A Weakening of Resolve
Desire burned in Taran’s chest. God’s blood, he wanted to kiss the lass.
He wanted—nay, sore needed—to taste those lips.
He ached to pull that soft, warm body hard against his—king’s will be damned.
Moll stared up at him, her stunning eyes shimmering in the torchlight, the expression in them almost inviting. Mayhap ‘twas what he wished to see.
For a moment, his head dipped to live his desires, then, years of discipline gave him the strength to step back.
From where he’d lounged on the wall, he’d seen Euphemia accost Moll at the base of the tower. ‘Twas clear the woman was up to nothing good.
“Euphemia.” Her name alone brought the bitter taste of gall to his lips. “Dinna mind the woman.”
“I shan’t, my lord,” Moll assured with a polite nod.
With difficulty, he forced his feet away. There would be no sleeping in his chamber tonight, not with knowing she lay but a few mere steps away.
Bitterly, he walked the walls. He’d served the king’s will and placed his clan above his own his entire life. ‘Twas for the greater good…but now?
Must he give up his very soul?
* * *
As the dawn touched the surrounding hills with a soft pink light, Taran rose, stiff and sore, from his makeshift pallet on the guardroom floor.
He’d found little sleep. He couldn’t place the blame on the occasional guard that had eyed him in curiosity as they’d passed through during the night.
Nor could he fault his injuries. They ached still, though surprisingly far less than he’d expected.
Nay, there was only one cause, a particularly bonny lass with stunning eyes. Their encounter in the laundry played through his mind, again and again. Aye, he’d been outright amused at her reaction upon seeing him naked, but when she’d laid her ear to his chest…
Clearing his throat, he quit the guard chamber.
The morning meal had nearly finished by the time he strode into the great hall, and he’d scarcely ducked under the door than Charlotte was there to greet him.
“Good morning, Athair.” A smile lit her young face, aye, she was fair grinning from ear-to-ear at the mere sight of him.
He felt the corner of his lip curl in response.
“How do you feel? Did you drink Moll’s brew?” she asked, her eyes clouding with genuine concern.
He reached over and tousled her head. He couldn’t have the wee thing fretting over naught. “I’ve suffered far worse, lassie. ‘Tis of no concern.”
A sigh of relief escaped her lips and she leaned to rest her cheek against his arm. “’Tis well,” she murmured. Then, speaking slower, added, “Ye should rest well, Athair. Dinna practice, aye?”
Taran chuckled. ‘Twas endearing, truly, the way she sought to mimic him.
Then, he spied Moll, sitting at the table with Wee Jack at her side. His gaze trailed over her appreciatively. Somehow, she looked even bonnier in her rose-and-gold gown than she had the day before.
“Off with ye, now, lassie,” Taran murmured, patting Charlotte again on the head.
She skipped ahead of him, leading the way.
“My lord.” Moll moved as if to rise.
He dropped a staying hand on her shoulder, letting his fingers brush the bare skin of her neck. “Taran,” he murmured into her ear. ‘Twas such a delicate ear, one that begged a nibble. Then, recalling what he’d begun to say, finished, “I beg ye, call me ‘Taran’, lass.”
The slender shoulder beneath his fingers tensed.
“Athair, I saved ye porridge,” Charlotte piped as she shoved a bowl across the table.
“I thank ye, lassie.” With care, he arranged himself on the bench.
“’Tis time to take Wee Jack to the others now, Charlotte,” Moll said with a firm nod.
For a moment, Charlotte appeared as if she would object, but then thinking better, rose to her feet instead. “I must leave now, Athair, but I’ll be back.”
“Aye,” was all he said.
The lassie had barely gone when Moll stirred at his side. “Athair?” she queried. “Charlotte believes the word means ‘father’.”
Taran drew a sharp breath. “Aye.”
“Aye?”
Taran arched a brow and faced her. As he watched, she pursed her lips. How he itched to trace his thumb over that soft, pink lip, aye, then slide his finger inside. A flash of hot desire burned through him like fire.
“My lord?” Moll’s face had knit into a puzzled scowl.
“Taran,” he repeated again, his voice sounding gruff even to his own ears.
Was that a faint blush of pink dusting her cheeks? The sight strangely lightened his heart.
She swallowed, and then drew a deep breath. “I fear she believes you are, truly her father.”
The words anchored him back to the matter at hand. ‘Twas time, then, to clear the misunderstanding. “Did ye tell her otherwise?” Something about the wee lass tugged at his heart.
“I will,” Moll answered at once. “I merely sought to understand, first, why you…might have said such a thing?”
The lassie was so vulnerable. Such news would devastate her, undoubtedly. “Where’s the harm?” he shrugged. “She’ll become disenchanted soon enough. ’Twould be kinder to tell her then.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She will,” he assured.
His response perplexed her—as well as himself. Frown lines deepened between her brows.
Then, he was no longer paying heed to the conversation.
How could he when, again, he caught sight of the edge of her shift peeking so tantalizingly beneath her collar?
Ach, he wanted to bed the lass, ‘twas clear, and most definitely, more than once.
With a firebrand like Moll, would take many times to sate the need she aroused in him.
Abruptly, he swung his legs off the bench. “If ye’ll excuse me, lass.”
He’d interrupted her, he was sure, but to save his life, he hadn’t a clue of what she’d been speaking about.
He stalked away.
* * *
‘Twas several days later when the sound of a trumpet sounded from the gates. Taran was there before the rest, eyeing the messenger astride his gray gelding, his arms resting loosely on his knees.
“Tidings?” he called down to the man. “Of the queen?”
The man lifted his head, pulling the reins as his horse shifted and stamped nervously beneath him. “Nay, my lord,” he raised his voice in reply.
“The plague?” Lord Haddon’s voice boomed by Taran’s side.
“My lord,” the messenger shouted his greeting back. “The plague still ravages Birmingham, my lord.”
Lord Haddon expelled a loud breath. “No further north?”
“Nay, my lord.”
“Then, go. Return in a week,” Lord Haddon ordered, dismissing him with a curt wave of his hand.
The messenger wheeled his horse and galloped away.
Taran watched the man disappear around the bend in the road. There was little hope now of his own messenger returning. He could only hope the man had, indeed, escaped to France and wasn’t hanging from a gibbet by the queen’s gates.
“MacKenzie,” Lord Haddon grunted, acknowledging him at the same time as bidding him farewell.
Taran didn’t reply.
He resumed his walk on the wall, the wind pulling at his hair only served as a reminder he was not free but still trapped. He clamped his jaw, his sympathy for caged birds only increasing.
As the sun climbed the sky, he joined the others gathered on the wall above the courtyard where his men trained.
Even though he was healing remarkably well, he was still a week away from joining them.
As the crowds cheered and the buzz of voices followed as new bets were laid, he spied two familiar red heads bobbing through the crowd below.
‘Twas George and Francis.
Taran arched a suspicious brow. They moved, almost as if in a pattern…was one providing distractions for the other? As he watched, Francis slipped behind Sean the Iron Fist, a burly, pock-faced MacKenzie clansman with a particularly foul temper.
Suddenly, the man whirled, and his angry voice rose above the surrounding din, “Show me your hand, lad, afore I chop it off.”
The hum of voices died in an instant.
Taran straightened.
There was a scuffle, a short-lived one. Then, Doughall emerged, his gray braids swinging from side-to-side as he shoved George before him with one meaty hand and with the other, pulled Francis by the ear.
“My lord,” several MacKenzie clansmen called.
All eyes turned to where he stood on the wall. Taran nodded his chin at the great hall. Once. As his men bundled the twins through the crowd, the onlookers around him parted, opening a path to the stairs leading below.
Taran locked his jaw and descended, keenly aware of the calls of ‘thief’ and ‘pickpocket’ swirling around him. Just what had the foolish lads done? Why? Did they not know the danger?
As he strode toward the hall, a procession of onlookers formed behind him.
“My lord,” Sean the Iron Fist growled as Taran arrived.
George and Francis stood by the high table, surrounded by a mix of clansmen and guards as curious castle residents streamed in through the doors at the opposite end of the hall.
“Caught him with his thieving hand in my pocket, my lord.” Sean pointed an accusatory finger straight at Francis.
Francis raised his chin and boldly met Taran’s eyes. George stared straight ahead, straight-backed and stoic.
At Taran’s left, the crowd suddenly parted and Moll rushed forward, her face lily-white.
“Found this under the lad’s shirt,” a bulbous-nosed man standing next to George said, holding up a leather bag, plump and full.
There wasn’t a sound to be heard as he loosened the drawstrings and shook the bag over the table. A jumble of brass hinges, silver rings, along with a small silver spoon tumbled out.
“Why?” Moll gasped, stricken.
Immediately, the eyes of the crowd locked onto her.
“What’s this?” Lord Haddon’s voice boomed as he entered. “Thievery?”
Taran skewered the lads with a look. ‘Twas fortunate they’d only victimized MacKenzie clansmen.
“My lord—” Moll began in a strangled voice.
Taran stepped forward and gave her arm a gentle squeeze as he raised his voice over hers.
“’Twas an ill-thought jest, Haddon. A foolish prank the lads played on my men.
Nothing more.” He’d deal with the twins later—a proper punishment to set them on a straight path, a path that would keep them there.