Page 17 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

He continued to walk around the wall, this time, stopping to view of the stables. The stable hands had stayed outside the gates to mind the livestock. He frowned. They’d best mind his horse right well, or there would be hell—

“MacKenzie,” a harsh voice called.

Taran exhaled and turned as Lords Hay and Maxwell bore down on him like ships at full sail. Anger marked their every step.

“A word, MacKenzie.” Lord Maxwell glowered from under his thick red brows.

“Ye’ve insulted my Euphemia.” Lord Hay came directly to the point, his face already a fine shade of red up to the roots of his fair hair. “Flaunting your whore as if—”

Taran cut him short, “Nay, not a word.” He leveled the man a look, his every instinct compelling him to defend Moll’s honor.

Lord Hay swallowed. “Aye, I understand a man has his whores, but ye may as yet wed Euphemia—”

“Or my Anne,” Lord Maxwell cut in.

Taran clenched his jaw. “Nay,” he grated.

The men clamped their mouths shut, surprised. Indeed, he surprised himself. The word had spoken itself. ‘Twas the truth. He couldn’t abide wedding either lass—despite what advantages they offered his clan. For a time, he’d thought that might be enough…now?

“Then, ye’ve made up your mind, at last?” Lord Hay arched a brow.

Taran didn’t miss the glittering gleam of calculation in his eyes. Aye, Euphemia was so very much like her father. The thought dealing with them both for the remainder of his life was a chillingly sober one. And Lord Maxwell? The man was fair difficult—his daughter, as well.

Nay, he’d ride home and consult with the clan. He’d make his case for a different wife. Surely, there were other brides upon which they could agree? Then, he’d speak with the king. Until then? He eyed the lords. Truly, there was no reason to prolong the conversation. ‘Twas only bothersome to them all.

“I bid ye good day.” He bowed with brevity.

The vein on Lord Maxwell’s forehead popped. Lord Hay tilted his head to the side.

Never one to waste words, Taran spun on his heel. He’d learned long ago the value of listening, speaking little, and cutting angry words short.

“Ye’ve not heard the last of this matter,” Lord Maxwell shouted. “’Tis my Anne that ye’ll take to wife.”

Taran squared his shoulders and kept walking.

At the north tower entrance, Lord Haddon stepped into his path. “They seem rather irked.” He gestured at the two Scottish lords still standing on the wall.

Taran shrugged.

Lord Haddon’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis not often a man can choose as he pleases.”

“Aye,” Taran agreed. Disinclined to discuss the matter, he switched subjects. “Tidings?”

“None,” Lord Haddon answered readily enough. “No doubt, with the plague afoot, the queen hides in her castle. If your messenger hasn’t been hung for daring to ride to her door, then he’s escaped to France by now for fear of failing his duty. I’d wager you won’t hear from the man again, MacKenzie.”

‘Twas the truth. For the messenger’s sake, he could only hope the man was now in France.

“You’re caged in Haddon Hall, dancing to the queen’s tune, along with us all,” Lord Haddon muttered, locking his eyes on the rolling hills spreading across the horizon. He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head as if waking from a dream. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve matters to attend.”

Taran watched the man, his jaw clenched tight. Caged? He didn’t care for cages nor did he enjoy dancing with queens, king’s bidding or no. Striving to contain his rising irritation, he propped his elbows on the rim of the castle’s inner wall and glanced over the grounds.

In the upper courtyard beneath him, his men milled about, battle-hardened MacKenzie warriors. They’d seemed inordinately amused as the rumors circled of Moll and ‘his’ bairns, but they’d yet to ask a single question. Strangely, he wasn’t inclined to explain.

Catching his eye upon them, several raised their arms and whistled, “Victuals, my lord.”

Taran lifted a hand in acknowledgment. He’d join them later, after he’d seen to Moll and the children.

Taking the tower stairs two at a time, he descended to the corridor leading to his room when voices echoed up the stairwell from below.