The Wheels of Fate
So. This was Eldric. Thomas. The tailor of Thread Needle Street. The thought of Moll suffering under his hand made Taran’s rage burn. What father would willingly wed his daughter to such a man? Such a man had no place touching Moll. By God, he’d see justice done.
The man stunk. His flesh hung off his bones, the lack of muscle announcing him a creature who avoided an honest day’s work. He grinned at Taran, nervously, and with the demeanor of a coward as he groveled on the laundry floor.
The image of Moll’s bloodied lip and the despair on her bonny face arced across Taran’s mind. Anger rose like bile in his throat.
“Up, ye coward,” he spat, grabbing the tailor by the collar and bodily hefting him to his feet.
“My lord,” Thomas squealed.
A wave of stench—swine, vomit, and spirits—rolled over Taran’s face.
‘Twas the last straw. He’d spent the better part of an hour hunting the man down.
They’d only stumbled upon his hiding place by accident.
He’d hidden in a cupboard with a bottle of wine.
They’d only discovered him when he escaped to filch another.
Now, ‘twas time he talked. No doubt, silver would convince him readily enough to agree to an annulment but rewarding the man with silver simply seemed wrong after the torture he’d so clearly inflicted on the lass.
Taran’s fingers tightened of their own accord.
Was it the shadows cast about the room or had the grizzled tailor’s face darkened to a deep purple?
“Ye’d best let him breathe, lad, unless, ye mean to finish him off,” Doughall murmured from where he leaned against the laundry table, his arms loosely folded across his bear of a chest. “Though, from what I’ve heard, ‘twould be a service to mankind, I assure ye.”
Through a sheer act of will, Taran forced his fingers to relax, enough to let the man take a strangled gasp of air. ‘Twas time to finish the matter. He’d spent only minutes in the man’s company and couldn’t tolerate a moment more.
“I know who ye are—” Taran began.
The door bounced off the limewashed-wall as the captain of the queen’s guard and two of his men strode into the room, their armor jingling as their boots struck the floor.
“Eldric?” the captain snapped.
“Aye,” Doughall answered upon the tailor’s behalf.
“Take him.” The captain nodded at his men.
Taran narrowed his eyes as the men lunged forward, each to grab the tailor by an arm.
“Why?” Doughall heaved off the table, his gray braids swinging to his waist.
“He’s an imposter,” came the man’s clipped reply. “If the rumors are true, he’ll be swinging from the gibbet before morning.”
Alarm ripped through Taran.
“My lord?” the captain turned to him. “What business do you have with the man?”
Taran cocked a brow. He owed the man no explanation. “Take him if ye will.”
The captain shot him a look but bowed. ‘Twas clear he knew better than to press the matter further. “If you’ll excuse us.”
He strode out the door and his men followed, taking the tailor with them.
“Seems the man will hang either way,” Doughall grunted when they’d gone. “The queen’s captain has been itching to use his fine gallows since the moment he had them built.”
‘Twas exactly what Taran feared. Let the tailor meet his own fate, he didn’t care a whit—as long as he didn’t drag Moll down with him.
Taran ground his teeth. How quickly the world had changed.
There would be no long, boring winter within Haddon Hall’s walls.
The castle was no longer a cage but a trap, and a trap he had to escape before its iron jaws closed tight.
They had to leave. He couldn’t wait until the queen chose to let those within free as she most likely would within days. With the tailor likely squealing already, every hour counted.
All that mattered was that they left. ‘Twould result in a scandal, of course…not that he cared. The king would likely brand him an outlaw when he got wind of the matter. The clan? He drew a sharp breath. Aye, they’d choose his cousin to succeed him.
He bowed his head. ‘Twould only be fitting when he’d placed his own welfare above theirs.
“My lord?” Doughall’s deep voice queried.
Opening his eyes, he met Doughall’s questioning gaze with a cool, steady one of his own. “Follow Eldric,” he ordered curtly. “See he doesna speak of Moll.”
The Highlander cocked a brow. “And why would he now?”
Taran shrugged. The less the man knew, the better. As a clan elder and one of the most influential, he couldn’t ruin Doughall’s standing by dragging him into this particular affair.
“Aye then,” Doughall muttered, then paused and said, “I trust ye well enough, lad.”
Taran left the laundry. Four queen’s men now protected the postern gate instead of Lord Haddon’s usual two. ‘Twas impossible to take out four men by himself, silently and all at once. He’d have to find another way.
Gritting his teeth, he sprinted to the north tower and headed up the steps.
Once outside the gates, he’d need horses, saddled ones, in order to make good his escape.
But the children? ‘Twas unlikely they knew how to ride…and even if they did, wee Charlotte’s delicate health only complicated the entire affair.
Taran paused before his bedchamber and rested his forehead against the door.
‘Twas impossible. There was no escape, at least, not so quick a one. Yet, what choice did he have? With Queen Elizabeth, he had no power. The risks were far, far too great. If she chose to hang Moll…he couldn’t finish the thought.
Charlotte looked up with a grin as he stepped inside the room. ‘Twas a sight to see and one that warmed his soul, and for a blessed moment, he simply let himself enjoy the wee lassie’s delight.
“Athair!” She held out her small hands. “I’ve missed ye so.”
“And I, ye.” He smiled and then glanced at the children arranged in various locations around the chamber. “Where’s Moll?”
“She’s with Lady Haddon,” Francis replied from his post near the window.
Taran drew his brows into a line. Again? Or had she never returned? A new complication was the last thing he needed. Wishing to avoid upsetting the younger children, he nodded at the door and murmured to the twins, “Lads, follow me, will ye?”
“We’re leaving,” he announced the instant the door clicked shut behind them.
The twin’s eyes glittered in the dim light of the corridor as their chins snapped up, alert.
“’Tis Thomas.” ‘Twas difficult to even say the name. “He’s here.”
“Thomas?” George repeated.
“Not the tailor?” Francis asked, astonished. “But he’s dead.”
Taran gave a harsh laugh. “Nay, he’s not, and now he’s been deemed an imposter. No doubt, he’s squealing like a pig already—”
“Has he seen Moll?” Francis cut in, alarmed.
At Taran’s nod, both lads hissed. “We’ve got to leave. Now. Afore he unleashes them on us all.”
“Does he know ye lads, too?” Taran’s heart sank.
George’s face darkened. “Only too well.”
“I’ll ready the others,” Francis offered. “We’ve got to run. We can distract the guards—”
“No, ‘tis Moll,” George interrupted quickly. “She can brew a potion to set the men to sleep. She’s sold them in the market afore.”
‘Twas an interesting thought and one that just might make the entire plan feasible. “I’ll fetch Moll,” Taran said, then pointed to the door. “Ready the wee ones and wait.”
As the lads hurried back into the room, Taran took off at a run.
He’d just entered the keep when he spied Lady Haddon emerging from the stairs with her maid, Bridgette, at her side. He could only stare in wonder. ‘Twas a miracle. Color bloomed on her face and there was a spring in her step as she held out her hands in greeting.
“Taran. ’Tis wonderful to see you.”
“’Tis a delight to see ye so hale and hearty, my lady,” Taran bowed over her hand.
Lady Haddon squeezed his fingers. “I’ve only Moll to thank. She’s a miracle.”
Taran cast a curious glance at the empty hall stretching behind her. “I’ve come to fetch her.”
“Fetch her?” Lady Haddon’s eyes widened in concern. “She isn’t here. She left some time ago.”
Biting back a curse, Taran wheeled and sprinted out the door. What had the tailor done? The thought Moll might be lying somewhere, hurt and in need of aid, lent an extra urgency to his step.
After dispatching several of his men to begin the search, he ducked into the laundry, but finding it empty, headed to the great hall next.
The feast had already begun. Voices buzzed.
Servants scurried to and fro. Taran scanned the faces gathered within, but Moll wasn’t there.
At the high table, Queen Elizabeth sat with Lord Haddon on her right and Lady Haddon on her left.
At the end of the table, Euphemia sat next to an empty chair.
The chair was, no doubt, reserved for himself.
‘Twas ludicrous she’d expected him to sit by her side and share a meal.
Euphemia’s eyes followed his every move as he strode down the length of the hall. He didn’t care. He’d hardly scurry to her side. Reaching the far end with no sight of Moll, he turned and surveyed the place in one last look.
‘Twas then he noticed Euphemia, watching him with a smirk. Irritated, he gritted his teeth and strode out of the hall.
An hour passed, and then another.
He paced the walls, waiting for word from his men while still continuing his own search, but he cast an uneasy eye at the gallows. ‘Twas with relief he spied them each time, empty, silent, in the dark winter night air.
As the clouds parted and a pale waxing crescent moon rose in the sky, a heaviness grew deep inside Taran’s chest. Something ill had befallen the lass. ‘Twas clear…but what? At times, his clansmen passed him on the wall. The message was short. She had yet to be found.
He should have throttled the tailor while he’d had the chance, to wring what had become of Moll and afore he could talk even more.
Frustrated, he averted his gaze into the inky night. What ill had befallen the lass? He relived their last encounter, again and again. If only he’d stayed a wee bit longer…but what was the use of thinking such things now?
He passed his hands over his face, again, searching the great hall in his mind’s eye. She hadn’t set foot in the place. The queen’s folk had taken the table she’d usually sat at with the children. He sifted through his memories…then tensed.
Euphemia’s smirk.
‘Twas a smirk that meant something. He was sure of it. His blood began to boil.
“My lord?” a clansman called as he sprinted past him.
Taran didn’t stop.
The door to Euphemia’s chamber opened on the second volley of the assault. The moment the latch lifted, he knocked back the door and was through, striding across the darkened room to the bedchamber beyond, astonished women darting out of his path like frightened rabbits.
Euphemia lay already in bed.
In three strides, he was by her side. He yanked the covers straight off and grabbed her shift to lift her half off the bed.
“My lord,” she squeaked, her eyes wide.
Taran brought her face to his, so close, their noses nearly touched. “Where is she?” he whispered, his voice low and with a calm that belied the turmoil burning within.
Euphemia’s lashes fluttered, “Who?”
He arched a silent brow.
Anger leapt into her eyes. “She’ll stay unharmed if ye do your duty.”
Relief coursed through him at the words ‘stay unharmed’, but then the temptation to wring Euphemia’s scrawny neck nearly overwhelmed him. “Duty?”
Euphemia’s lashes swept down over her eyes. “Bed me. Make me yours,” she breathed the words more than said them. Her hand dropped to his groin.
He stared at her, repulsed. Was there no limit to how far she would go to attain what she wished?
“I’ll never bed ye.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “The thought alone summons bile to my throat.” He clamped his hand over hers, allowing his shriveled manhood to underscore that fact. Then, disgusted with her fingers closing around him, he caught her wrist in a vicelike grip and squeezed.
She gasped and let go.
“Nay, lass, ye dinna know just who ye’ve chosen to make an enemy,” he informed her softly. “I dinna need your father’s influence at court. If ye dinna do as I say, by the time I’ve finished, there’s not a man in Scotland, England, or the continent, as well, who will come within a mile of ye.”
Even in the dim light, he could see her pupils widen.
“Aye,” he said when it was clear she would say no more. “’Tis heartening to see we’ve reached an understanding. Tell me, what have ye done with Moll. Where is she?”
She swallowed, and in the profound silence, he could hear every muscle of her throat work.
Then, her shoulders sagged. “In the chapel.”
Taran frowned, puzzled. His men had searched the chapel. He had himself. Several times. “Where?”
Looking like the angry venomous snake she was, she spat, “There’s a priest hole, behind the alter. ‘Tis an iron ring on the floor.”
He dropped her like a hot coal. “Never let me lay eyes on ye again.”
He strode toward the door, pausing only long enough to shove her chair back with his foot, and then he left the room.
Outside the ancient chapel next to the aviary, he grabbed a torch from the wall. Then, he was inside, running to the alter. He knocked the fat wax candle off the iron stand and jammed the torch in its place as he scanned the floor for the priest hole ring.
He found it, between the alter and the wall.
‘Twas much smaller than he’d expected, and the stone covering difficult to move.
His muscles strained, and he gritted his teeth, pulling hard until finally, with a sound of rock grating on rock, he shifted the stone, then sat back and shoved it aside with his feet.
“Moll! Lass! Moll!”
Silence met his call, then, a voice sweeter than heaven rasped, “Taran? Is that you?”