Page 31 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“And what do you require?” the maid asked once they stood outside the chamber.

“A fire, a pot, water, and a peaceful, quiet place to brew,” Moll replied, at once. Aside from the ingredients which only she alone could harvest and at the proper time of day, she required nothing else.

Bridgette’s brows furrowed in thought, then, she grinned. “’Tisn’t washday until the next week. The laundry will be deserted—if you don’t mind the company of the tubs.”

Moll smiled. “’Twill only tempt me to take a bath,” she confessed with a laugh.

“There’s water aplenty in the castle well. You could take ten baths, if you wish.” Bridgette grinned even wider, then her mirth faded, and her young face grew serious. Dropping her voice, she asked, “Can you help her? Truly?”

Moll hesitated and then nodded.

“’Twill be a miracle.” Bridgette sighed in relief. “I’ll leave you to find your way back. ‘Tis straight down the stairs. I’m off to ready the laundry.” With one last smile, she was gone.

Adjusting the gowns, Moll set off for the stairs. ‘Twas easy enough. She headed straight down and out the door, hurrying across the frozen grass to the north tower that led to Taran’s bedchamber. She was halfway up the stairs when a flash of a green plaid through the arrow-slit window caught her eye.

Her heart skipped a beat. She paused and peered through.

The broad shoulders and dark hair announced ‘twas truly Taran this time and not his clansmen. He crossed the courtyard with Charlotte, James, Jamie, and Wee Jack at his heels. Outside the great hall’s door, he came to a stop, turned, and planted his hands on his hips to survey them all.

“Athair,” Charlotte’s eager young voice travelled through the air to Moll’s ears. “Face and ears all washed. Aye, the lot of us, Athair.”

“Then off with ye,” the Highlander’s deep voice boomed. He stepped aside as he waved the children into the hall.

The boys bounded through the door, clearly anxious to eat, but Charlotte lingered on the steps. As Taran tilted his head her way, she suddenly threw her arms about his waist and squeezed tight.

Moll blinked, surprised.

The Highlander appeared somewhat astonished, as well. After several seconds, he gave Charlotte a clumsy pat on the head and pried himself free.

“Go, lassie,” he ordered, pointing to the door.

Happily, she skipped inside.

Moll lifted a puzzled brow. She’d been amiss in asking the meaning of Athair and just why the young girl, at times, sought to mimic his accent. ‘Twas an error she would correct, and right quickly.

A flurry of wind whistled through the arrow-slit window, blowing back the hair from her face, but even more, in the courtyard below, molding Taran’s kilt to his lean hips and muscled thighs. How long she remained there, staring, she couldn’t say. The next thing she knew, a woman’s low, musical voice echoed up the stairs from below.

“Taran is your father, then?”

Alarmed, Moll held her breath.

Two voices buzzed in response, but she couldn’t make out the words. Horrified, she fled down the stairs, her mind awhirl. The other children had just entered the hall, only George and Francis remained. Surely, they knew better than to drop any hint of the fact they came from London. Surely?

She rounded the last curve to find the twins lounging lazily against the tower door, as through the opening, Euphemia minced her way across the courtyard, heading toward the great hall.

Euphemia. She should have known. Her sense of alarm only grew. “What did she want?”

George shrugged. “I cannot fathom the woman. She asks the same question again and again, as if in the asking, the answer will change. It’s ever ‘is he truly your father?’”

“La mercy, George, what’s to fathom?” Francis rolled his eyes. “’Tis plain as day, the woman’s madly in love with him.”

The words stung, but Moll had greater worries on her mind. “Does she ask from where we harken?”

Francis appeared insulted. “You needn’t fret, Moll.”

“We’re no fools,” George added.

Then, Francis grinned and adopting an overly innocent tone, continued, “Why, Lady Euphemia, yes, Taran MacKenzie is our father. Why, yes, we’ve seen plenty of him over the years in the Borderlands, my lady. How else could our beloved Ma bless us with so many siblings?”