Page 28 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Moll stirred on the bed.

‘Twas tempting to look, but he knew ‘twould be a foolish mistake. Why torture himself with what he could not taste? He closed his eyes, turned his back to the bed, and settled in for another long night.

When Taran opened his eyes again, he saw the sun gleaming brightly between the shutter slats.

Next, he noticed his wet forearm.

Groggily, Taran lifted his head and drew his brows in a puzzled line. It took him a moment to realize what he was staring at, a child’s head. ‘Twas Wee Jack, drooling on his shirtsleeve, and from the size of the wet patch, the lad had driveled on him the entire night through. ‘Twas fair surprising the laddie would dare crawl into his bed, though mayhap, he hadn’t frightened the boy as much as he’d thought.

Exercising great care, Taran extracted his arm and sat up quietly, amazed he’d slept the entire night. He couldn’t recall waking once. The fact that he felt more relaxed, alert, and refreshed than he could recall in quite some time stood as testament to that fact.

‘Twas then he saw her, from the corner of his eye. Moll. She lay still on the bed, watching him.

Slowly, he rose to his feet.

A Witch of the Heart

Moll yawned. Sunlight streamed through cracks in the shutters to pierce the shadows of the room. On the bed, Charlotte lay crosswise, sleeping, her feet near Moll’s shoulder. Again, the youngest James had vanished. A quick search of the sleeping forms on the floor revealed the child asleep on Taran’s pallet, using the Highlander’s arm as a pillow. The man himself lay on his back, sprawled before the now-dead fire, the slow rise and fall of his chest signaling he slept still.

Considering how little the man knew of children, ‘twould be best to rouse James—or Wee Jack, as he’d suddenly taken to calling himself—before Taran awakened to find him there.

Moll bit her lip. Lord help her, but why did children have such a talent for trouble? She pushed back her covers, preparing to rise, when Taran stirred on the floor.

Quickly, she fell back on the pillow, but kept her eyes open wide enough to watch.

Slowly, Taran lifted his head and stared down at the child asleep on his arm. Moll tensed, prepared to leap to Wee Jack’s defense, when a smile caught the corner of the man’s lips. With a gentleness plain to see, he freed his arm, shook his head in dry amusement, and then glanced around.

As his gaze swung her way, Moll held still, feigning sleep.

The moments passed.

Taran finally climbed to his feet with an easy grace. He stepped over the sleeping children and approached the bed. Her heart began to thud. ‘Twas nigh impossible to force herself to breathe slow and shallow as she closed her eyes even more.

The rattling of the shutters startled her into glancing directly his way, but to her relief, his gaze had focused outside the window, instead.

Unable to look away, Moll could only stare at the man. He was handsome. The soft morning light kissed his face, highlighting his chiseled lips and a lean jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. She watched, mesmerized, as he unbuttoned his shirt, taking his time. ‘Twas fair enthralling, the way his supple muscles rolled beneath and strained the fabric—and then his shirt fell away.

After Thomas, she’d was fair convinced she’d never think the male body a thing of beauty…but there was no denying the masculine perfection displayed before her now. Fascinated, she glanced over every muscle on his arms and bare chest as he draped his shirt over his shoulder and lifted the lid of his clothing chest.

He took his time searching, until finally, with a clean shirt and plaid in hand, he closed the lid, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Moll expelled a long breath, only then realizing she gripped her blanket so tightly, her knuckles had turned white.

“What is it, Moll?” a voice whispered. ‘Twas Francis, propped on his elbow.

Indeed, what was it? Never before had she stared at a man. “Nothing.”

“Can you trust him?” George asked, his young face filled with worry.

Trust. ‘Twas such a frightening word. Could she trust the man? Was he trustworthy? Did Highland honor truly exist?

“I don’t know, George,” she confessed in a whisper.

“Then, let’s be sure to eat as soon as the bells ring,” he said. “At least, we can gain another meal afore we’re tossed out.”

Tossed out? She couldn’t deny already ‘twas a depressing thought to leave the castle to run from the plague once again. Had she gotten so spoiled in just a few days?

The morning bells began to ring.