Page 20 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Taran waited, unimpressed.

“A boon, my lord.” With a provocative flutter of her lashes, she inched closer. “Join me at the feast. Sit as befits your station at the high table. Father will listen. He’ll understand—”

Taran pulled in a long breath. “Nay,” he interrupted. Apparently, her father had misled her into thinking he’d chosen her as wife.

Again, Euphemia’s lashes fluttered but with irritation this time. “Taran, if ye join me at table, Father will see this situation is truly nothing…”

“I’ve not chosen ye,” he said tightly.

Then, he was walking away.

It wasn’t until he stood before his chamber door once again that he realized he stood battle-ready with jaw clamped and both fists clenched tight. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his fingers, opened the door, and stepped inside.

This time, ‘twas only the young lassie, Charlotte, sitting cross-legged on the bed with James, Jamie, and Wee Jack, playing a game with a stick and a handful of pebbles.

Moll was nowhere in sight.

Taran strode to his clothing chest and chose a clean plaid, keenly aware of the children watching his every move.

“And where’s your ma?” he finally asked, a bit more brusquely than he’d intended.

Charlotte hopped from the bed and dropped an awkward, belated curtsey. “A lady fetched her, hours ago, my lord.”

Taran paused, his attention arrested. “A lady?”

“’Twas Lady Euphemia, my lord,” the child replied.

The mere mention of the woman’s name sent Taran’s nostrils flaring. “To where?” he barked.

“I know not, my lord,” she squeaked.

Taran expelled a breath. He’d frightened the wee lassie with his fierce expressions. He didn’t wish her to fear him. He forced his jaw to loosen and summoned a reassuring smile. “Call me Athair, aye?”

The child’s solemn eyes filled with confusion. “Athair?”

He nodded, gently. “’Tis Gaelic, for father,” he began. He fully intended to add he had no intention of taking her true father’s place, but the wee lassie interrupted him by bursting into tears.

“Athair,” she gasped as she lunged, locking her thin arms about his waist to snivel into his midriff. “So that’s why Moll brought us here. Ma always said you were handsome. I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time. Years. I’ve waited, years. I can’t believe I’ve found you. At last.”

Taran held still and winced. Ach, he’d bungled the matter, but at the sight of her small, hopeful face, his explanation died on his lips. At a loss, he settled for patting her awkwardly on the head.

Charlotte burrowed deeper, latching onto him like a leech. When she showed no signs of letting go, he cleared his throat and attempted to pry himself loose, but ‘twas nigh impossible. She stuck to him like a cocklebur.

“I must find Moll, lassie,” he finally said.

“Of course, Athair,” she replied, still holding on tight.

The bell announcing the evening meal afforded an opportunity to escape. “’Take the wee ones to the hall, lassie, and eat, aye?” Again, he attempted to peel her hands away.

This time, after one last squeeze, she stepped back and grinned widely. “Aye, Athair.”

Aye? Taran winced. Ach, she was mimicking him. He hadn’t meant to mislead her so sorely. Mayhap Moll—once he’d found and rescued her from Euphemia’s clutches—would know how to correct his error without breaking the wee lassie’s heart.

“I must be going,” he said.

Finally, he managed to escape the room and headed to the floor above, his thoughts turning to the matter at hand. Faith, but Euphemia flummoxed him. He hadn’t thought the woman dense. Surely, she knew he’d not take kindly to her mistreatment of his lover? Why would she chance his anger? His irritation intensified with each step.

Outside Euphemia’s chambers, he heard voices, women’s voices, and three feet from the door, he heard his own name.