Heather House Witch of Threadneedle Street
Taran drew his dark brows into a scathing line of disgust.
Would the torture never end?
Adjusting his Mackenzie plaid over his broad shoulders, he strode out of Haddon Hall’s gates and towards the stables in search of privacy.
Somewhere. Anywhere. Far away from the shrill, nagging voices of Euphemia Hay and Anne Maxwell—and the snide remarks of their overbearing fathers as well. King’s pawns. The lot of them.
He’d not tie the good name of Mackenzie to one of their ilk. And while ‘twas true that love wasn’t required in a marriage, peace of mind was. He’d willingly tie an anchor around his neck and jump into the nearest loch before he found himself wed to either one of the shrewish lasses.
Euphemia’s voice called his name from the lower courtyard behind him.
He quickened his stride. The wind rustled the leaves, sending a flurry of fall colors swirling around his booted feet as he broke into a half-run and ducked inside the stables.
Peace. At last. He took a deep breath, welcoming the familiar scent of horse and manure.
Aye, he much preferred it to the cloying aroma of Anne’s perfume.
Horses whickered softly as he passed through the stables and out the other end to a line of carriages and carts.
Stalking to the nearest carriage, he slid inside and sprawled back on the plush velvet seat with a loud, long sigh.
If only he could saddle his horse and gallop back to the highlands. A pox on the king and his silver!
Settling his lips in a grim line, he closed his eyes. His heart ached for the highlands—and his ears and eyes desired to hear and see anything but Euphemia Hay and Anne Maxwell.
Gradually, he grew aware of soft voices.
Feminine.
Alarmed, he lifted his head and, dropping to his feet with the silent grace of a cat, peered through the narrow open crack of the carriage door.
At first, nothing appeared in the thin slit of his view. Then a young girl moved to lean against the stable wall almost directly in front of him, her dark brown hair bound in two braids and her homespun gown patched at the knee.
“Do ye miss him, Moll?” the girl asked, hugging a pillow to her thin chest.
“Who?” a strong voice asked from close by.
A moment later, a slim, shapely woman wearing a worn scarlet gown joined her, tucking long, honey-colored tresses into a simple net on her head.
“Your husband,” the young girl holding the pillow replied. “Do ye miss him, Moll?”
Moll snorted and placed her hands on her hips. “Not one whit, Charlotte. I’d miss a cutpurse on the street afore I’d pine over the loss of that pig. He was the cruellest man to walk Threadneedle Street. ‘Twas a happy day when I became a widow.”
Taran’s brow arched in surprise.
Charlotte appeared taken aback.
Reaching over to chuck the girl under the chin, Moll laughed. “Nay, love, my heart doesn’t ache, nor does loss grip my soul. You listen overly much to love poems. Love is the last thing required in a marriage and don’t fool yourself thinking otherwise.”
The words fully arrested Taran’s attention and the corner of his lip quirked in admiration.
Tilting his head, he subjected the young widow to a deeper inspection, receiving a fleeting impression of a heart-shaped chin and a pert, upturned nose before she turned her back to him and held out her hand.
“Now, Charlotte,” Moll said. “Hand me that pillow.”
“But what of true love?” the young Charlotte insisted, giving her the pillow as requested.
The next moment, Moll lifted her skirts, startling him with an unimpeded and tempting view of slender thighs and shapely hips. His lip curved in devilish amusement.
Positioning the pillow over her stomach, the young widow began anchoring it with strips of material and gave another laugh. “Love is a myth, concocted to fool young dew-eyed maids into an old man’s bed, love.”
“And did your husband fool you?” Charlotte prodded.
Moll paused a moment and shot her a querulous glance.
“And what is this interest in marriage, Charlotte? ‘Tis naught be misery. If you must know, I had no say in the matter. ‘Twas the way my father settled his debts. Thomas was an old man, near fifty with rotten teeth, a foul temper, and he stank like the pig he was. ‘Twas nigh a year of hell. When he wasn’t bedding me, he was beating me with a stick. I’ll never wed again nor will I listen to any man. They’re fools and, Sweet Mary, they stink. They just want a full stomach and a woman in their bed. And when they have had a bad day, one to beat as well. Heaven help me, the day he died, I fell on my knees in thanks.”
Dead silence met the end of her heartfelt speech, and Taran eyed her with a deepening curiosity, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side.
It was almost a full minute before Charlotte muttered, half in disbelief and half in dismay, “Sounds nothing like the tales of love. Surely, not all men are so evil? Some are exceedingly handsome and they don’t smell.”
Moll snorted again, turning her attention back to the pillow perched on her stomach.
“Then you didn’t get close enough, love,” she grunted.
“Nay, my widow’s garments suit me fine. I’ve the lot of you to warm my heart now.
What need do I have of a foolish man? We’ll find ourselves an abandoned house, grow a garden, and steal some pigs.
” The pillow she’d strapped to her waist suddenly slipped. “A pox on this pillow!” she swore.
As she gave a few other choice curses, Taran suppressed a chuckle, allowing his eyes to rove appreciatively over her lithe, winsome figure.
“There,” Moll said at last, dropping skirts to smooth the lump with a pleased expression. “I’m a respectable widow with children and expecting another. Who can refuse us a bite to eat? Fetch Samuel now.”
Charlotte moved to crouch by a cart and held out her hand. “Come, Samuel, be quick.”
Almost at once, a small boy with a shock of red hair slithered out to grab her fingers.
“Come, come,” Moll shooed them forward. “’Tis time to eat now.”
They’d no sooner disappeared around the corner of the stables than Taran found himself sprinting after them, keeping out of view. Something about Moll caught his fancy, something more than the sway of her hips as she made for Haddon Hall’s open gates.
She didn’t get far.
“Halt!” a watchman cried.
Moll lifted her head to greet him, but froze as another man joined him, blocking her path with lowered spears.
“And what’s this?” she asked, throwing protective arms in front of the children.
Surprised at the men’s response, Taran moved to intervene, but Lord Mannors suddenly stepped into view. The man was leery, on edge, and his manner gave Taran pause. Something dire must have happened at Haddon Hall in the very short time he’d been away.
“What have we here?” the lord of Haddon Hall queried, nostrils flaring. “Where have you come from, woman? To what purpose?”
Startled, Moll dropped into a deep curtsey with young Charlotte doing the same. Frightened, the little boy darted behind their skirts.
“Speak, woman, or I’ll have your head!” Lord Mannors thundered.
“If our good Queen Elizabeth hangs a noble for daring to ride near her castle in these plague-stricken times, I’ll not hesitate to do the same for Haddon Hall with a mere peasant walking up to the very gates.
If you have no good cause to be here, I’ll hang you this very moment as a warning to the rest.”
Moll froze.
Taran’s dark brows leapt in surprise. If he knew one thing of Lord Mannors, ‘twas the man never jested. Breaking his cover, he strode forward, intent on lending the young widow aid, but he caught sight of Lord Maxwell hurrying their way, and a devious idea flashed across his mind. Ach, why hadn’t he thought of conjuring a pregnant lover sooner?
Stepping up behind the young widow, he slid his arm around her waist. “There ye are, my love,” he said, giving the pillow hidden under her dress a firm tug of warning to play along. “I told ye to rest, for the bairn’s sake.”
She went rigid.
Taran quite enjoyed the lift of Lord Maxwell’s shocked brow as he arrived. Aye, and the purple shade of his skin. Euphemia was as good as gone from his life. He wondered if he could pay the young widow a silver coin to stick around long enough to do the same with Anne.
Moll regained her composure quickly. Twisting in his arms, she lifted her face to peer at him from under a long sweep of sooty lashes. “I couldn’t wait, my love. The children missed you.”
Flawless.
Taran stared down at a lass of rare beauty. From her creamy complexion, to the full, pouting lips of a rosebud mouth, and to the honey-shaded curl escaping her hairnet, looping around a delicate ear that invited a nibble—nay, a bite. Flawless, exquisite even.
“Get your woman inside then,” Lord Manners ordered harshly. “And make haste. I’m but waiting for Lord Rhys to return afore I seal the gates.”
Alarm flashed over Moll’s face, but she masked it well. Reaching up to pat both of his cheeks, she inserted, “We must be quick and fetch the other children, my love.”
“Others?” Lord Maxwell asked hoarsely.
“Aye,” she obliged the man with a bright smile. “I’ve brought all eight.”
The man blinked.
Taran did as well. Gritting his teeth into a smile, he glowered down at her in surprise. “Aye, and what did ye say, my sweeting?”
Dimly, he heard Lord Manners barking in the background, “Make haste. None will be allowed to enter once I seal the gates until the threat of the Black Death has passed. ‘Twill be at least a month, if not more.”
Moll lifted her lashes fully, and for the first time, Taran saw her eyes. Unusual eyes. Gray circled the pupil, followed by a warm gold with an outer ring of green.
“Eight, my love,” she repeated, still smiling even as her eyes hardened, taking his measure.
At the cool, calculation of her look, a bolt of lust slammed into him without warning, threatening to pull a growl from deep within his chest. Aye, the lass clearly possessed the cunning of a fox and the body of a vixen.
What man wouldn’t mind playing her game—even if the thought of eight children made him wince.
He met her gaze boldly, lifting a cool brow of his own. “Aye,” was all he said.
To be continued ...