cure a broken heart.”
“Shall I pick them?” Charlotte stretched out her hand.
“No, poppet.” Moll smiled and shook her head. “They must be gathered only under moonlight, and only then, by a Witch of the Heart. There’s naught we can do now. Come, come. ’Tis time to eat.”
They’d no sooner disappeared around the corner of the stables than Taran found himself stalking after them and keeping out of view. Something about Moll caught his fancy, something more than the sway of her hips as she made for Haddon Hall’s open gates.
She didn’t get far.
“Halt!” a watchman cried as he lowered his spear.
Moll and the children drew up short.
The next moment, the tall, gaunt figure of Lord Haddon stepped through the gates. Jutting his jaw, he planted himself before his castle with folded arms and feet spread wide.
“What have we here?” he boomed, the wind ruffling what it could of his prematurely thinning brown hair. “Where have you come from, woman? To what purpose?”
Moll dropped into a deep curtsey and yanked young Charlotte to do the same as the frightened boy darted behind their skirts.
“Speak!” Lord Haddon thundered. “If our good Queen Elizabeth hangs nobles who dare ride to her castle in these plague-stricken times, I’ll not hesitate to do the same for a peasant walking up to my very gates.”
Moll’s back went rigid.
Taran lifted a brow. If he knew one thing about Lord Haddon, ‘twas the man never jested. Last week, tidings of the plague’s return had set even rocky-steady nerves on edge. The thought Lord Haddon might very well execute his threat sent Taran sprinting across the road.
“There ye are, my love,” he rumbled as he slid an arm around the young widow’s waist. He gave the pillow hidden under her dress a firm tug as a warning to play along. “I told ye to rest, didn’t I now? For the bairn’s sake?”
The young woman tensed under his touch but quickly regained her composure to twist in his arms and smile.
As she peered up from under a long sweep of sooty lashes, it was his turn to be surprised.
Her eyes were unusual, rare, a mix of gray and gold surrounded by a ring of green.
He’d seen those eyes before, on Alec’s wife, Sorcha.
“I couldn’t wait, love,” Moll murmured in sultry, dulcet tones. “The children missed you so.”
The ease with which she assumed her part amused him, despite the tense situation.
Clearly, she was a lass as wily as she was beautiful, though beneath her creamy complexion and her full, pouty lips, he saw signs of exhaustion.
A honey-shaded curl had escaped the confines of her hairnet to loop around her particularly delicate ear.
That ear. Ach, it outright invited a nibble—nay, a bite.
The thought startled him. ‘Twas odd. He wasn’t one to fall prey to a woman’s spell so easily.
“Get your woman inside then, MacKenzie,” Lord Haddon barked. “Make haste. I’m sealing the gates.”
Alarmed, Taran shifted his gaze to Lord Haddon, at once. “What news?”
“The plague,” the man replied curtly. “I’ve tidings ‘tis now ravaging Nottingham. I fear, ‘tis a goodlier size outbreak than before.” Lord Haddon waved at his men to hurry before turning back to Taran. “I’ll not risk the life of my heir. I’ll not open these gates until the danger has passed or the queen herself stands before them. ”
Taran clenched his jaw. ‘Twas troubling news, indeed. His plans to return home, to Scotland, would yet again suffer delay.
The castle gates began to groan.
The young widow in his arms stirred, and he blinked, startled to realize he still held her close. Her stunning eyes had narrowed into slits, and her smile was brighter than before.
“I’ll just fetch the others right along then, love.” Before he could respond, she broke from his embrace, stepped sideways, and called out, “Hurry, poppets. Be quick. Run before the gates close.”
From behind the barn, four lads emerged, two gangly, red-haired youths and two mere children. After taking one look at their thin, drawn faces, any objection Taran might have had quickly died. He wasn’t a man to see children tossed in harm’s way.
“Yours?” Lord Haddon rasped, raising a brow. “All?”
“Why, yes, my lord,” Moll smoothly replied. “All six and soon seven.” She gave her pillowed stomach a pat.
Lord Haddon’s brows inched higher.
Taran could only watch as the children dashed past him and under the iron portcullis. ‘Twas amusing. Truly. The bonny lass had played him right well.
She turned to him then and smiled. “Shall we, Taran?”
She looked so wary, fierce, with her small hands clenched into fists, reminding him of a wild boar protecting her young. He dropped his gaze over her winsome form. Truly, ‘twas hardly a chore to find himself locked in a castle with such a spirited, bonny-eyed beauty.
“Aye,” was all he said.