An Awakening of Need
‘Strewth, but Moll was beyond bonny, a vision in rose and gold where she stood at the top of the steps, the breeze ruffling her honey-blonde hair. Taran couldn’t wrench his gaze away.
Fate was strange. He’d only meant to help a stranger at the castle gates, a woman with children undeniably in need.
But now? With the beauty standing before him, ‘twas his own need that jolted through his body—a need of a vastly different kind.
He gritted his teeth. ‘Twas impossible for a man to avoid a bodily attraction to the woman—
A sharp backhand blow sliced through his thoughts and sent him reeling back. Pain lanced through his collarbone and over his shoulder. He stumbled. Then, losing his footing entirely, fell straight back, landing on the cobblestones with a teeth-jarring force as the onlookers gasped.
“Ach now, that’s a blow, lad,” one of his clansmen called out amidst a chorus of whistles and hoots.
Taran winced.
“’Twill hurt more than one day, I’ll warrant,” his opponent, one of Lord Haddon’s men named Roderick, panted as he rubbed his own jaw with a rueful smile.
“Though, after the drubbing I received, I fear I may lie abed longer, my lord.” He braced himself with a hand on his knee but held out the other in an offer of assistance.
Taran grunted and took the man’s hand, rising to his feet amidst the peals of good-natured laughter. Ach, his neck, shoulder, and the side of his head ached sore. There would be no more practice this day—mayhap the remainder of the week, as well.
“’Twas an unfair distraction, lad,” his right-hand man, Doughall, teased as Taran arrived at the sidelines. “No man could ignore a lass so bewitching, aye?”
“Women shouldna be watching,” someone grumbled nearby. “I’ve lost good coin.”
Taran tossed a glance back toward the stairs, but Moll had gone.
“Let’s sit ye down, lad.” Doughall’s meaty hand fisted against Taran’s back as he manhandled him toward the great hall.
There was no denying Doughall once he’d made up his mind.
The grizzled man was as large as a bear.
His gray braids swung to his hips as he kicked back the hall door and practically shoved Taran inside.
With a groan, Taran sank back on the nearest bench, closed his eyes, and stretched out his legs. A throbbing ache pulsed through his head, as with each breath, a pain shot from his collarbone straight across his left shoulder.
“Colin will fetch the physician, lad,” Doughall’s loud bass began from close by.
“Nay,” Taran grunted, keeping his eyes shut. ‘Twas not needed—especially when the man’s treatments consisted only of bleeding and leechcraft.
Doughall chortled from the next table over.
Taran paid the man little heed. He grimaced. ‘Twas quite unlike him to fall prey to distractions during a fight. No doubt, his men would tease him for days, but well he deserved such a mocking.
Gentle fingers probed his injury.
Irritated Doughall had ignored his bidding, he swatted the hand away, and keeping his eyes shut, snapped, “Nay, I’ll not be bled.”
“Bled? I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” Moll’s voice, so soft and soothing, washed over Taran like a gentle breeze after a storm.
His eyes flew open.
The mere glance from before hadn’t done her justice.
She stood by his knee, her gown falling in graceful lines to the floor.
The charming curve of her neck and the cut of her snug bodice caught his attention, the square-cut collar offering a tantalizing glimpse of her lace shift.
Well could he imagine what lay beneath. His blood stirred.
Indeed, ‘twas fortunate his collarbone throbbed with pain, dampening his body’s response.
“I brought your lass to tend ye.” Doughall’s grinning face popped over her shoulder.
Taran shot him a silent order to disappear.
The man read his look right well. “I’ll be leaving then, lad. Ye’ve fine hands to tend ye,” he said, and with a chuckle, stalked away.
Taran turned his attention back to Moll. Her gaze had locked on the purple bruise forming on his shoulder and then down to the welts on his ribs. Her stunning eyes flooded with concern.
“These are ghastly bruises, my lord,” she murmured, gently probing his rib with her fingertip.
Reflex made him tense, but more from imagining how she might make him forget pain rather than the fact she’d caused any. Schooling his thoughts, he queried, “Are ye a healer, then?”
“Nay,” she murmured absently, her attention still locked on his bruises. “Though, often enough, ailments of the heart mingle with those of the body.”
‘Twas an intriguing answer. “Ailments of the heart?”
Her eyes shuttered at once. “’Tis Welsh herblore, my lord,” she replied, wary. “Nothing more.”
Herblore? Tradition called those learned in herblore by the name of witch—and of late, a witch was a dangerous name to be called.
As so many times of late, their gazes caught and held. He could drown in the pull of those eyes, so bonny and mysterious. Aye, ‘twould be easy to lose himself in those shimmering grays and greens, framed by the thick sweep of lashes fanning her cheeks.
“My lord,” she whispered.
He’d much rather she used his name. He’d heard ‘my lord’ one time too many from those lips. His gaze slid down to her mouth. Such pleasing, pink lips, lips he could think of a dozen ways to taste, and lips, no doubt, that felt and tasted sweeter than honey.
All at once, her fingers felt like a brand on his skin, sending a keen pulse of awareness straight through him, despite the pain.
Abruptly, he rose to his feet, welcoming, the pain.
Surprised, Moll held out a hand.
Instinct made him catch her fingers, but ‘twas only as he rubbed his thumb over the top of her hand that he realized she’d either meant to help him rise or stop him from doing so. It mattered little. Her skin felt like velvet under his touch.
“There are potions that can help,” she was saying. “But, ‘twill not be ready until nightfall, my lord.”
He smiled.
“MacKenzie,” a voice called out.
As Taran glanced up to see Lord Haddon approach, he felt Moll’s fingers slip from his.
She took her leave, hurrying across the hall, the provocative sway of her hips sending a pleasant thrum coursing through his blood.
“Crosses,” Lord Haddon said.
Taran shifted his gaze.
Lord Haddon stood at his side, waving a letter, his thin face agitated. “Red-painted crosses on the doors, not even three leagues away from the queen’s residence,” he rasped.
Taran lifted a brow at the letter.
“There were no tidings for you,” Lord Haddon read his silent question easily enough.
“Only this.” Grimly, he held out the parchment.
“The Queen and her retinue left her residence Friday, heading north.
‘Tis by her majesties orders now. None may enter, and none may leave Haddon Hall. These gates must remain sealed until she finds haven.”
“And where’s the harm in leaving?” Lord Maxwell asked, joining them to stand at Lord Haddon’s side, ignoring Taran outright.
‘Twas clear the man meant to insult him, but Taran cared little. He answered the man anyway, “Should her majesty’s birds escape their cage, ‘twould not be known we died of the plague until ‘tis too late. She seeks a haven free of illness. She’ll keep her birds caged until she’s certain, only then will she set ye free—if she has no need of ye.”
The gray-haired lord shot him a sour look, but continued to address Lord Haddon with his concerns, “I’ve plans to return to Scotland, soon.”
Lord Haddon shrugged. “Then, I fear you must wait.”
Taran left them there, glowering and sparring words, and instead, headed for the castle well on the upper courtyard, away from the crowd and once again let his thoughts turn to Moll.
What would she be like, completely unfettered, free of her past?
No doubt, with the strength of her spirit, she’d be a firebrand—in bed and without.
‘Twas most unfortunate she wasn’t the dallying kind, or that he couldn’t wed as he pleased.
Nay, he’d soon find himself politically matched, and Moll?
No doubt, she’d have her pick…the sudden thought she was destined for another man strangely darkened his mood.
Grimly, he tossed a few buckets of cold water over his aching bones, then noting the state of his plaid, stalked toward his chamber.
When he opened the door, ‘twas to see the wee lassie, Charlotte, hopping across the room, playing some kind of game with Wee Jack, James, and Jamie.
“Athair!” Charlotte’s young face lit with a smile, so heartbreakingly raw. She held out the skirts of her blue dress and curtsied deep. “’Tis so beautiful—bonny, is it not? Do I please ye, Athair?” she asked in her best imitation of a Scottish brogue.
Ach, he should have told the wee lassie from the start he wasn’t her father. ‘Twas becoming harder with each passing day. Already, he feared ‘twas too late.
“Aye,” was all he said.
The little girl lunged, clearly intending to squeeze him again, but upon seeing his bruises and welts, she drew up short.
“Athair!” she gasped, her eyes growing round.
He reassured her with a silent nod and then, strode to his chest. As usual, the children watched his every move. He didn’t mind. In fact, he was growing accustomed to their constant presence. With his clothing selection made, he nodded at them.
All four grinned.
He quirked his lip in response, and then draping his fresh shirt and plaid over his arm, quit the chamber and headed to the guardroom to change with some measure of privacy.
With so few men in Lord Haddon’s household, the guardroom stood deserted nearly every hour of the day. This afternoon, ‘twas no different.
He kicked the fire back to life, changed his clothing, and then returned to lean over the fire, his hands planted firmly on the mantle.
For a time, he merely watched the flames, allowing his thoughts to wander as they willed, from the queen’s edict, assuredly, but more often to Moll’s winsome figure. Then as his collarbone began again to throb, he quit the guardroom in favor of the wall.