Page 19 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“Kin?”

The bitterness of her tone caused him to glance at her, surprised.

She fixed him with a stony gaze.

“Surely, ye have kin?” he pressed.

“Do you want the truth?” she challenged, jutting her chin fiercely. At his nod, she continued, “My kin gave me to a tailor for a pair of pants, then told me never to return. I suffered in hell with the man for a year, until near a fortnight ago, when the plague swept through London and we fled for our lives. I have nothing and nowhere to go.” She paused, then with a defiant toss of her head, asked, “Does your Highland honor still feel responsible now?” She couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes.

Taran surveyed the lass with a thoughtful tilt of his head. She stood there, fierce and proud. He could only admire such a spirit. Aye, she might be small and frail, but ‘twas clear enough she had the soul of a warrior. Did he feel responsible? Truly, he was feeling more responsible with each passing moment in her company, though why that should be so, he didn’t stop to ponder.

“Aye,” was all he said.

Moll drew a sharp breath. “I’ll not sleep in your bed.”

“I dinna ask that of ye,” he retorted. Rather insulted, he added in a cooler tone, “I’ve no trouble in finding a willing lass when the fancy strikes.”

Her eyes narrowed.

They stood there a time, huffing and glaring, until he noticed the angle of the sun hitting the chamber floor. Soon, breakfast would be over.

“What’s done is done, lass,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “Ye’ve spent the night in my chambers. ‘Tis too late to tread a different path. Within Haddon’s walls, you’re known as Taran MacKenzie’s lover.” ‘Twas true, whether she liked the fact or no.

She swallowed, her shoulders sagged in acknowledgment.

Inordinately pleased, Taran nodded, then his thoughts sobered. “For the safety of us all, ye canna share where ye harken from. I doubt even I could stop Lord Haddon from hanging ye at the gate, should he learn ye hail from London.”

Alarm flashed across her face. “Yes, my lord.”

“Then hie yourself off to the hall. No doubt, the wee ones are stirring mischief.”

She made for the door, but he caught up with her in two long strides. The instant his fingers closed over her arm, she whirled, as if prepared to fight.

He let go. Ach, she was as skittish as a colt. A strange blend of pity and attraction rolled over him as he nodded at the pillow hanging lopsided near her knees.

“Mind the bairn, aye?” was all he said.

Then, he stepped past her and strode out the chamber door.

* * *

Moll occupied Taran’s thoughts the entire morning and well into the afternoon as he trained with his men. ‘Strewth, but she intrigued him. If he’d been presented him with such a lass, he just might have found himself wed, years ago—lone wolf be damned. A fiery lass could rule a man. A gentle lass could drive a man to cherish her above aught else. Moll seemed a fascinating mix of both, the kind of lass who could make him want to protect, challenge, and worship her all at once.

Catching his thoughts, he expelled a breath. ‘Twould be difficult to live with her in close quarters if he weren’t mindful. ‘Twas grossly unfortunate that she was precisely the kind who could stir his blood to a boil. Already, ‘twas growing warm.

With renewed vigor, he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and attacked his opponent.

More than once, he spied Euphemia watching him from the walls above as he leaned against his sword to rest and wait his turn near the chapel where his men practiced. By God, did the woman have no pride? Was she that desperate to become Lady MacKenzie that she’d willingly ignore the arrival of her intended’s lover and six children besides? His distaste for the woman only grew the longer she dawdled.

The sun arced and waned, and as the evening feast approached, the extended swordplay finally finished. Laughter echoed as the men clapped their erstwhile opponents on the back, stripped off their shirts, and headed for the well near the aviary to douse themselves in buckets of water.

The shock of the cold jarred Taran’s teeth, but by the third bucket of water, he began to feel warm. Restored, he reached for his shirt when the laughter surrounding him suddenly died.

“My lord?”

Taran slicked back his wet hair and grimaced. Euphemia. He watched her pick her way across the wet stones to his side. As she arrived, his men shot him side-length looks and stalked away, whether from the desire to offer him his privacy or from the fact they, too, couldn’t abide her presence, he couldn’t say.

“My lord,” Euphemia greeted him with a practiced, sultry smile. She dipped into a low curtsey, one—he knew full well—designed to offer him a full view of her cleavage.