Page 10 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Moll sighed. “We can only hope.”

Overcome with the exhaustion of the past week, she closed her eyes and rested her head upon her arms.

The minutes passed, the crackling of the fire and the occasional creak of the bench were the only sounds to be heard.

The doors under the minstrels’ galley opened and Taran returned, followed by a birdlike-woman balancing a large wicker basket on each bony hip.

“’Twill be the evening meal soon enough,” she grumbled as she arrived. “Here’s a bite to tide you over.” She dropped the baskets on the table with a thud that set their contents rattling, and then, with a grim twist of her lips that might have been a smile, she dusted her hands off and left.

The children lunged, but Moll stopped them with a single clap of her hands. “Wait your turn, poppets,” she reprimanded with a stern look. “Remember our family rule? It’s share and share alike. Take your seats and sit on your fingers to keep them out of mischief.” She waited until they obeyed, then nodded at George and Francis. “Please, serve the food.”

The children watched, eagerly, as Francis removed earthen mugs and a jug of ale from one of the baskets, and George grabbed several loaves of barley bread from the other.

“Eat, Moll,” he said, his face grim with worry.

He tore off a chunk of bread and offered her the first bite.

Moll hesitated. ‘Twas difficult to swallow even a crumb without knowing the price, yet one look at the anxious faces around her—and another look at the bread that made her drool—and she knew she’d do anything to keep them fed.

The moment her teeth sank into the crust, there was no stopping. She ate, bite after bite, very much like a ravenous wolf. An earthen mug of ale appeared in her hand. ‘Twas watered-down, but even so, amongst the strongest she’d ever drank. Dimly, she heard the noises of happy children, drinking and chomping very much like herself. Whatever lay ahead, at least, she’d succeeded in gaining everyone a hearty meal.

Finally, after she’d eaten the last crumb, she drew a long, steadying breath. ‘Twas time to pay, time to pin the Highlander down on his price—even though she’d already eaten the ‘goods’.

She squared her shoulders and faced the man where he lounged against the neighboring table, arms loosely folded and his long legs crossed at the ankles.

“My lord,” Moll began, placing her palms flat on the table to rise.

The Highlander straightened and stayed her with a hand. “Nay, lass, be still.”

He joined her. Lord help her, but he looked even more intimidating towering over her as she sank back onto the bench. She had to tip her head all the way back to see his face.

“Call me Taran, aye?” he was saying in a low voice. “Surely, after six—nay, seven—bairns together, ye shouldna call me naught else?” A glint of dry humor appeared in his blue eyes.

Alarm ripped through Moll. Did he think to make her his plaything? “I’m not a woman who pays her debts that way,” she snapped.

Taran’s mirth vanished at once and genuine surprise arched his brows. “Nor am I a man who extracts such payment from those in need,” he replied, clearly taking insult.

Their gazes locked and held.

His eyes softened, and his broad shoulders relaxed. “Not every man thinks with his loins, lass.” He frowned. “I intend only to see ye fed.”

Moll had learned long ago, just how cheap words could be, but still, the kindness in his voice seemed startingly genuine. Torn, she cleared her throat. “We’ll pay our debts this very night and before we leave, my lord. I can sew, clean, and cook well enough. The children work hard, as well.”

The muscle on his lean jaw twitched as his gaze flicked over the children still bolting down their bread. “Nay,” he said shortly. “Ye’ll stay until Lord Haddon sees fit to open the gates.” His tone was final.

Moll frowned. She hadn’t planned on staying past the meal. “Pardon, my lord?”

“The gates are sealed.” He met her gaze, his expression inscrutable.

“My lord,” a woman’s soft voice interrupted from behind.

Moll swiveled to see two richly dressed women standing only yards away. She hadn’t heard them arrive, but then, their rich velvet slippers allowed them to tread as silent as cats, quite unlike her own wooden-heeled shoes.

The taller of the two women, a statuesque blonde, seemed very annoyed, though Moll couldn’t identify any outward indication. Perhaps ‘twas the cool look in her gray eyes, or the way she fingered the amber glass beads adorning the ruff of her green velvet gown. Her redheaded companion, clothed in gold silk, hovered nervously at her elbow, squinting and wrinkling her nose in a manner that reminded Moll of a pointy-nosed shrew.

The blonde’s gaze shifted to Taran. “My lord?”

Appalled she’d forgotten to rise in the ladies’ presence, Moll jumped to her feet but again, Taran stopped her. This time, with a hand on the shoulder.