Haven #2
He joined her. Lord help her, but he looked even more intimidating towering over her as she sank back onto the bench. She had to tip her head all the way back to see his face.
“Call me Taran, aye?” he was saying in a low voice. “Surely, after six—nay, seven—bairns together, ye shouldna call me naught else?” A glint of dry humor appeared in his blue eyes.
Alarm ripped through Moll. Did he think to make her his plaything? “I’m not a woman who pays her debts that way,” she snapped.
Taran’s mirth vanished at once and genuine surprise arched his brows. “Nor am I a man who extracts such payment from those in need,” he replied, clearly taking insult.
Their gazes locked and held.
His eyes softened, and his broad shoulders relaxed. “Not every man thinks with his loins, lass.” He frowned. “I intend only to see ye fed.”
Moll had learned long ago, just how cheap words could be, but still, the kindness in his voice seemed startingly genuine. Torn, she cleared her throat. “We’ll pay our debts this very night and before we leave, my lord. I can sew, clean, and cook well enough. The children work hard, as well.”
The muscle on his lean jaw twitched as his gaze flicked over the children still bolting down their bread. “Nay,” he said shortly. “Ye’ll stay until Lord Haddon sees fit to open the gates.” His tone was final.
Moll frowned. She hadn’t planned on staying past the meal. “Pardon, my lord?”
“The gates are sealed.” He met her gaze, his expression inscrutable.
“My lord,” a woman’s soft voice interrupted from behind.
Moll swiveled to see two richly dressed women standing only yards away. She hadn’t heard them arrive, but then, their rich velvet slippers allowed them to tread as silent as cats, quite unlike her own wooden-heeled shoes.
The taller of the two women, a statuesque blonde, seemed very annoyed, though Moll couldn’t identify any outward indication.
Perhaps ‘twas the cool look in her gray eyes, or the way she fingered the amber glass beads adorning the ruff of her green velvet gown.
Her redheaded companion, clothed in gold silk, hovered nervously at her elbow, squinting and wrinkling her nose in a manner that reminded Moll of a pointy-nosed shrew.
The blonde’s gaze shifted to Taran. “My lord?”
Appalled she’d forgotten to rise in the ladies’ presence, Moll jumped to her feet but again, Taran stopped her. This time, with a hand on the shoulder.
“Nay, lass,” he murmured in a voice that brooked no argument as he gently pressed her back down. “Sit.”
She had no choice, truly. With a sharp, uneasy breath, Moll obeyed.
To her surprise, Taran joined her, sitting backward at her side to stretch out his long legs as he leaned lazily back against the table, and again folded his arms.
“My lord.” The blonde invited herself closer.
This time, Moll caught the lilt in her voice. Scottish. As the woman dipped into an elegant curtsy and the redhead scrambled to follow suit, Moll shot a quick glance at Taran, seeking a hint as to the nature of their relationship, but his face had smoothed into an unreadable mask.
“Euphemia.” Taran nodded absently at first to the blonde, before he acknowledged the redhead, “Anne.”
The women rose in a rustle of silk and velvet.
The look in both women’s eyes harkened of jealousy. ‘Twas as clear as day they had designs on the man, and that meant, he was, as yet, unwed.
Euphemia’s gaze shifted to the children licking the crumbs from the table, and her lips curved into a smile, a forced, false one.
“My, my, what a hungry lot we have, aye?” Her eyes darted to the swell of Moll’s pillowed belly, and her smile hardened even more.
“Who might these weary travelers be, my lord?”
Moll tensed.
The man at her side stirred.
“Moll,” he replied easily enough as he reached for Moll’s hand and laced his fingers through hers. The gesture announced what his words did not. Then, he cocked a brow at the children behind him and added, “My bairns, the lot.”
Silence met this revelation, the pin-dropping kind.
Moll swallowed. Never had she imagined her ruse at the gate would end like this, and from the set of the man’s jaw at her side, neither had he.
Then, Anne gasped, a huge sucking in of air.
Euphemia’s smile hardened yet even more.
“All of them?” Anne asked faintly. Her chin dipped as she counted each child in turn.
“Aye.”
Moll bit her bottom lip. Why had the man continued the deception?
Did he expect her to play the part of his pregnant lover indefinitely?
How could she? She knew nothing of him, and ‘twas clear the two female vultures watching her every move, obviously did.
Their gazes had latched onto her, clearly waiting for her to confirm his statement.
Did she have a choice? Taran’s gentle squeeze of her fingers announced she did not.
Forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile—and feeling very much like a puppet on a string—Moll nodded, as bid.
“Nay,” Anne squeaked even as Euphemia’s lips thinned into a grim line.
Moll clenched her jaw. Lord help her. What kind of hornet’s nest had she stumbled upon?
“Ach, are ye wed, then, Taran?” Anne practically wailed.
“Dinna be foolish, Anne,” Euphemia inserted before he could reply. “Men of Taran’s station dinna wed such women.” She met Moll’s gaze and smirked.
‘Twas a smirk Moll had seen countless times on the faces of spiteful women in the markets, hellbent on heaping insults upon her head.
“’Tis clear to see why men of his station look elsewhere.”
It took her a moment to realize the words had slipped from her own lips. Her back went ramrod-straight. Lord save her soul. Had she gone mad? Perhaps, ‘twas the ale that had unleashed the devil of her tongue? The ale. Yes, it had to be the ale that had loosened her tongue.
Euphemia stared, shocked.
A shiver of pure fear crept down Moll’s neck and then released from her spell, she jerked forward to prostrate herself at the woman’s feet and beg forgiveness, when Taran dropped a possessive hand on the pillow tied about her waist and again, pushed her back to the bench.
Moll froze.
With a twitch of his lips that might have been a smile, Taran chucked Moll under the chin. “With a spirit like that, how can a man resist?” he teased lightly before he turned to Euphemia and added, “We’ve lads aplenty. A lass would be a blessing, aye?”
Euphemia didn’t move.
Anne choked. “So many,” she whispered. “Are ye certain they’re all yours, Taran?”
‘Twas an outright insult, but this time, Moll ducked her head, determined to keep her lips sealed.
“Aye,” Taran’s deep voice rumbled at her side. “The lassie is Charlotte and the twins, George and Francis.” He sent Moll a veiled look, one she took to mean he’d reached the end of his knowledge.
Reluctant to speak, she cleared her throat and replied in a forced whisper, “Straight down the line, ‘tis James, James, and James.” James had been quite the popular name on Threadneedle Street. She smiled reassuringly at the youngest, watching the proceedings with large, solemn eyes.
Silence fell, one in which the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire.
Then, Anne’s shrill voice inquired, “Surely, ye dinna name your lads all ‘James’, Taran?”
Moll’s eyes widened. Horrified to realize that she’d blundered, yet again. She opened her mouth, searching for words.
Taran chuckled. “Aye,” he replied gamely enough. “’Tis a right honorable name, after the king himself.”
The women stared, clearly suspicious.
The doors under the minstrels’ gallery opened and a particularly distinguished, sandy-haired gentleman in a red kilt appeared. Catching sight of the women, he scowled and let out a shrill whistle.
To Moll’s relief, both Euphemia and Anne scurried away.
‘Twas clear the gentleman was a man of authority and judging by Euphemia’s sudden submissive behavior and the similarity of their looks, perhaps even her father. They exchanged words in low voices. Whatever was said caused the man to glare first at Moll, then Taran, with obvious disapproval.
Moll’s stomach turned. “I cannot stay in this castle, my lord,” she whispered. “This is a game I cannot play. Forgive me, I had no cause to speak—”
A finger caught her chin and Taran tilted her face toward his. This time, there was no denying the smile playing over his lips.
“The lass deserved that and more,” he assured, brushing her concerns aside. Then, with a shrug, he added, “As for the game, we’ve gone far enough down this road, ‘tis now the only path we can tread. In truth, ‘tis advantageous for us both to play the role of lovers, aye?”
He stood, and lifting his long legs over the bench, settled properly at her side.
Moll snorted.
The man at her side arched a curious brow.
Moll turned her head away. If only he knew what he’d asked. Lovers? Love? What did she know of that? Of all parts to play, ‘twas ironic that she should be asked to play a woman in love.
The hall began to fill in earnest, then.
First, with servants lighting the candles on the tables and quickly followed by a handful of men and women, dressed in velvets and satins, but lastly, with men-at-arms and their families.
‘Twas strange. With so grand a castle, she’d thought to find it overflowing with lords and ladies, not the more common folk.
“And who are your guests, Taran?” An elderly man with a bulbous red nose hailed from the next table.
Taran dropped an arm over Moll’s shoulders and pulled her close. “’Tis Moll and my bairns.” His hot breath tickled her ear.
A shiver raced down Moll’s neck, startling her from her thoughts. ‘Twas most unlike her to respond to a man. She was no na?ve maid. No doubt, ‘twas truly the ale, yet still, she found herself examining the Highlander from the corner of her eye as even yet more introductions were made.
After the fourth man had turned away, curiosity sated, Taran suddenly turned upon her. “And?”
Moll’s stomach tightened, surprised he’d noticed. She frowned.
The sudden hush in the hall spared her from answering.