Page 35 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Irritated Doughall had ignored his bidding, he swatted the hand away, and keeping his eyes shut, snapped, “Nay, I’ll not be bled.”

“Bled? I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” Moll’s voice, so soft and soothing, washed over Taran like a gentle breeze after a storm.

His eyes flew open.

The mere glance from before hadn’t done her justice. She stood by his knee, her gown falling in graceful lines to the floor. The charming curve of her neck and the cut of her snug bodice caught his attention, the square-cut collar offering a tantalizing glimpse of her lace shift. Well could he imagine what lay beneath. His blood stirred. Indeed, ‘twas fortunate his collarbone throbbed with pain, dampening his body’s response.

“I brought your lass to tend ye.” Doughall’s grinning face popped over her shoulder.

Taran shot him a silent order to disappear.

The man read his look right well. “I’ll be leaving then, lad. Ye’ve fine hands to tend ye,” he said, and with a chuckle, stalked away.

Taran turned his attention back to Moll. Her gaze had locked on the purple bruise forming on his shoulder and then down to the welts on his ribs. Her stunning eyes flooded with concern.

“These are ghastly bruises, my lord,” she murmured, gently probing his rib with her fingertip.

Reflex made him tense, but more from imagining how she might make him forget pain rather than the fact she’d caused any. Schooling his thoughts, he queried, “Are ye a healer, then?”

“Nay,” she murmured absently, her attention still locked on his bruises. “Though, often enough, ailments of the heart mingle with those of the body.”

‘Twas an intriguing answer. “Ailments of the heart?”

Her eyes shuttered at once. “’Tis Welsh herblore, my lord,” she replied, wary. “Nothing more.”

Herblore? Tradition called those learned in herblore by the name of witch—and of late, a witch was a dangerous name to be called.

As so many times of late, their gazes caught and held. He could drown in the pull of those eyes, so bonny and mysterious. Aye, ‘twould be easy to lose himself in those shimmering grays and greens, framed by the thick sweep of lashes fanning her cheeks.

“My lord,” she whispered.

He’d much rather she used his name. He’d heard ‘my lord’ one time too many from those lips. His gaze slid down to her mouth. Such pleasing, pink lips, lips he could think of a dozen ways to taste, and lips, no doubt, that felt and tasted sweeter than honey.

All at once, her fingers felt like a brand on his skin, sending a keen pulse of awareness straight through him, despite the pain.

Abruptly, he rose to his feet, welcoming, the pain.

Surprised, Moll held out a hand.

Instinct made him catch her fingers, but ‘twas only as he rubbed his thumb over the top of her hand that he realized she’d either meant to help him rise or stop him from doing so. It mattered little. Her skin felt like velvet under his touch.

“There are potions that can help,” she was saying. “But, ‘twill not be ready until nightfall, my lord.”

He smiled.

“MacKenzie,” a voice called out.

As Taran glanced up to see Lord Haddon approach, he felt Moll’s fingers slip from his.

She took her leave, hurrying across the hall, the provocative sway of her hips sending a pleasant thrum coursing through his blood.

“Crosses,” Lord Haddon said.

Taran shifted his gaze.

Lord Haddon stood at his side, waving a letter, his thin face agitated. “Red-painted crosses on the doors, not even three leagues away from the queen’s residence,” he rasped.

Taran lifted a brow at the letter.