Page 24 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Moll frowned. Indeed, the girl had scarcely touched her food. She was about to ask why when Charlotte jumped to her feet and waved her arms.

“Athair!” the young girl called with a bright smile. “Here, Athair. Here.”

Puzzled, Moll tossed a glance over her shoulder

Taran was almost upon them, his long stride carrying him quickly across the hall. With his white shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders and his fine, dark green kilt hugging his lean hips, he was a magnet for the eyes. As large as a horse? Before she could stop herself, her gaze dipped again, but the quickening of her pulse and the foreign warmth in her belly, startled her attention back to her plate.

“Athair,” Charlotte greeted Taran with an eager smile. She held out a small red fruit. “I’ve saved a pomegranate for you…for ye.”

Moll arched a brow. Ye?

Then, the Highlander arrived. The bench creaked under his weight as he settled by Moll’s side, his thigh brushing against hers.

‘Twas a feather-soft touch, yet it felt like fire. Tense, Moll inched away.

“Your pomegranate,” Charlotte repeated, leaning across the table to thrust the withered fruit under his nose.

“Aye.” Taran thanked her with a polite nod.

Charlotte melted back to her seat to rest her chin on her hands and stare, a grin splitting her face from ear-to-ear.

Whatever had gotten into the young girl? The arrival of more food prevented her from asking.

As a serving woman plunked down a platter of roasted veal and eggs, Taran’s deep voice murmured, “My lady.”

Moll tensed. Lady? Under her uneasy gaze, he again placed the first choice cut on her plate.

“Wine, my lord?” someone asked.

Again, Taran saw Moll served first, then he tossed his head back and drained his goblet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. ‘Twas oddly captivating. His black lashes even more so. They were so thick and long, the kind a maid would envy. His lips? Along with his jaw, they were so pronounced, seemingly carved from stone. She’d seen lips like his before on a Greek statue in London. He set his goblet back on the table then, moving with the grace of a dancer, his muscles sliding sensuously beneath his shirt.

Then, Moll noticed the curl of his lip.

Lord help her, she was staring again.

She averted her gaze back her plate. The man must think her a bumbling, gawking fool—but then, wasn’t she one? She sat at his side, so very mismatched, a fine swan and a country duck. How could a single soul in the hall believe them lovers? She snorted at the thought.

“Aye?” Taran asked.

Moll shook her head. Why share what was so painfully obvious?

“Eat, lass,” he suggested in his smooth, lilting burr. “Ye haven’t touched your wine.”

At his soft chuckle, Moll gazed at him. The wicked gleam in his blue eyes had returned. With a fresh hint of a smile playing over his lips, he slowly crossed his arms and leaned closer. She hesitated. Something about the gesture…along with his expression…seemed so familiar. Again, fuzzy images teased her memory. Perched on the edge of the bed? She was warning him…something about keeping his distance…

Then, she went stiff.

Her memory returned with a rush. Missing a piece. She’d told him to keep his distance or he’d find himself…missing a piece. A pox on the man. He’d been toying with her in the bedchamber. Missing a piece, indeed.

“I believe we both know right well spirits don’t suit me, my lord,” she snapped.

Taran’s chuckle deepened. “On the contrary, lass, spirits suit ye fine.” He paused and then leaned even a mite closer. “Dinna hide the wee beastie that lurks inside ye.”

Heaven help her, how did the man continually set her nerves on edge? She was a widow, well-versed in the ways of men…or was she? Perhaps, being wed to a tailor she detested was less of an education than she’d thought. She looked away.

Suddenly, the eldest James shoved the other as the youngest jumped to his feet on the bench. The table jerked. The wine flasks rattled. Then, time slowed. Moll could do nothing but watch the wine flask wobble, tip, and then send a spray of red wine, splattering in a red arc, straight across Taran’s white shirt.

He sat there, expressionless, then with a muffled oath, sprang to his feet.