Page 12 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Moll froze.

With a twitch of his lips that might have been a smile, Taran chucked Moll under the chin. “With a spirit like that, how can a man resist?” he teased lightly before he turned to Euphemia and added, “We’ve lads aplenty. A lass would be a blessing, aye?”

Euphemia didn’t move.

Anne choked. “So many,” she whispered. “Are ye certain they’re all yours, Taran?”

‘Twas an outright insult, but this time, Moll ducked her head, determined to keep her lips sealed.

“Aye,” Taran’s deep voice rumbled at her side. “The lassie is Charlotte and the twins, George and Francis.” He sent Moll a veiled look, one she took to mean he’d reached the end of his knowledge.

Reluctant to speak, she cleared her throat and replied in a forced whisper, “Straight down the line, ‘tis James, James, and James.” James had been quite the popular name on Threadneedle Street. She smiled reassuringly at the youngest, watching the proceedings with large, solemn eyes.

Silence fell, one in which the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire.

Then, Anne’s shrill voice inquired, “Surely, ye dinna name your lads all ‘James’, Taran?”

Moll’s eyes widened. Horrified to realize that she’d blundered, yet again. She opened her mouth, searching for words.

Taran chuckled. “Aye,” he replied gamely enough. “’Tis a right honorable name, after the king himself.”

The women stared, clearly suspicious.

The doors under the minstrels’ gallery opened and a particularly distinguished, sandy-haired gentleman in a red kilt appeared. Catching sight of the women, he scowled and let out a shrill whistle.

To Moll’s relief, both Euphemia and Anne scurried away.

‘Twas clear the gentleman was a man of authority and judging by Euphemia’s sudden submissive behavior and the similarity of their looks, perhaps even her father. They exchanged words in low voices. Whatever was said caused the man to glare first at Moll, then Taran, with obvious disapproval.

Moll’s stomach turned. “I cannot stay in this castle, my lord,” she whispered. “This is a game I cannot play. Forgive me, I had no cause to speak—”

A finger caught her chin and Taran tilted her face toward his. This time, there was no denying the smile playing over his lips.

“The lass deserved that and more,” he assured, brushing her concerns aside. Then, with a shrug, he added, “As for the game, we’ve gone far enough down this road, ‘tis now the only path we can tread. In truth, ‘tis advantageous for us both to play the role of lovers, aye?”

He stood, and lifting his long legs over the bench, settled properly at her side.

Moll snorted.

The man at her side arched a curious brow.

Moll turned her head away. If only he knew what he’d asked. Lovers? Love? What did she know of that? Of all parts to play, ‘twas ironic that she should be asked to play a woman in love.

The hall began to fill in earnest, then. First, with servants lighting the candles on the tables and quickly followed by a handful of men and women, dressed in velvets and satins, but lastly, with men-at-arms and their families. ‘Twas strange. With so grand a castle, she’d thought to find it overflowing with lords and ladies, not the more common folk.

“And who are your guests, Taran?” An elderly man with a bulbous red nose hailed from the next table.

Taran dropped an arm over Moll’s shoulders and pulled her close. “’Tis Moll and my bairns.” His hot breath tickled her ear.

A shiver raced down Moll’s neck, startling her from her thoughts. ‘Twas most unlike her to respond to a man. She was no naïve maid. No doubt, ‘twas truly the ale, yet still, she found herself examining the Highlander from the corner of her eye as even yet more introductions were made.

After the fourth man had turned away, curiosity sated, Taran suddenly turned upon her. “And?”

Moll’s stomach tightened, surprised he’d noticed. She frowned.

The sudden hush in the hall spared her from answering.

All eyes turned toward the high table as Lord Haddon stepped onto the dais and raised his hand.