Page 36 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“There were no tidings for you,” Lord Haddon read his silent question easily enough. “Only this.” Grimly, he held out the parchment. “The Queen and her retinue left her residence Friday, heading north. ‘Tis by her majesties orders now. None may enter, and none may leave Haddon Hall. These gates must remain sealed until she finds haven.”

“And where’s the harm in leaving?” Lord Maxwell asked, joining them to stand at Lord Haddon’s side, ignoring Taran outright.

‘Twas clear the man meant to insult him, but Taran cared little. He answered the man anyway, “Should her majesty’s birds escape their cage, ‘twould not be known we died of the plague until ‘tis too late. She seeks a haven free of illness. She’ll keep her birds caged until she’s certain, only then will she set ye free—if she has no need of ye.”

The gray-haired lord shot him a sour look, but continued to address Lord Haddon with his concerns, “I’ve plans to return to Scotland, soon.”

Lord Haddon shrugged. “Then, I fear you must wait.”

Taran left them there, glowering and sparring words, and instead, headed for the castle well on the upper courtyard, away from the crowd and once again let his thoughts turn to Moll.

What would she be like, completely unfettered, free of her past? No doubt, with the strength of her spirit, she’d be a firebrand—in bed and without. ‘Twas most unfortunate she wasn’t the dallying kind, or that he couldn’t wed as he pleased. Nay, he’d soon find himself politically matched, and Moll? No doubt, she’d have her pick…the sudden thought she was destined for another man strangely darkened his mood.

Grimly, he tossed a few buckets of cold water over his aching bones, then noting the state of his plaid, stalked toward his chamber.

When he opened the door, ‘twas to see the wee lassie, Charlotte, hopping across the room, playing some kind of game with Wee Jack, James, and Jamie.

“Athair!” Charlotte’s young face lit with a smile, so heartbreakingly raw. She held out the skirts of her blue dress and curtsied deep. “’Tis so beautiful—bonny, is it not? Do I please ye, Athair?” she asked in her best imitation of a Scottish brogue.

Ach, he should have told the wee lassie from the start he wasn’t her father. ‘Twas becoming harder with each passing day. Already, he feared ‘twas too late.

“Aye,” was all he said.

The little girl lunged, clearly intending to squeeze him again, but upon seeing his bruises and welts, she drew up short.

“Athair!” she gasped, her eyes growing round.

He reassured her with a silent nod and then, strode to his chest. As usual, the children watched his every move. He didn’t mind. In fact, he was growing accustomed to their constant presence. With his clothing selection made, he nodded at them.

All four grinned.

He quirked his lip in response, and then draping his fresh shirt and plaid over his arm, quit the chamber and headed to the guardroom to change with some measure of privacy. With so few men in Lord Haddon’s household, the guardroom stood deserted nearly every hour of the day. This afternoon, ‘twas no different.

He kicked the fire back to life, changed his clothing, and then returned to lean over the fire, his hands planted firmly on the mantle.

For a time, he merely watched the flames, allowing his thoughts to wander as they willed, from the queen’s edict, assuredly, but more often to Moll’s winsome figure. Then as his collarbone began again to throb, he quit the guardroom in favor of the wall.

As ever, the wind blew against his face. Overhead, hawks soared on the wind. He passed through the eastern guard tower and out the other end, and then paused a moment to inspect the stables. In the grasslands behind the stables, he could see the horses grazing, his among them. If only he were riding home. Aye, he belonged in the Highlands, not dancing to the tune of a fickle queen—and that of a weak king, as well. He missed the call of the moorland birds, the smell of the wild heather, and the spring of the moss and peat beneath his feet. He closed his eyes. The Highlands beckoned—the king and the queen, be damned.

“I knew I’d find ye here,” Euphemia murmured by his side.

Taran didn’t have to look to know she stood there with her simpering smile and her bodice pulled far lower than propriety allowed—as if that could stimulate his interest in her. A fleeting glimpse of Moll’s lace-edged shift inflamed him far more than if Euphemia stood naked, revealing every inch of her flesh.

Euphemia brushed his sleeve. He did look then, in order to place a decent distance between them.

“I miss the Highlands,” Euphemia said in a low voice. “Home. The wind on the moors. The selkies.”

Between each word, she paused and thrust her breasts forward, her bodice—as he’d predicted—pulled down low. He didn’t bother to respond and turned back to the wall instead, locking his gaze over the hills.

Euphemia mistook his response as an invitation. Her fingers brushed his arm.

Irritated, he stepped back, but she stayed him with a hand on his arm.

“I understand why ye would go to her,” Euphemia said in a low voice, her face tightening. “But she is no longer necessary, my lord.”

Of course, she spoke of Moll, but ‘necessary’? ‘Twas an odd word. He arched a puzzled brow.

Euphemia stepped into him, brushing her breasts against his arm. “My lord,” she panted in a breathy sort of way. “I’ll keep ye fair interested in my bed. Ye willa need to seek comfort elsewhere. And ye need an heir, my lord. As your wife, only I can give ye that.”