Page 25 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

All at once, time resumed.

Moll and the children gasped.

Several tables over, the MacKenzie clansmen began to laugh, and the sound released Taran from his spell. With a curt nod, he spun on his heel and left the hall without a backward glance.

“Is he angry?” Francis hissed.

Moll eyed the children’s worried faces and rose. “I’ll speak to him. Don’t fret, poppets. I’ll make it right.” She forced a calm she didn’t feel.

A range of relief flooded the faces of the children, all but Francis and George. They knew better. With them, Moll exchanged a terse, silent look, and then lifting her skirts, hurried after the man.

Doubtless, he’d gone to change. Already, in the short time she’d been at Haddon Hall, she’d seen him change his clothing more in one day than Thomas had in several months.

“’Twas an accident, my lord,” she said as she entered into the room. “A child’s blunder, my lord. I’ve come to beg forgiveness on his behalf.”

As she’d thought, he stood before his clothing chest, shirt in hand.

Her gaze locked on the red stain. “When I’m through washing the shirt, ‘twill be as good as new, I swear, my lord,” she promised. “He’s only a small boy. He’s lost his mother and father, my lord. Please, punish me instead. I—”

“Punish?” He seemed genuinely surprised, then cut her short with a wave of his hand. “’Tis not the first time I’ve stained a shirt, lass, nor will it be the last.”

Moll lifted her gaze to his. There was no anger there. Indeed, was that amusement twinkling from the depths of those blue eyes?

“You’re not angry, then,” she breathed, flooding with relief.

The Highlander’s dark brows rose. “Angry? With a wee lad?” He snorted. “’Twas clear I frightened him. I merely sought to leave afore I frightened him more.”

He stood there almost as if he were…embarrassed. How could such a bear-of-a-man be so charmingly awkward?

“You know nothing of children, then,” she blurted with a smile of surprise.

“Aye,” he admitted readily enough, then added, “Well, I know that wee ones find me fearsome.”

“I imagine, ‘tis more than the wee ones who find you fearsome, my lord.”

Then for the first time, she noticed he stood bare-chested and with his kilt hanging low over his lean hips.

Her mouth went dry.

A Soul of Fire

Taran drew an audible breath. His admiration only grew for the lass with each encounter. She stood at the foot of the bed, breasts heaving, uncertain, seemingly wanting to trust even as she bristled like a hedgehog—an incredibly suspicious one. Then, she’d smiled. ‘Twas a smile that summoned a pleasant hum over every inch of his flesh, and a smile that evoked the desire in him to protect. ‘Twas clear she’d suffered at the hands of her churlish husband…the man was fortunate he was dead…

He shook his shirt and plunged his arm into the sleeve. “The bairns dinna belong to ye, aye?” He knew the answer already, but he was fair curious if she’d trust him with even that much of the truth.

Wary, Moll swallowed, then replied, “They do now, my lord.”

A sense of satisfaction swept over him. “’Tis a noble sentiment.”

“Noble?” she repeated. Her eyes flashed with passion. “What else could one do? How can one abandon children in need?”

Aye, she was one to be admired. Her very soul was made of fire.

As he watched, she raised her chin and caught her soft, pink bottom lip between her teeth.

His body’s swift reaction took him by surprise. He drew a sharp breath and turned back to his trunk. ‘Twas oddly amusing. As much as his body didn’t appear to know, he wasn’t an untried lad. How long had it been since he’d reacted to a woman so strongly? Years?

“Dinna fret, lass,” he assured as he snatched a fresh shirt—any shirt. “I’ll speak with Wee Jack, later, if ye wish. I’ll not be back ‘til late.” If at all, if truth be told, not when his manhood had suddenly resurrected a mind of its own.