A Locket Most Curious
Moll hurried toward the castle laundry, pleased with her mushroom harvest, yet worried she hadn’t found enough.
Most of the mushrooms growing between the aviary stones had damaged stems. ‘Twas disappointing, but even more concerning. With what she’d gathered, she could only make enough brew for a month, not nearly enough to see Lady Haddon past her birthing, and truthfully, ‘twould likely take even longer to discern the true cause of Lady Haddon ills.
Yet even more concerning, should she discover what ailed Lady Haddon’s heart, she wouldn’t be able to cure her—unless Lord Haddon opened the castle gates.
After spending the day scouring the castle grounds, ‘twas clear the necessary ingredients for almost any serious illness of the heart no longer grew inside the walls.
Trying her best not to fall prey to needless worry, Moll hurried into the castle laundry.
‘Twas warm and bright, with limewashed walls. The black cauldron hanging over the fire bubbled merrily, sending clouds of hot steam into the air. She smiled. Bridgette was wondrously thoughtful to fetch the water and light the fire. She’d also not only found the pot and spoon, but had added a set of earthen bowls, a ladle, and a small knife, as well, on the wooden table in the center of the room.
Pleased, Moll placed her bundles of mushrooms and lichen next to the small iron pot and stepped to the fire to peek into the cauldron.
‘Twas a third full, more than enough for the potions.
She straightened and glanced about. A small room led off to the left, and judging from the array of barrels, buckets, and tubs through the open door, ‘twas clear it was a storage room.
Moll reached for the lichen. She’d trim them first, then whilst she waited, steep the mushrooms for both Lady Haddon’s and Taran’s potions. ‘Twas the trickiest part of the potion. One couldn’t let them steep for long—
The sudden splashing of water in the storage room startled her back into looking through the door. Was Bridgette still there?
Curious, she stepped closer and called softly, “Bridgett—”
Another splash interrupted her from behind a stack of wooden crates. She hurried around them, then drew up short.
Her eyes widened in shock.
‘Twas Taran. He stood, magnificently naked, next to a large, wooden tub. Water dripped from his hair and over his broad shoulders, forming a pool beneath his feet.
She stared, stunned, then of their own accord, her gaze slid down, over his tanned chest, first. ‘Twas the chest of a warrior, hard and chiseled.
The few faded scars laced under his ribs not only lent him an air of dangerous mystery but pulled her gaze even further down.
She swallowed a gasp. The bawdiest of the gossiping women had been wrong.
‘Twas clear she’d underestimated his size.
Only then, did Moll regain enough presence of mind to cover her eyes.
“Sweet Mary,” she choked.
Feeling all at once hot and at a loss for words, she whirled and rushed out of the room.
At the table once again, she drew a sharp breath and smoothed her skirt, her heart hammering wildly.
She had no business acting like an awestruck maid.
She’d seen naked men before—well, Thomas, anyway.
She scowled to be thinking of him. The old tailor had closer resembled a dumpling bobbing in a pot whilst Taran possessed the body of a Greek god.
Flustered, she grabbed the ladle and the pot, firmly reminding herself she had potions to prepare. The act of whispering the words of healing grounded her roiling emotions, and as she filled the pot with boiling water, peace returned. By the time she returned to the table, she was once again calm.
As she reached for the lichen, the sound of boots scraping the flagstone floor startled her into glancing sideways.
Taran loomed large in the doorway, his blue eyes crinkled with amusement, and just like that, her nervousness returned.
The cheekiness of the man. He stood there so boldly, so calm and unperturbed. The fact he was now clothed from head to toe in a white, linen shirt and a green MacKenzie plaid did nothing to erase the memory of a bare, muscled with tanned skin, and powerful thighs.
Feeling her cheeks flame, she averted her gaze back to the lichen and picking up the knife, and began to chop the flat leaf lobes, far quicker than usual.
“I found no willow bark, my lord,” she said.
“There was lichen aplenty, though. I found what you need, growing on the eastern wall. ‘Tis best to hasten the mending of wounds, and ‘twill lessen the pain, as well—even better than the willow bark, some say. That along with a mushroom, will do wonders. It shan’t be long afore it’s ready.” She winced and put the knife down. She was babbling like a madwoman.
“Aye.”
‘Twas only a single word, but his smooth, deep baritone made the hairs of her neck stand on end. He was obviously a man who weighed his words, but then, with eyes and a mouth as expressive as his, he hardly needed them.
She bit her lip to keep her tongue still and scooping up a handful of lichen, sprinkled it into the pot. “It shan’t be long,” she repeated, willing him to hurry his leaving of the room. “I’ll send George to you with the brew, my lord.”
Ignoring the door, he stalked to the table and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “I’ll stay,” he said.
Startled, she glanced up to see the spark of dry amusement still lurking in his eyes.
‘Twas clear he thought her seeing him without a single stitch of clothing quite humorous.
As fresh images of his fine, unclothed physique danced once again in her head, she blew back a wayward strand of hair from her face with a huff.
Grabbing the knife, she began to chop the lichen again, vigorously, keenly aware of the Highlander lounging at the end of the table, studying her every move.
“Welsh herblore, aye?” he queried after a time.
She hardly heard the words. The lilt in his voice was dangerous. No doubt, he’d ensnared many a maid with that deep rumble and the soothing way the syllables slipped from his tongue…what had he asked? Ah, herblore.
“I know only of lichens and mushrooms,” she admitted with a shrug, sprinkling the last of the lichen into the pot and reaching for the second bundle.
“My mother mastered herbs, barks, and even weeds of the sea. Folk came from leagues away to seek her wisdom and be cured of their ills. They crowned her Wales’s most powerful witch.
” She smiled, recalling the awe in their eyes under her mother’s gentle touch.
“Witch?”
Moll glanced up, startled. His blue eyes bore into hers as a fine sense of horror crept down her spine. Lord help her, she was a fool. She’d let the man’s mesmerizing ways lull her out too far from her shell.
The sound of the fire cracking and popping filled the room.
Then, Taran nodded. “Sorcha, my cousin’s wife, is a witch.” His chiseled lips lifted in one corner.
‘Twas a comforting smile, one clearly meant to set her at ease. Still, ‘twas fair difficult to breathe. “That’s a dangerous word to say, my lord,” she whispered.
Taran shrugged and lifted a wry brow. “Aye, but there are none here, save ourselves.”
Still somewhat on edge, she finished with the lichen and began to pick through the mushrooms.
“I’d warrant ‘tis your eyes that marks your gift,” his deep baritone observed after a time.
Moll paused. ‘Twas odd he should know the true mark of a witch lay in the eyes. Few folk did.
With his gaze locked on the flames dancing under the cauldron, he spoke as if merely thinking aloud, “Sorcha dreamt of events to come. I witnessed her gift with mine own eyes…though, ‘twas a day of sorrow—great sorrow, that she saw. Aye, a day best unseen by any.”
The raw pain in his voice summoned a wave of sympathy.
For a time, a companionable silence fell, one in which she returned to the fire to fill the pot again.
Then, strangely wanting him to know, she confessed, “I know only of the heart. ‘Tis my gift to listen to the hearts of others, should they allow, and then assist in healing what I might find.”
“The heart?” Taran shifted, another smile dancing on his lips. “Can ye tell me then, what does mine say?”
He was powerful, strong, with the body of a warrior. She didn’t need to listen to his heart to know that. “Your heart holds little that is ill, my lord. You are a man of thought, strength, and discipline.”
“Is that all ye hear?” he asked when she paused, his voice deepening.
Moll swallowed. “’Tis all I can determine, my lord, without…without…” The last thing she wished to do was place her ear upon his chest.
“Without?”
“Without listening to your heart.” She turned back to the fire.
“As in, truly listen?” There was a genuine curiosity in his voice.
She drew a breath and nodded, pretending to inspect the cauldron’s bubbling water.
“Then, lass, I beg ye put your ear to my chest,” came the words she dreaded to hear.
As a Witch of the Heart, she couldn’t ignore an honest entreaty. Slowly, she straightened and faced him.
He watched her approach. His eyes were so blue, a blue as deep as the sea, and his body, something she suddenly feared to touch—not because she feared him, but because…she didn’t.
“Shall I stand?” he asked, a note of something in his tone that quickened her pulse.
“Yes, my lord,” she murmured.
He rose to his feet, towering over her as she locked her gaze onto his chest and attempted to focus her thoughts.
She failed. With her own heart thumping so loudly in her ears, she doubted she would even be able to hear a single beat of his.
Biting her tongue, she stepped close, and turning her head to the side, placed her ear against his chest.