Attraction Unforeseen #2
It wasn’t Taran, but a half-dozen, kilted MacKenzie clansmen, their dirks belted about their waists and their long hair braided down the sides. As they passed her by, they dipped their heads in respect.
Rattled, she curtseyed in return.
“Moll, here, by the fire,” Francis called.
Moll spied the children and hurried to join them. She’d barely taken her seat when the voices in the hall hushed and all attention went to the high table.
‘Twas Lord Haddon standing on the dais alone, the set of his shoulders speaking of worry.
He simply stood there for a time, oblivious to the whispers circling the room, before, at last, he lifted his hand.
The occupants of the hall fell silent, expecting him to speak, but he merely signaled a server for wine and strode to his chair to slump down.
The din in the hall resumed.
Moll chewed her bottom lip. ‘Twas odd, to be sure, but no doubt, his behavior revolved around Lady Haddon’s frail health. Had she worsened? And what of the babe? Had…Moll blinked, taken aback. Why would she think such things? She knew nothing of the castle’s lady…or…did she? Had they met?
A fuzzy image of a woman’s pale face with laughing brown eyes danced on the edge of her thoughts. Moll frowned. ‘Twas the night before…and the woman had mentioned something about…birthing a babe? They…had met.
A flurry of activity drew Moll’s attention back to the high table just as Euphemia arrived, resplendent in gold velvet and with her blonde hair elaborately dressed in a bejeweled net. With her lips drawn into a grim line, she stood by her chair and scanned the faces in the hall.
Moll cringed and quickly turned away, half expecting Euphemia to bellow her name.
The woman was the vindictive sort. She wouldn’t simply leave Moll alone, especially after she’d disobeyed direct orders.
No doubt, one of her gossipy maids had informed their mistress of Taran’s arrival to ferret her away, as well.
After all, ‘twas too juicy a tidbit of gossip to be ignored.
Such a bold act of disobedience would not be left unpunished. Moll suppressed a groan. Almost, she preferred escaping the castle to face the plague.
The food began to arrive. A pork, chicken, and cheese pie topped with figs, a pot of toasted bread in wine sauce, and a platter of rabbit with cabbage and pomegranates.
As the children attacked their meal with vigor, Moll found herself pulled from her thoughts. “Slow down, poppets,” she warned, scowling in disapproval. She couldn’t have the hall gossiping about Lord MacKenzie’s uncouth children. “Mind your manners.”
James responded by reaching for Charlotte’s almond cake.
Moll rapped his knuckles with her spoon. “Share and share alike, James. Greed is unseemly. You’ve had yours.”
“But I’m bigger, Moll,” he objected. “And Charlotte’s not even eating a whit.”
Moll frowned. Indeed, the girl had scarcely touched her food. She was about to ask why when Charlotte jumped to her feet and waved her arms.
“Athair!” the young girl called with a bright smile. “Here, Athair. Here.”
Puzzled, Moll tossed a glance over her shoulder
Taran was almost upon them, his long stride carrying him quickly across the hall.
With his white shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders and his fine, dark green kilt hugging his lean hips, he was a magnet for the eyes.
As large as a horse? Before she could stop herself, her gaze dipped again, but the quickening of her pulse and the foreign warmth in her belly, startled her attention back to her plate.
“Athair,” Charlotte greeted Taran with an eager smile. She held out a small red fruit. “I’ve saved a pomegranate for you…for ye.”
Moll arched a brow. Ye?
Then, the Highlander arrived. The bench creaked under his weight as he settled by Moll’s side, his thigh brushing against hers.
‘Twas a feather-soft touch, yet it felt like fire. Tense, Moll inched away.
“Your pomegranate,” Charlotte repeated, leaning across the table to thrust the withered fruit under his nose.
“Aye.” Taran thanked her with a polite nod.
Charlotte melted back to her seat to rest her chin on her hands and stare, a grin splitting her face from ear-to-ear.
Whatever had gotten into the young girl? The arrival of more food prevented her from asking.
As a serving woman plunked down a platter of roasted veal and eggs, Taran’s deep voice murmured, “My lady.”
Moll tensed. Lady? Under her uneasy gaze, he again placed the first choice cut on her plate.
“Wine, my lord?” someone asked.
Again, Taran saw Moll served first, then he tossed his head back and drained his goblet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
‘Twas oddly captivating. His black lashes even more so. They were so thick and long, the kind a maid would envy. His lips? Along with his jaw, they were so pronounced, seemingly carved from stone. She’d seen lips like his before on a Greek statue in London.
He set his goblet back on the table then, moving with the grace of a dancer, his muscles sliding sensuously beneath his shirt.
Then, Moll noticed the curl of his lip.
Lord help her, she was staring again.
She averted her gaze back her plate. The man must think her a bumbling, gawking fool—but then, wasn’t she one? She sat at his side, so very mismatched, a fine swan and a country duck. How could a single soul in the hall believe them lovers? She snorted at the thought.
“Aye?” Taran asked.
Moll shook her head. Why share what was so painfully obvious?
“Eat, lass,” he suggested in his smooth, lilting burr. “Ye haven’t touched your wine.”
At his soft chuckle, Moll gazed at him. The wicked gleam in his blue eyes had returned.
With a fresh hint of a smile playing over his lips, he slowly crossed his arms and leaned closer.
She hesitated. Something about the gesture…
along with his expression…seemed so familiar.
Again, fuzzy images teased her memory. Perched on the edge of the bed?
She was warning him…something about keeping his distance…
Then, she went stiff.
Her memory returned with a rush. Missing a piece. She’d told him to keep his distance or he’d find himself…missing a piece. A pox on the man. He’d been toying with her in the bedchamber. Missing a piece, indeed.
“I believe we both know right well spirits don’t suit me, my lord,” she snapped.
Taran’s chuckle deepened. “On the contrary, lass, spirits suit ye fine.” He paused and then leaned even a mite closer. “Dinna hide the wee beastie that lurks inside ye.”
Heaven help her, how did the man continually set her nerves on edge? She was a widow, well-versed in the ways of men…or was she? Perhaps, being wed to a tailor she detested was less of an education than she’d thought. She looked away.
Suddenly, the eldest James shoved the other as the youngest jumped to his feet on the bench.
The table jerked. The wine flasks rattled.
Then, time slowed. Moll could do nothing but watch the wine flask wobble, tip, and then send a spray of red wine, splattering in a red arc, straight across Taran’s white shirt.
He sat there, expressionless, then with a muffled oath, sprang to his feet.
All at once, time resumed.
Moll and the children gasped.
Several tables over, the MacKenzie clansmen began to laugh, and the sound released Taran from his spell. With a curt nod, he spun on his heel and left the hall without a backward glance.
“Is he angry?” Francis hissed.
Moll eyed the children’s worried faces and rose. “I’ll speak to him. Don’t fret, poppets. I’ll make it right.” She forced a calm she didn’t feel.
A range of relief flooded the faces of the children, all but Francis and George. They knew better. With them, Moll exchanged a terse, silent look, and then lifting her skirts, hurried after the man.
Doubtless, he’d gone to change. Already, in the short time she’d been at Haddon Hall, she’d seen him change his clothing more in one day than Thomas had in several months.
“’Twas an accident, my lord,” she said as she entered into the room. “A child’s blunder, my lord. I’ve come to beg forgiveness on his behalf.”
As she’d thought, he stood before his clothing chest, shirt in hand.
Her gaze locked on the red stain. “When I’m through washing the shirt, ‘twill be as good as new, I swear, my lord,” she promised. “He’s only a small boy. He’s lost his mother and father, my lord. Please, punish me instead. I—”
“Punish?” He seemed genuinely surprised, then cut her short with a wave of his hand. “’Tis not the first time I’ve stained a shirt, lass, nor will it be the last.”
Moll lifted her gaze to his. There was no anger there. Indeed, was that amusement twinkling from the depths of those blue eyes?
“You’re not angry, then,” she breathed, flooding with relief.
The Highlander’s dark brows rose. “Angry? With a wee lad?” He snorted. “’Twas clear I frightened him. I merely sought to leave afore I frightened him more.”
He stood there almost as if he were…embarrassed. How could such a bear-of-a-man be so charmingly awkward?
“You know nothing of children, then,” she blurted with a smile of surprise.
“Aye,” he admitted readily enough, then added, “Well, I know that wee ones find me fearsome.”
“I imagine, ‘tis more than the wee ones who find you fearsome, my lord.”
Then for the first time, she noticed he stood bare-chested and with his kilt hanging low over his lean hips.
Her mouth went dry.