Page 16 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

‘Twas only then that Taran allowed himself to glance at Moll. Still asleep, the shadows accentuated the curve of her hip as the lush spill of her hair glistened gold in the firelight. ‘Twas a sight that stirred a man’s blood, but he knew better than to allow that for long.

Heaving a breath, he dropped onto his pallet, wrapped himself in his blanket, and closed his eyes.

Finally, ‘twas time to sleep.

But, sleep eluded him.

Each time he hovered on the verge, one of the lads moaned or coughed in the surrounding darkness.

As the minutes passed, Taran’s frown deepened.

Long had he called himself a lone wolf, a warrior, a leader of experienced, battle-hardened men. He spent his days securing clan borders and fighting on the king’s behalf. He hadn’t truly shared a chamber with a soul in years—not even with the lasses who struck his fancy. After a few hours of their fine company, he’d retire to the solitude of his own sanctuary. ‘Twas how he preferred to live.

Jamie began to snore.

Wee Jack coughed.

One of the twins—Francis?—began to toss and turn.

Taran clamped his jaw tight and willed sleep to come.

An hour passed, and maybe even another before, finally, he felt himself drift away.

Auld Bertha appeared by his side, reaching out for him and cackling loudly.

Taran jerked awake with a frown. Auld Bertha. He hadn’t thought of the woman in months, not since he’d visited his cousin, Alec, now happily wed to Sorcha. Uneasy, he settled back on his pallet.

Again, his eyes closed, and again, sweet, blessed sleep stood within his grasp.

Aye, that stone heart of yours ‘twill turn tae water soon, ye clot-heid. Auld Bertha’s words echoed in his mind, speaking the words from the day she’d met him and his cousin so many months ago in Scotland. But ye’ll journey to find her. A Sassenach, that’s who she is.

Taran opened his eyes, disconcerted. He snorted softly under his breath. When he’d met the old woman on the road to Edinburgh many months ago in Scotland, he’d thought her mad, even though her dire predictions concerning the untimely deaths of his cousin’s clan had come true. ‘Twas coincidence, surely. Aye, even if his cousin’s future had proved true, the old loon’s predictions of himself meant little. Journeying to find a lass? He most definitely wasn’t looking for one, not when he knew he must wed as the clan and king willed.

And his heart? He snorted, a wee bit louder. His heart suffered no ills. ‘Twas fine as it was.

He was a lone wolf.

Irritated, he forced his eyes closed, swearing at himself to relax and fall asleep.

* * *

Taran awoke with a start. The dim morning light lit the room. Something lay across his leg. In an instant, his hand dropped to his dirk, but his fingers had scarcely touched the hilt before he spied a small, tousled head in the gray morning light. He paused, confused, and then memory returned with a rush.

Ach, ‘twas Wee Jack, using his leg as a pillow. Apparently, the laddie had crawled down from the bed sometime during the night.

Taran blew a breath and released his dirk. Mayhap, with children in the chamber, he shouldn’t sleep as was his wont, armed.

Carefully, he extracted himself from under the laddie and surveyed the various snoring piles of arms and legs dotted around the room, ending with Moll.

The lass lay on her back with one arm hanging off the bed. She’d kicked off her covers during the night. He was tempted to smile. Even in sleep, she was a fighter. For several moments, he enjoyed the view of her soft curves, the swell of her breasts before he caught the selfish nature of his thoughts.

He forced his gaze to the window.

‘Twould be foolish to foster an attraction toward the lass. She wasn’t the dallying kind, and soon, he’d choose a wife—if for no reason other than freeing himself from the king’s constant barrage of irksome candidates.

He strode to the window and unlatched the shutters, enough to see a cloudless, pink-and-lavender streaked sky. As silently as he could, he opened his trunk and selected a linen shirt. He’d change in the guardroom above. As the children around him stirred, he left the chamber.

A weak morning sun warmed Taran’s face as he walked the ramparts a short time later. The bite of the wind reminded him of home. Already, he was weary of Haddon Hall. For three months now, Queen Elizabeth had danced around granting him an audience. Aye, she was a wily one. She’d used every tool at her disposal to avoid their meeting, a meeting she knew right well required her to pay the silver she owed. Now, with the Black Death’s arrival, she very well might dangle him a year—maybe more. He ran his hands through his hair. He had no desire to live his life in England, catering to the queen’s whim.