A Witch of the Heart #4
George interrupted her with an eye roll. “Moll, trust us, will you? We’ll not give you cause for worry, I swear.”
Moll turned to Francis and frowned outright. “And you?”
“La mercy, Moll, I want to eat as much as the rest.” He snorted, then pointed to the tower across the courtyard that led to their chamber. “Wee Jack and Jamie are taxing Charlotte sore. I’d best see if she needs help.”
His offer of assistance only deepened Moll’s concern—‘twas quite out of character, indeed—but he was off before she could stop him and with George at his heels.
She watched them go, torn between running after them and continuing her mushroom quest.
She closed her eyes and forced her thoughts to still. Trust? Why, of late, did everyone ask her to trust?
She exhaled and scowled. Lord help her, she didn’t have a choice, not really.
She had a potion to finish and a castle the size of a city to search for the mushrooms needed to save Lady Haddon’s life.
‘Twas clear where she should focus, first…but, once she did find the mushrooms, she’d have hours before she could harvest them.
If she hurried, she’d have time aplenty to track down the twins and set them to rights—trust be damned.
Feeling at once better, she turned toward the aviary and the castle well.
The clang of weapons and the roars of the crowd filled Moll’s ears as she stepped around the eastern tower.
Men and a few women, lined the inner wall, blocking her view of the fight taking place below.
She didn’t mind. She skirted the walls behind them, praying Euphemia wasn’t there, and hurried behind the domed aviary, built close to the castle walls.
The rank stench of dung wafted up from below, overwhelming her nostrils.
She covered her nose with her hand. There were no observers there, not with the aviary blocking the view of the fight.
Quickly, she scanned the stones. To her astonishment, she found the red-tipped mushrooms, at once, growing near the aviary’s base, peeking out amongst the stones and within easy reach.
Relieved, she straightened her shoulders.
‘Twould be a simple enough task to return at sunset, then with an hour to brew, Lady Haddon would have her potion before ‘twas time to retire.
Fortune had provided her the most unexpected gift. Pleased, she turned back the way she’d come.
Now, ‘twas time to mind the twins.
“God’s blood, the man is a fool,” a man complained as Moll emerged from behind the aviary.
The man beside him cupped his mouth with his hands and shouted, “Roderick, are you drunk already?”
Laughter rippled through the crowd hugging the inner wall as Moll threaded her way past them.
“Brian stands no chance.” A man at her elbow laughed. “The MacKenzie’s stronger than a wild boar.”
Moll’s breath hitched. Taran? Then, the men around her shifted, providing her an unimpeded view.
‘Twas Taran, indeed, fighting below in a chain-mail hauberk, his strong legs planted wide and with a large basket-hilt sword in one hand and a buckler in the other.
As if in a dream, she maneuvered closer, near the top of the stairs that descended directly into the courtyard below.
After all, who could blame her? The Highlander compelled the eyes to watch.
He stood on the cobblestones, projecting an easy confidence as he calmly observed his wary, circling opponent.
Several times, the man feinted, but Taran didn’t move.
He waited, appearing as if he would let himself be run through.
Then, as quick as a flash, his blade arced.
The next moment, his opponent’s sword clattered to the ground.
Laughter moved through the crowd.
Taran leaned against his sword as his opponent caught his breath, and then the men clasped hands.
Men stepped forward from the crowd to assist in the quick removal of the chain hauberks, and once divested, both Taran and his opponent stepped back into the ring, this time, clearly prepared to wrestle to finish the fight.
Moll swallowed. Lord help her, he stood bare-chested now, every inch of his tanned physique impeccably sculpted.
Was he impervious to the chill in the air?
He began to move, a fluid mass of force.
‘Twas mesmerizing, the way his muscles bunched and rippled beneath his skin. She couldn’t have walked away if she’d tried, her feet felt like anchors, cementing her to wall.
A roar went up around her, startling her attention from Taran’s wide shoulders and lean hips back to the fight. As she watched, the Highlander flipped his adversary onto his back.
A cheer tore from her lips. She raised her hands and screamed with the rest.
‘Twas then that Taran glanced her way.
He paused as their eyes met in a connection she could not break.
Her heart began to thud as her traitorous lips curved into an even broader smile. The crowd about her faded. Only Taran stood there, his dark hair blowing in the wind.
She didn’t see his opponent until it was too late. Seemingly out of nowhere, the man delivered a backhand blow, striking Taran’s collarbone hard.
The force of the impact knocked him flat on the ground.