A Locket Most Curious #2
‘Twas far too intimate a position, standing so close to the man.
Heat radiated from his body, a warmth strangely luring her closer.
Why did he feel so intensely familiar? A sense of safety washed over her, mingling with a heightened awareness that prickled her skin.
He smelled of soap and spice. She inhaled the heady scent, simply wanting to breathe him in, suddenly wanting more… but more…of what?
In her confusion, her gift steadied her thoughts, stilling her mind and drawing her focus to his heart, echoing so strong and steady beneath her ear.
Honor. Strength. Loyalty. A man truly worthy of trust…yet, about his own heart wound a shell of stone. Yes, he was a man of trust, but a man who trusted few. Her mother had oft claimed no potion could cure a heart of stone. Only one thing could. ‘Twas love.
Then, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck and her senses leapt, sending a foreign pulse of longing straight down her spine.
Her head snapped up and she stepped back, rattled. The eyes staring back at her were cool and so boldly unrepentant. Had his touch been accidental? With the honor she’d heard beating beneath her ear, she thought so, for truly, he was a man to trust.
Drawing a breath, she pronounced, “Your heart is strong, my lord, honor, discipline, and duty abound, yet…’tis overly fortified.”
Taran lifted a brow, seeming only amused. “’Tis a flaw?”
“Hearts are meant to feel,” she murmured, for a moment, becoming the Witch of the Heart more than the uneasy maid. “Hearts are not meant to be stronger than stone, my lord.”
At the word ‘stone’, the line of his dark lashes fluttered in surprise, but he recovered quickly to comment, “Mayhap some hearts must set feeling aside in favor of duty and the greater good.”
‘Twas her turn to be surprised. His words dredged her father’s voice from the depths of her mind. Moll, you must wed the tailor for the greater good. Listen to your father now. ‘Tis for the greater good.
“Greater good?” she snorted and returned to the lichens steeping in the water. “’Tis the greater good that made me a tailor’s wife.”
She grabbed the knife and began to chop, attacking the lichen with a near savagery, mincing the lobes until they could be minced no more.
“A great wrong was done to ye, lass,” Taran murmured when she was done.
Moll clamped her jaw. She disliked sympathy. It only threatened tears. She jutted her jaw and replied, “It matter’s little, my lord. Now, I cherish my freedom all the more. Never will I wed again.”
To her surprise, she saw he’d moved closer, leaning now against the table, practically by her side. As she watched, his expression lightened, and a twinkle of mirth entered his eyes.
When he didn’t speak, she raised her chin. “And?”
“I’ll wager you’re wed within the year, lass,” he replied without hesitation.
The confidence in his tone made Moll snort. “I assure you, ‘tis absurd.” She stretched out her hand to pick up the pot when he chuckled. “My lord?” she snapped.
Taran crossed his arms and leaned close. “How?”
“How?”
“How is it absurd?” He leaned even closer still.
There hadn’t even been the slightest hint of stubble on his jaw that morning. Now, a day’s growth of beard graced his chin, setting her fingers twitching with the temptation to touch.
“How?” he repeated, softer still, a voice merely more than a breath.
Moll shivered and abruptly focused her gaze on her task.
How was it absurd to find herself wed in a year?
She snorted again. “Setting all else aside, my lord, what man would take on the raising of six children?” she asked briskly as she picked up the knife.
“Six children, not of his own flesh and blood?”
Silence fell.
Then, Taran stirred at her side and hefted himself off the table. “I’ll be going, lass. I’ll send Doughall for the brew.”
Surprised at his sudden departure, she nodded and murmured, “My lord.”
On the threshold, he paused with his hand on the latch.
“What man?” he asked suddenly, turning his head enough that she could see the firm line of his jaw.
“I assure ye, Moll, there’s not a Highlander alive who wouldna want ye—nay, cherish such a bonny, bold lass so stoutheartedly willing to raise six wee ones naught of her own flesh and blood.
” He snorted. “Aye, ye’ll find yourself wed in even less than a year.
‘Tis clear, ye were made for a man’s touch. ”
The next moment, he was gone, leaving Moll standing by the table, her lips parted in surprise.
* * *
“Drink deeply, my lady, afore the life escapes,” Moll encouraged from where she knelt at Lady Haddon’s side.
The frail woman held the earthen cup in her trembling hands, and with a weak smile, drank. When she’d finished, she handed the cup to Moll with a grimace. “It tastes rather like pond water.”
“Mayhap closer akin to mud, my lady.” Moll laughed. “’Tis fortunate you must drink this only once a day.”
The humor on Lady Haddon’s face faded. With a sigh, she touched the locket hanging about her neck to her lips, departing a reverent kiss.
‘Twas a telling gesture. “’Tis such a beautiful locket, my lady.”
An expression of pain flashed over Lady Haddon’s face. “I do believe I shall sleep, now, Moll,” she said with a yawn. “Until the morrow, then?”
Moll curtseyed.
With an absent smile, the woman waved to Bridgette for assistance as Moll took her leave, letting herself out of the room.
As the massive iron-studded door closed behind her, Moll expelled a breath. What would it take for Lady Haddon to trust her? To allow her to listen to her heart? ‘Twas clear the locket held a key to some secret pain, mayhap even the pain that stood at the root of her ills.
Slowly, Moll descended the keep’s winding stairs. Of all ills of the heart, those of sadness were the hardest to cure.
The moon inched above the castle walls as she exited the keep and crossed the grounds, hurrying toward the tower stairs leading to Taran’s bedchamber. Torches flickered in their iron brackets, sending shadows dancing across the cobblestones beneath her feet.
Had George found Taran? She’d sent the boy out with his potion, just before she’d left to deliver Lady Haddon’s. Had he drunk the brew?
A figure stepped out from the surrounding darkness. “Moll.”
Moll jerked.
‘Twas Euphemia, swathed in a blue velvet mantle caressing her statuesque form in elegant folds. She looked like a queen, so regal, powerful, but even in the dim torchlight, Moll could see her eyes were cold, detached, with all the warmth of a snake.
“My lady.” Moll dipped dutifully.
Euphemia sniffed in disdain. “Can ye not learn your place, Moll? ‘Strewth, be ye canna stay.”
Alarm gripped Moll. Her heart began to pound.
Euphemia stepped closer and lowered her voice, “Aye, I tolerated ye, out of the kindness of my heart and pity for the wee ones, but soon, I’ll be Taran’s wedded wife.
I’ll not have ye as a distraction.” Her hand snaked out and caught Moll by the arm.
“Know your place, or when I’m his wife, ye might just find yourself without a roof over your head where the winters are cold.
Aye?” She dug her fingers deep into Moll’s flesh.
With a twist of her arm, Moll wrenched herself free. Would Taran truly wed this harridan? ‘Twould be a match made in hell. Then remembering just how miserable Euphemia could make her life, she obediently lowered her chin.
“Aye,” the woman purred. “’Tis best ye hie yourself off. Your time with Taran is done.”
“Euphemia?” a voice called.
As Euphemia glanced over her shoulder, Moll used the distraction to escape.
With the woman blocking the tower door, she’d have to enter the tower from the wall above.
Picking up her skirts, she slipped behind the great hall and raced up the steps near the aviary. A guard nodded her way as she passed him on the wall. ‘Twas dark, but every line of his body had denoted respect. Mayhap, word of her efforts with Lady Haddon had spread.
With a quickened pace, she sprinted along the wall, half afraid Euphemia would be waiting for her at the top of the tower stairs.
She’d just entered the north tower, when someone moved in behind her.
Startled, she whirled.
A tall figure of a man stepped into the circle of light cast from the torch on the wall.
‘Twas Taran, his dark brows drawn into a scowl.
“And what was Euphemia torturing ye over, lass?” he asked, his eyes boring through hers.
He caught her hand in his, ‘twas a light touch, but one that strangely rendered her incapable of noticing anything but the heat of his fingers, so gently circling her wrist. If she stepped back, he would let her go, no doubt. She held her breath, powerless to move.
“Did George give you the brew?” she asked, her gaze snagging on the cleft in his chin and his strong jaw still so enticingly shadowed.
“Aye, I thank ye,” he murmured, still holding her hand. “Euphemia?”
“’Twas nothing,” she hedged, her heart again beating loudly in her ears. She didn’t want to think of the woman’s spite or the fact she might very well wed the man standing before her, so very close.
He seemed to mull this over, then slowly, let her hand slip free from his grasp.
Neither moved.
They stood so close. He seemed to be everywhere. Then he inhaled, drawing her gaze first to his pulse beating hard at the base of his throat, then up to his lips, so distinct, as if cut from stone. What would those lips be like, touching hers?
Almost as if summoned by her thoughts, his head began to drop.
Her mind went blank.