A Feisty Lass #3
Moll occupied Taran’s thoughts the entire morning and well into the afternoon as he trained with his men.
‘Strewth, but she intrigued him. If he’d been presented him with such a lass, he just might have found himself wed, years ago—lone wolf be damned.
A fiery lass could rule a man. A gentle lass could drive a man to cherish her above aught else.
Moll seemed a fascinating mix of both, the kind of lass who could make him want to protect, challenge, and worship her all at once.
Catching his thoughts, he expelled a breath. ‘Twould be difficult to live with her in close quarters if he weren’t mindful. ‘Twas grossly unfortunate that she was precisely the kind who could stir his blood to a boil. Already, ‘twas growing warm.
With renewed vigor, he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and attacked his opponent.
More than once, he spied Euphemia watching him from the walls above as he leaned against his sword to rest and wait his turn near the chapel where his men practiced.
By God, did the woman have no pride? Was she that desperate to become Lady MacKenzie that she’d willingly ignore the arrival of her intended’s lover and six children besides?
His distaste for the woman only grew the longer she dawdled.
The sun arced and waned, and as the evening feast approached, the extended swordplay finally finished. Laughter echoed as the men clapped their erstwhile opponents on the back, stripped off their shirts, and headed for the well near the aviary to douse themselves in buckets of water.
The shock of the cold jarred Taran’s teeth, but by the third bucket of water, he began to feel warm. Restored, he reached for his shirt when the laughter surrounding him suddenly died.
“My lord?”
Taran slicked back his wet hair and grimaced.
Euphemia. He watched her pick her way across the wet stones to his side.
As she arrived, his men shot him side-length looks and stalked away, whether from the desire to offer him his privacy or from the fact they, too, couldn’t abide her presence, he couldn’t say.
“My lord,” Euphemia greeted him with a practiced, sultry smile. She dipped into a low curtsey, one—he knew full well—designed to offer him a full view of her cleavage.
Taran waited, unimpressed.
“A boon, my lord.” With a provocative flutter of her lashes, she inched closer. “Join me at the feast. Sit as befits your station at the high table. Father will listen. He’ll understand—”
Taran pulled in a long breath. “Nay,” he interrupted. Apparently, her father had misled her into thinking he’d chosen her as wife.
Again, Euphemia’s lashes fluttered but with irritation this time. “Taran, if ye join me at table, Father will see this situation is truly nothing…”
“I’ve not chosen ye,” he said tightly.
Then, he was walking away.
It wasn’t until he stood before his chamber door once again that he realized he stood battle-ready with jaw clamped and both fists clenched tight. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his fingers, opened the door, and stepped inside.
This time, ‘twas only the young lassie, Charlotte, sitting cross-legged on the bed with James, Jamie, and Wee Jack, playing a game with a stick and a handful of pebbles.
Moll was nowhere in sight.
Taran strode to his clothing chest and chose a clean plaid, keenly aware of the children watching his every move.
“And where’s your ma?” he finally asked, a bit more brusquely than he’d intended.
Charlotte hopped from the bed and dropped an awkward, belated curtsey. “A lady fetched her, hours ago, my lord.”
Taran paused, his attention arrested. “A lady?”
“’Twas Lady Euphemia, my lord,” the child replied.
The mere mention of the woman’s name sent Taran’s nostrils flaring. “To where?” he barked.
“I know not, my lord,” she squeaked.
Taran expelled a breath. He’d frightened the wee lassie with his fierce expressions. He didn’t wish her to fear him. He forced his jaw to loosen and summoned a reassuring smile. “Call me Athair, aye?”
The child’s solemn eyes filled with confusion. “Athair?”
He nodded, gently. “’Tis Gaelic, for father,” he began. He fully intended to add he had no intention of taking her true father’s place, but the wee lassie interrupted him by bursting into tears.
“Athair,” she gasped as she lunged, locking her thin arms about his waist to snivel into his midriff. “So that’s why Moll brought us here. Ma always said you were handsome. I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time. Years. I’ve waited, years. I can’t believe I’ve found you. At last.”
Taran held still and winced. Ach, he’d bungled the matter, but at the sight of her small, hopeful face, his explanation died on his lips. At a loss, he settled for patting her awkwardly on the head.
Charlotte burrowed deeper, latching onto him like a leech. When she showed no signs of letting go, he cleared his throat and attempted to pry himself loose, but ‘twas nigh impossible. She stuck to him like a cocklebur.
“I must find Moll, lassie,” he finally said.
“Of course, Athair,” she replied, still holding on tight.
The bell announcing the evening meal afforded an opportunity to escape. “’Take the wee ones to the hall, lassie, and eat, aye?” Again, he attempted to peel her hands away.
This time, after one last squeeze, she stepped back and grinned widely. “Aye, Athair.”
Aye? Taran winced. Ach, she was mimicking him. He hadn’t meant to mislead her so sorely. Mayhap Moll—once he’d found and rescued her from Euphemia’s clutches—would know how to correct his error without breaking the wee lassie’s heart.
“I must be going,” he said.
Finally, he managed to escape the room and headed to the floor above, his thoughts turning to the matter at hand.
Faith, but Euphemia flummoxed him. He hadn’t thought the woman dense.
Surely, she knew he’d not take kindly to her mistreatment of his lover?
Why would she chance his anger? His irritation intensified with each step.
Outside Euphemia’s chambers, he heard voices, women’s voices, and three feet from the door, he heard his own name.
“I’ve always thought Taran MacKenzie would be a beast in bed,” someone said with a giggle. “And with as many bairns as he’s fathered, I see I’m nae wrong, aye?”
“’Tis not surprising. Who could miss what’s under that kilt?” another chimed.
A series of snorts and giggles erupted.
Taran arched a brow, somewhat taken aback. ‘Strewth, but he recognized that bawdy voice. Anne’s maid, a shy, middle-aged, quiet mouse-of-a-woman—or so he’d thought.
Then a new voice piped, “Methinks he puts a horse to shame, from the looks of it. ’Tis a marvel ye can walk, I’d say.”
“Didn’t ye hear a thumping in the wee hours of the night?” the voice of Anne’s maid rose above a fresh onslaught of ribald comments. “I swear, it lasted forever and a day. I was beginning to think ‘twas a movement of the earth.”
Again, the giggling.
“Well, tell us then, Moll. Does he keep ye awake all night?”
There was a distinct pause, then, came Moll’s reply, “He’s…decent enough, I suppose.”
Strangely, those words jolted Taran into action. Decent? Suppose? No woman he’d ever bedded had supposed him merely ‘decent’. A wee bit insulted, he stepped into the room.