By the King’s Command
By the King’s Command
Cold anger swept through Taran as he broke the red wax seal. As Euphemia’s simpering tones faded into the background, the words leapt from the page, words he’d never expected the king to pen. “We have decided,” “Delay no longer,” “Take Euphemia Hay to wife,” followed by “This is our command”.
Wed Euphemia? By command? Hellfire and damnation, she must have had a hand in the matter—mayhap even two. ‘Twas not how alliances were created. He’d have none of it.
Still standing next to the fireplace in the great hall, he read the letter again, stunned into silence.
“’Tis wondrous tidings,” Euphemia purred.
Taran lifted his head.
Moll hadn’t followed them. He had a dim recollection of her honey-blonde head vanishing into the tower as Euphemia had spewed the fateful words of ‘we are to be wed’.
A hand touched his arm. Euphemia’s. The sight of her fingers brought a shudder of revulsion.
Irritated, he brushed her hand away.
From birth, he’d been reared to place the welfare of the clan above all else.
He’d never failed in that. But now? He’d much rather cast a millstone about his neck and jump in the nearest loch.
He’d not let the Hay clan force their way into his house.
He knew the MacKenzies would support him in that, at least.
“MacKenzie.”
‘Twas Lord Hay, bearing down upon him like an angry bullock.
“Father,” Euphemia greeted, curtseying low.
The man ignored her to look straight at Taran,
“Ye’ve insulted my daughter enough, MacKenzie,” Lord Hay accused, his face a dark red. “You’re betrothed to my daughter now, and now, I’ll see her treated with respect. From this moment forward, ye’ll turn out that whore and those bast—”
Taran stopped him with a brow. “Have a care.”
The muscle on Lord Hay’s jaw twitched. “Ye’ll wed my daughter, as the king commands.”
Taran folded his arms as a bitter anger began to burn. He’d never wed the spiteful shrew, and as for the king and his decree?
Locking his gaze with Lord Hay, he crumpled the king’s letter and tossed it into the fire.
Euphemia gasped as the flames caught hold.
He didn’t care. He owed them no further explanation. He wasn’t their puppet on a string.
Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and strode away.
* * *
Taran pondered the empty parchment. He’d burnt the first missive he’d penned to the king.
While he’d found the authoring quite freeing, calling His Majesty a “spineless scut”, “a shiftless will-o-the-wisp in the wind,” and a “bumbling moldwarp with the courage of a mouse, unable to stand against even a witless fool” would only prolong—and unnecessarily—complicate the issue.
He’d wait until he’d resolved the matter, then have his say.
Nay, ‘twas far more expedient to simply inform His Majesty that he would forge his own clan alliances. He eyed the letter he’d already written to his father.
Even his father’s reaction didn’t concern him.
His father would support the will of the clan…
and that was the heart of the matter. The clan concerned Taran the most. ‘Twas their livelihood, safety, and future at stake—the blood of their sons.
He bowed his head. If only he could choose his own wife, based on her merit, a strong-hearted lass who could inspire, a lass who could lead the clan in his absence, and a lass they could fall in love with…as he could, himself.
He reached for the bottle of whisky and tipped another mouthful, and then, picked up the quill again.
“Athair? Are ye coming to bed? ‘Tis late, Athair.”
Taran glanced over to see Charlotte standing at the end of the table, her small hands clenched into fists.
The wee lass tried so hard to mimic him.
He owed her the truth. Yet, from her furtive manner and pinched face, ‘twas clear she’d heard the rumors circling of the king’s decree.
‘Twas clearly too cruel to shock the lassie again.
“I am not yet weary, lassie.”
Charlotte bit her lip, and then hopped onto the bench by his side, still wary and pensive. “I’ll keep ye company.”
Taran reached over and tousled her head.
“Charlotte,” Moll’s voice slipped through the hall.
She stood only a table away, her face stoic, emotionless as she refused to meet his eyes. By God, what had he done? He should never have kissed her. She’d taken the first step of trust…and now? What could he offer her?
The quill snapped in his hand.
“Are ye coming to bed, Athair?” Charlotte whispered, poised to leave.
He cleared his throat.
“Come, Charlotte,” Moll said firmly, holding out her hand.
Still, she refused to look at him as Charlotte scampered to her side, and then, they were both turning to scurry away.
Grimly, he watched them go. A lone wolf? Hardly. Now, he felt like an outcast, shunned from the pack.
Time passed.
At the midnight hour, he gave up all pretense of writing and strode to the walls for a breath of air.
The hours marched on.
‘Twas a cold, miserable night, yet he couldn’t rest. He wandered the walls under the bright stars in the vast night sky above, the expanse offering only an illusion of freedom. Now, Haddon Hall felt more like a trap than a cage.
At last, the sun rose over the rolling hills and the castle stirred to life.
When the morning bells rang to announce the morning meal, he merely yawned and leaned against the wall.
His appetite had shriveled away. ‘Twas only when he spied Euphemia grandly sweeping through the great hall doors, and then, a moment later, Moll exiting the North Tower with the children in tow that he roused himself.
He couldn’t let Moll walk straight into the viper’s nest.
Euphemia’s voice was hard to miss. He heard her the moment he ducked under the hall door, speaking in earnest with her maid.
“Send them to the kitchens. I willna see her in the company of her betters.” There was little doubt of whom Euphemia spoke. She stood next to the high table, shimmering in a forest-green silk gown and with every strand of her blonde hair carefully coiled.
No doubt, she considered herself a bonny lass, but he saw only a shrew.
“As for where she sleeps?” She tapped her chin. “Aye, the storerooms, or better yet, the laundry. Remove her, forthwith—”
“Nay,” Taran clipped the word.
The maid saw him first. She winced and cringed as Euphemia jerked, then faced him.
“My lord.” Only the flutter of her lashes betrayed her displeasure. “’Tis a pleasure to have ye join me here.” She waved her hand at the high table.
“Ye’ll leave Moll be,” Taran said, driving straight to the matter at hand. He cocked a brow at the maid and then Euphemia. “And that goes for ye, as well.”
The maid curtseyed and turned away, stumbling in her haste to leave.
“My lord—” Euphemia began.
Taran cut her short. “Dinna try me.”
‘Twas chilling how well she concealed her anger. Her smile remained unchanged, but he caught the subtle trembling of her chin before she fluttered her lashes and regained complete control. “I know ye were fair dazed last night, but ‘tis the king’s will. This marriage will happen, my lord.”
“Nay, ‘twill not. I promise ye.”
A look of alarm flashed across her face. She didn’t stop him as he spun on his heel to leave. He strode toward the table he’d so often shared with Moll, but while the children sat on the benches with their bowls of porridge, Moll did not.
“She’s in the laundry, Athair,” Charlotte whispered as he arrived.
Taran paused a moment, struck by the dark circles under the wee lassie’s eyes. ‘Twas clear she hadn’t slept a wink, as well. “After ye eat, get some sleep, lassie, aye?”
“Aye, Athair,” she replied with a nod.
He gave her a sympathetic pat on the head and then stalked away.
Moments later, he paused on the threshold of the laundry room door.
Moll sat on a stool with her back to him, picking through a pile of lichen on the table.
Slowly, he leaned against the doorjamb and took his fill of her curves, from the elegant arch of her neck to the pleasing flare of her hips. His body stirred. He wanted her, but now she was denied him, he wanted her even more.
Almost as if sensing his bold inspection, Moll suddenly glanced over her shoulder, then froze, her eyes wide.
With his gaze never wavering from hers, he straightened and entered the room.
It wasn’t until he’d reached her side that she moved, as if suddenly released from a spell.
“Your shoulder?” she asked, slipping off the stool.
“Astonishingly well,” he answered as he flexed his arm. “Never have I healed so quickly.”
She smiled, but then turned back to the pile of lichen. “You should rest, my lord.”
He hadn’t realized he’d kept moving until he felt his hands on her hips. He needed to touch her. Hold her.
“Euphemia—” she whispered, turning rigid beneath his fingers.
“God’s blood, dinna say her name.” Taran swore under his breath.
He knew he should leave, that he had no business being there, but the heady fragrance of her hair and the softness of her hips proved too much of a temptation to resist. With a need that bordered on desperation, his lips found hers.