Page 23 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

He stood at ease, apparently just waiting for her look at him, and the instant she did, he leaned close. A dark strand of hair fell over his face. “Mayhap I should leave, aye? Afore I find myself…missing a piece?”

He waited.

Moll knit her brows in a bewildered frown.

“’Tis time for the evening meal. I’ll wait for ye in the hall, aye?” With a nod, he strode past her and out the door.

Moll waited until the latch clicked before she released her breath in a loud whoosh. Missing a piece? The words sounded vaguely familiar, although she couldn’t place why. She was more concerned with her own behavior. A pox on herself. Staring at his privates? She cringed.

Embarrassed, she lifted her skirts and quickly retied the pillow. ‘Twas a nuisance of the highest order. She’d landed herself in a fine kettle of fish. She’d only meant to grab a quick meal, not wear a pillow for days-on-end whilst pretending to be the lover of a…a…well, if she were honest, one of the most intriguing men she’d ever met. The thought made her scowl. She wasn’t an inexperienced maid…so why was she acting like one?

The bells in the great hall rang.

Still frowning, she adjusted the last strap and dropped her skirts. ‘Twas time to forget Taran, and high past the time she checked on the children. Forcing her thoughts back to the present, she left the chamber and hurried down the stairs.

Evening had fallen by the time she joined the line of men and women filing through the great hall’s doors. Wanting to pass unnoticed, she kept close to the wall and trained her eyes upon her feet. She needn’t have worried. She was ignored outright, though not out of ill will. Talk centered on the plague and whither it ravaged the lands.

“’Tis deadly, to be sure, but nothing like the plagues of yore,” the elderly man next to Moll commented.

“Still, ‘tis dangerous enough to earn those from plague-ridden lands a noose about the neck if they dare ride to Her Majesty’s door,” his companion replied.

Moll inched away, alarmed. ‘Twas worrisome. Whilst she, clearly, could keep a secret close to her heart, she wasn’t as certain of the children. She had to warn them, and right quickly, to keep their lips sealed.

As soon as she could, she hurried into the warmth of the hall. Already, the musicians played in the gallery above, the strains of the lute mingling with the voices of those gathered. Men and women paraded in their finery, looking for all the world as if they were attending a masked ball and not hiding in a castle, keeping the plague at bay. Glass and silver glittered on the tables, reflecting the torchlight dancing on the walls.

A flash of green caught her attention.

It wasn’t Taran, but a half-dozen, kilted MacKenzie clansmen, their dirks belted about their waists and their long hair braided down the sides. As they passed her by, they dipped their heads in respect.

Rattled, she curtseyed in return.

“Moll, here, by the fire,” Francis called.

Moll spied the children and hurried to join them. She’d barely taken her seat when the voices in the hall hushed and all attention went to the high table.

‘Twas Lord Haddon standing on the dais alone, the set of his shoulders speaking of worry. He simply stood there for a time, oblivious to the whispers circling the room, before, at last, he lifted his hand. The occupants of the hall fell silent, expecting him to speak, but he merely signaled a server for wine and strode to his chair to slump down.

The din in the hall resumed.

Moll chewed her bottom lip. ‘Twas odd, to be sure, but no doubt, his behavior revolved around Lady Haddon’s frail health. Had she worsened? And what of the babe? Had…Moll blinked, taken aback. Why would she think such things? She knew nothing of the castle’s lady…or…did she? Had they met?

A fuzzy image of a woman’s pale face with laughing brown eyes danced on the edge of her thoughts. Moll frowned. ‘Twas the night before…and the woman had mentioned something about…birthing a babe? They…had met.

A flurry of activity drew Moll’s attention back to the high table just as Euphemia arrived, resplendent in gold velvet and with her blonde hair elaborately dressed in a bejeweled net. With her lips drawn into a grim line, she stood by her chair and scanned the faces in the hall.

Moll cringed and quickly turned away, half expecting Euphemia to bellow her name. The woman was the vindictive sort. She wouldn’t simply leave Moll alone, especially after she’d disobeyed direct orders. No doubt, one of her gossipy maids had informed their mistress of Taran’s arrival to ferret her away, as well. After all, ‘twas too juicy a tidbit of gossip to be ignored.

Such a bold act of disobedience would not be left unpunished. Moll suppressed a groan. Almost, she preferred escaping the castle to face the plague.

The food began to arrive. A pork, chicken, and cheese pie topped with figs, a pot of toasted bread in wine sauce, and a platter of rabbit with cabbage and pomegranates.

As the children attacked their meal with vigor, Moll found herself pulled from her thoughts. “Slow down, poppets,” she warned, scowling in disapproval. She couldn’t have the hall gossiping about Lord MacKenzie’s uncouth children. “Mind your manners.”

James responded by reaching for Charlotte’s almond cake.

Moll rapped his knuckles with her spoon. “Share and share alike, James. Greed is unseemly. You’ve had yours.”

“But I’m bigger, Moll,” he objected. “And Charlotte’s not even eating a whit.”