Page 11 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“Nay, lass,” he murmured in a voice that brooked no argument as he gently pressed her back down. “Sit.”

She had no choice, truly. With a sharp, uneasy breath, Moll obeyed.

To her surprise, Taran joined her, sitting backward at her side to stretch out his long legs as he leaned lazily back against the table, and again folded his arms.

“My lord.” The blonde invited herself closer.

This time, Moll caught the lilt in her voice. Scottish. As the woman dipped into an elegant curtsy and the redhead scrambled to follow suit, Moll shot a quick glance at Taran, seeking a hint as to the nature of their relationship, but his face had smoothed into an unreadable mask.

“Euphemia.” Taran nodded absently at first to the blonde, before he acknowledged the redhead, “Anne.”

The women rose in a rustle of silk and velvet.

The look in both women’s eyes harkened of jealousy. ‘Twas as clear as day they had designs on the man, and that meant, he was, as yet, unwed.

Euphemia’s gaze shifted to the children licking the crumbs from the table, and her lips curved into a smile, a forced, false one. “My, my, what a hungry lot we have, aye?” Her eyes darted to the swell of Moll’s pillowed belly, and her smile hardened even more. “Who might these weary travelers be, my lord?”

Moll tensed.

The man at her side stirred.

“Moll,” he replied easily enough as he reached for Moll’s hand and laced his fingers through hers. The gesture announced what his words did not. Then, he cocked a brow at the children behind him and added, “My bairns, the lot.”

Silence met this revelation, the pin-dropping kind.

Moll swallowed. Never had she imagined her ruse at the gate would end like this, and from the set of the man’s jaw at her side, neither had he.

Then, Anne gasped, a huge sucking in of air.

Euphemia’s smile hardened yet even more.

“All of them?” Anne asked faintly. Her chin dipped as she counted each child in turn.

“Aye.”

Moll bit her bottom lip. Why had the man continued the deception? Did he expect her to play the part of his pregnant lover indefinitely? How could she? She knew nothing of him, and ‘twas clear the two female vultures watching her every move, obviously did. Their gazes had latched onto her, clearly waiting for her to confirm his statement.

Did she have a choice? Taran’s gentle squeeze of her fingers announced she did not.

Forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile—and feeling very much like a puppet on a string—Moll nodded, as bid.

“Nay,” Anne squeaked even as Euphemia’s lips thinned into a grim line.

Moll clenched her jaw. Lord help her. What kind of hornet’s nest had she stumbled upon?

“Ach, are ye wed, then, Taran?” Anne practically wailed.

“Dinna be foolish, Anne,” Euphemia inserted before he could reply. “Men of Taran’s station dinna wed such women.” She met Moll’s gaze and smirked.

‘Twas a smirk Moll had seen countless times on the faces of spiteful women in the markets, hellbent on heaping insults upon her head.

“’Tis clear to see why men of his station look elsewhere.”

It took her a moment to realize the words had slipped from her own lips. Her back went ramrod-straight. Lord save her soul. Had she gone mad? Perhaps, ‘twas the ale that had unleashed the devil of her tongue? The ale. Yes, it had to be the ale that had loosened her tongue.

Euphemia stared, shocked.

A shiver of pure fear crept down Moll’s neck and then released from her spell, she jerked forward to prostrate herself at the woman’s feet and beg forgiveness, when Taran dropped a possessive hand on the pillow tied about her waist and again, pushed her back to the bench.