A Feisty Lass #2
“Ye’ve insulted my Euphemia.” Lord Hay came directly to the point, his face already a fine shade of red up to the roots of his fair hair. “Flaunting your whore as if—”
Taran cut him short, “Nay, not a word.” He leveled the man a look, his every instinct compelling him to defend Moll’s honor.
Lord Hay swallowed. “Aye, I understand a man has his whores, but ye may as yet wed Euphemia—”
“Or my Anne,” Lord Maxwell cut in.
Taran clenched his jaw. “Nay,” he grated.
The men clamped their mouths shut, surprised. Indeed, he surprised himself. The word had spoken itself. ‘Twas the truth. He couldn’t abide wedding either lass—despite what advantages they offered his clan. For a time, he’d thought that might be enough…now?
“Then, ye’ve made up your mind, at last?” Lord Hay arched a brow.
Taran didn’t miss the glittering gleam of calculation in his eyes. Aye, Euphemia was so very much like her father. The thought dealing with them both for the remainder of his life was a chillingly sober one. And Lord Maxwell? The man was fair difficult—his daughter, as well.
Nay, he’d ride home and consult with the clan.
He’d make his case for a different wife.
Surely, there were other brides upon which they could agree?
Then, he’d speak with the king. Until then?
He eyed the lords. Truly, there was no reason to prolong the conversation. ‘Twas only bothersome to them all.
“I bid ye good day.” He bowed with brevity.
The vein on Lord Maxwell’s forehead popped. Lord Hay tilted his head to the side.
Never one to waste words, Taran spun on his heel. He’d learned long ago the value of listening, speaking little, and cutting angry words short.
“Ye’ve not heard the last of this matter,” Lord Maxwell shouted. “’Tis my Anne that ye’ll take to wife.”
Taran squared his shoulders and kept walking.
At the north tower entrance, Lord Haddon stepped into his path. “They seem rather irked.” He gestured at the two Scottish lords still standing on the wall.
Taran shrugged.
Lord Haddon’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis not often a man can choose as he pleases.”
“Aye,” Taran agreed. Disinclined to discuss the matter, he switched subjects. “Tidings?”
“None,” Lord Haddon answered readily enough. “No doubt, with the plague afoot, the queen hides in her castle. If your messenger hasn’t been hung for daring to ride to her door, then he’s escaped to France by now for fear of failing his duty. I’d wager you won’t hear from the man again, MacKenzie.”
‘Twas the truth. For the messenger’s sake, he could only hope the man was now in France.
“You’re caged in Haddon Hall, dancing to the queen’s tune, along with us all,” Lord Haddon muttered, locking his eyes on the rolling hills spreading across the horizon. He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head as if waking from a dream. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve matters to attend.”
Taran watched the man, his jaw clenched tight. Caged? He didn’t care for cages nor did he enjoy dancing with queens, king’s bidding or no. Striving to contain his rising irritation, he propped his elbows on the rim of the castle’s inner wall and glanced over the grounds.
In the upper courtyard beneath him, his men milled about, battle-hardened MacKenzie warriors. They’d seemed inordinately amused as the rumors circled of Moll and ‘his’ bairns, but they’d yet to ask a single question. Strangely, he wasn’t inclined to explain.
Catching his eye upon them, several raised their arms and whistled, “Victuals, my lord.”
Taran lifted a hand in acknowledgment. He’d join them later, after he’d seen to Moll and the children.
Taking the tower stairs two at a time, he descended to the corridor leading to his room when voices echoed up the stairwell from below.
“Moll will have our hides,” a voice snapped.
“Ma, not ‘Moll’,” another retorted. “How many times do I have to remind you, Francis?”
Francis snorted. “No one’s addlepated enough to believe she’s our ma. Did she birth us at age, what? Five? La mercy, George. Think, will you?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? We’ll be gone soon enough,” George groused in reply. “Whilst we’re here, we call her ‘ma’, and as I’m not of a mind to tempt fate, we’ll stick to the plan. I’m the—”
“I know,” Francis interrupted, then mimicked in a whining tone, “I’m your elder.”
Their bickering continued as Taran rounded the last turn to see them lounging against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
The instant they caught sight of him, they straightened and dashed out the door.
Taran arched a suspicious brow. The plan? What plan was that? He’d have to speak with Doughall, the leader of his men, to have someone keep an eye on the lads afore they embroiled themselves in trouble.
With a thoughtful frown, he pivoted on his heel, headed back up to stairs, and scare a minute later, lifted the latch to his bedroom door and stepped inside.
A soft gasp met his ears followed by the distinct rustle of cloth.
It took him a moment to realize he’d interrupted Moll dressing, but he looked, anyway.
She stood by the bed. The odd angle of the pillow beneath her gown along with her exposed ankle betrayed he’d caught her strapping the contraption about her waist.
“Good morning,” he said, feeling strangely lighthearted.
“Good morning, my lord,” Moll dutifully replied. Dark circles underlined her eyes and her skin looked pale. With the amount of wine and ale she’d imbibed the night before, he could only imagine how raw she felt.
He offered a sympathetic nod.
Moll smoothed her skirts and then curtseyed, low. “I thank you for your aid and the night’s shelter, my lord. After the morning meal, we’ll be on our way.”
Not bloody likely. Had she forgotten she was as much a prisoner as he? “Lord Haddon’s order still stand, lass. The gates will likely remain sealed for some time.”
A look of alarm crossed her face. So, she hadn’t remembered…but then, ‘twasn’t surprising. No doubt, the spirits had caused her to forget many things.
She lifted her chin, then stated firmly, “My lord, I can hardly stay here, pretending to be your lover.”
“Why?” His gaze took in her winsome body and lithe curves. “‘Tis quite believable, I assure ye.”
“’Tis preposterous.” Her eyes flashed.
The force of her reply only tempted him to evaluate her curves once again.
She was too thin, to be sure, but precisely the kind of woman he’d always found attractive—spirit included.
“Nay,” he disagreed. “I’ve always chosen the bonny, high-spirited lasses.
Those who know me would expect naught else. ”
Her eyes widened in shock.
Clearly, she’d meant something else, but what, he couldn’t fathom. Seeking to set her at ease, he added, “I ask naught from ye, lass.”
She stood there, distrust rampant in her stunning eyes.
He waited. He was a man of patience.
Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but in a tone of challenge, “Why are you helping us?”
“Is not aiding the weak required of a man?”
She didn’t answer.
He shrugged. “’Tis Highland honor, lass. Have ye met no honorable men?”
Her continued silence spoke volumes.
He moved passed her to open the shutters and peered out. “Dinna think I’ve evil intent toward ye, lass,” he said as gently as he could. “’Tis my duty to see ye and the children fed, and when this is over, I’ll escort the lot of ye safely to your kin.”
“Kin?”
The bitterness of her tone caused him to glance at her, surprised.
She fixed him with a stony gaze.
“Surely, ye have kin?” he pressed.
“Do you want the truth?” she challenged, jutting her chin fiercely.
At his nod, she continued, “My kin gave me to a tailor for a pair of pants, then told me never to return. I suffered in hell with the man for a year, until near a fortnight ago, when the plague swept through London and we fled for our lives. I have nothing and nowhere to go.” She paused, then with a defiant toss of her head, asked, “Does your Highland honor still feel responsible now?” She couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes.
Taran surveyed the lass with a thoughtful tilt of his head.
She stood there, fierce and proud. He could only admire such a spirit.
Aye, she might be small and frail, but ‘twas clear enough she had the soul of a warrior. Did he feel responsible? Truly, he was feeling more responsible with each passing moment in her company, though why that should be so, he didn’t stop to ponder.
“Aye,” was all he said.
Moll drew a sharp breath. “I’ll not sleep in your bed.”
“I dinna ask that of ye,” he retorted. Rather insulted, he added in a cooler tone, “I’ve no trouble in finding a willing lass when the fancy strikes.”
Her eyes narrowed.
They stood there a time, huffing and glaring, until he noticed the angle of the sun hitting the chamber floor. Soon, breakfast would be over.
“What’s done is done, lass,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “Ye’ve spent the night in my chambers. ‘Tis too late to tread a different path. Within Haddon’s walls, you’re known as Taran MacKenzie’s lover.” ‘Twas true, whether she liked the fact or no.
She swallowed, her shoulders sagged in acknowledgment.
Inordinately pleased, Taran nodded, then his thoughts sobered. “For the safety of us all, ye canna share where ye harken from. I doubt even I could stop Lord Haddon from hanging ye at the gate, should he learn ye hail from London.”
Alarm flashed across her face. “Yes, my lord.”
“Then hie yourself off to the hall. No doubt, the wee ones are stirring mischief.”
She made for the door, but he caught up with her in two long strides. The instant his fingers closed over her arm, she whirled, as if prepared to fight.
He let go. Ach, she was as skittish as a colt. A strange blend of pity and attraction rolled over him as he nodded at the pillow hanging lopsided near her knees.
“Mind the bairn, aye?” was all he said.
Then, he stepped past her and strode out the chamber door.
* * *