A Feisty Lass
Taran stared at Moll lying limp in his arms. Missing a piece?
Dropping out—feet first? He was tempted to smile.
The lass walked a dangerous path. ‘Twas obvious she knew nothing of birthing bairns, and from what he’d heard in the stables, ‘twas just as clear she and the children were victims of the plague’s scourge.
God’s truth, but his desire to help had only put them in a more precarious situation.
Should Lord Haddon discover they hailed from London, his unbridled wrath would fall upon their heads.
Gently, he laid her on the bed. She moaned, and her lips parted as if to protest, even in her sleep. For a moment, he stood there, staring down at her face. She was bonny, exceedingly so, but his eyes caught more on the gaunt hollows of her cheeks, standing as a silent testament to her struggles.
Pity stirred deep in his chest. Aye, he’d see after her and the children. What honorable man wouldn’t? Slowly, to prevent from waking her, he drew the blanket over her shoulders.
Then he faced the children. They were practically asleep on their feet as well—except the twins, of course. The lads watched him wary, alert, and ready. He could respect that, even though he knew such traits only meant a future challenge.
Someone had stacked a pile of bedding at the foot of the bed. “The lassie and the wee lad will take the bed with Moll. The rest of ye will join me on the floor,” he announced as he began pitching the blankets at the twins. “Make yourselves useful, aye?”
Settling all six children took longer than he liked, but after much stomping of the toes and smothered oaths, he finally had everyone safely ensconced in their assigned spots for the night.
With candle in hand, he surveyed the faces staring back at him.
He’d thought his chamber good-sized before, but with the number of bodies now crowded inside, suddenly the room seemed small.
With a curt nod at them all, he blew out the light.
Relieved, he dropped to his own pallet near the dying fire. He was more than ready for a night’s rest.
Almost at once, the whispers began.
At first, he ignored them, but when the jostling started in earnest, he barked, “Be still.”
They obeyed.
A short silence fell.
Then, the wiggling and muffled whispering began anew.
After ten minutes, Taran propped himself on an elbow. “And?” he challenged, squinting at the restless forms illuminated in the dim firelight.
“James drank too much,” a voice whispered in reply.
“Me, too,” another chimed.
“And me,” one of the twins snickered.
Scattered, muffled snorts ringed the chamber.
Taran clamped his jaw tight. Ach, he was a lone wolf, not a bitch minding her pups.
Moll moaned.
Taran released an irritated breath and reached for his boots. “Dinna wake the lasses,” he ordered the lads. “Up. The lot of ye.”
The youngest James wiggled off the bed as the two older ones scrambled to their feet, apparently thrilled at the prospect of a late-night jaunt.
The twins groaned.
Taran fixed them with a look. So, they’d sought only to stir the younger lads into trouble? They couldn’t see his face in the dim chamber light, but they read the stern line of his jaw well enough.
They leapt to their feet in a flash.
Satisfied, Taran opened the door and waved the lads through. Minutes later, he had them lined up before the garderobe used by the guards walking the walls.
As they went about their business, he leaned against the rough stones and inhaled the cold night air.
The wind blew steadily against his face, carrying with it a smattering of rain.
Ach, he should be in bed, asleep a good hour or more—not standing in the cold, waiting for a gaggle of lads to piss.
He snorted. When he’d awakened that morning, he’d never imagined such an end to his day.
A small hand plucked his sleeve. It was one of the lads named James. “We’re finished, m’lord,” he whispered, hooking his thumb at the others clustered by the door.
Taran eyed them thoughtfully. Three lads shared the same name, aye?
Jesting aside, he could hardly call them all the same name.
As he passed them by, he dropped his hand on each lad’s head and christened them, one by one.
“You’re the tallest, so I’ll call ye James.
Ye, I’ll dub Jamie, and the wee one we’ll call Wee Jack. Now, be silent.”
He jogged down the tower stairs to the floor below without looking back. The boys followed, whispering and shoving each other along the way. Once inside the bedchamber, he kicked the fire to give them enough light and they dutifully returned to their pallets, silent as wraiths.
‘Twas only then that Taran allowed himself to glance at Moll. Still asleep, the shadows accentuated the curve of her hip as the lush spill of her hair glistened gold in the firelight. ‘Twas a sight that stirred a man’s blood, but he knew better than to allow that for long.
Heaving a breath, he dropped onto his pallet, wrapped himself in his blanket, and closed his eyes.
Finally, ‘twas time to sleep.
But, sleep eluded him.
Each time he hovered on the verge, one of the lads moaned or coughed in the surrounding darkness.
As the minutes passed, Taran’s frown deepened.
Long had he called himself a lone wolf, a warrior, a leader of experienced, battle-hardened men.
He spent his days securing clan borders and fighting on the king’s behalf.
He hadn’t truly shared a chamber with a soul in years—not even with the lasses who struck his fancy.
After a few hours of their fine company, he’d retire to the solitude of his own sanctuary. ‘Twas how he preferred to live.
Jamie began to snore.
Wee Jack coughed.
One of the twins—Francis?—began to toss and turn.
Taran clamped his jaw tight and willed sleep to come.
An hour passed, and maybe even another before, finally, he felt himself drift away.
Auld Bertha appeared by his side, reaching out for him and cackling loudly.
Taran jerked awake with a frown. Auld Bertha. He hadn’t thought of the woman in months, not since he’d visited his cousin, Alec, now happily wed to Sorcha. Uneasy, he settled back on his pallet.
Again, his eyes closed, and again, sweet, blessed sleep stood within his grasp.
Aye, that stone heart of yours ‘twill turn tae water soon, ye clot-heid. Auld Bertha’s words echoed in his mind, speaking the words from the day she’d met him and his cousin so many months ago in Scotland. But ye’ll journey to find her. A Sassenach, that’s who she is.
Taran opened his eyes, disconcerted. He snorted softly under his breath.
When he’d met the old woman on the road to Edinburgh many months ago in Scotland, he’d thought her mad, even though her dire predictions concerning the untimely deaths of his cousin’s clan had come true.
‘Twas coincidence, surely. Aye, even if his cousin’s future had proved true, the old loon’s predictions of himself meant little.
Journeying to find a lass? He most definitely wasn’t looking for one, not when he knew he must wed as the clan and king willed.
And his heart? He snorted, a wee bit louder. His heart suffered no ills. ‘Twas fine as it was.
He was a lone wolf.
Irritated, he forced his eyes closed, swearing at himself to relax and fall asleep.
* * *
Taran awoke with a start. The dim morning light lit the room.
Something lay across his leg. In an instant, his hand dropped to his dirk, but his fingers had scarcely touched the hilt before he spied a small, tousled head in the gray morning light.
He paused, confused, and then memory returned with a rush.
Ach, ‘twas Wee Jack, using his leg as a pillow. Apparently, the laddie had crawled down from the bed sometime during the night.
Taran blew a breath and released his dirk. Mayhap, with children in the chamber, he shouldn’t sleep as was his wont, armed.
Carefully, he extracted himself from under the laddie and surveyed the various snoring piles of arms and legs dotted around the room, ending with Moll.
The lass lay on her back with one arm hanging off the bed.
She’d kicked off her covers during the night.
He was tempted to smile. Even in sleep, she was a fighter.
For several moments, he enjoyed the view of her soft curves, the swell of her breasts before he caught the selfish nature of his thoughts.
He forced his gaze to the window.
‘Twould be foolish to foster an attraction toward the lass. She wasn’t the dallying kind, and soon, he’d choose a wife—if for no reason other than freeing himself from the king’s constant barrage of irksome candidates.
He strode to the window and unlatched the shutters, enough to see a cloudless, pink-and-lavender streaked sky. As silently as he could, he opened his trunk and selected a linen shirt. He’d change in the guardroom above. As the children around him stirred, he left the chamber.
A weak morning sun warmed Taran’s face as he walked the ramparts a short time later.
The bite of the wind reminded him of home.
Already, he was weary of Haddon Hall. For three months now, Queen Elizabeth had danced around granting him an audience.
Aye, she was a wily one. She’d used every tool at her disposal to avoid their meeting, a meeting she knew right well required her to pay the silver she owed.
Now, with the Black Death’s arrival, she very well might dangle him a year—maybe more.
He ran his hands through his hair. He had no desire to live his life in England, catering to the queen’s whim.
He continued to walk around the wall, this time, stopping to view of the stables. The stable hands had stayed outside the gates to mind the livestock. He frowned. They’d best mind his horse right well, or there would be hell—
“MacKenzie,” a harsh voice called.
Taran exhaled and turned as Lords Hay and Maxwell bore down on him like ships at full sail. Anger marked their every step.
“A word, MacKenzie.” Lord Maxwell glowered from under his thick red brows.