Page 38 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Pleased, Moll placed her bundles of mushrooms and lichen next to the small iron pot and stepped to the fire to peek into the cauldron. ‘Twas a third full, more than enough for the potions. She straightened and glanced about. A small room led off to the left, and judging from the array of barrels, buckets, and tubs through the open door, ‘twas clear it was a storage room.

Moll reached for the lichen. She’d trim them first, then whilst she waited, steep the mushrooms for both Lady Haddon’s and Taran’s potions. ‘Twas the trickiest part of the potion. One couldn’t let them steep for long—

The sudden splashing of water in the storage room startled her back into looking through the door. Was Bridgette still there?

Curious, she stepped closer and called softly, “Bridgett—”

Another splash interrupted her from behind a stack of wooden crates. She hurried around them, then drew up short.

Her eyes widened in shock.

‘Twas Taran. He stood, magnificently naked, next to a large, wooden tub. Water dripped from his hair and over his broad shoulders, forming a pool beneath his feet.

She stared, stunned, then of their own accord, her gaze slid down, over his tanned chest, first. ‘Twas the chest of a warrior, hard and chiseled. The few faded scars laced under his ribs not only lent him an air of dangerous mystery but pulled her gaze even further down. She swallowed a gasp. The bawdiest of the gossiping women had been wrong. ‘Twas clear she’d underestimated his size.

Only then, did Moll regain enough presence of mind to cover her eyes.

“Sweet Mary,” she choked.

Feeling all at once hot and at a loss for words, she whirled and rushed out of the room.

At the table once again, she drew a sharp breath and smoothed her skirt, her heart hammering wildly. She had no business acting like an awestruck maid. She’d seen naked men before—well, Thomas, anyway. She scowled to be thinking of him. The old tailor had closer resembled a dumpling bobbing in a pot whilst Taran possessed the body of a Greek god.

Flustered, she grabbed the ladle and the pot, firmly reminding herself she had potions to prepare. The act of whispering the words of healing grounded her roiling emotions, and as she filled the pot with boiling water, peace returned. By the time she returned to the table, she was once again calm.

As she reached for the lichen, the sound of boots scraping the flagstone floor startled her into glancing sideways.

Taran loomed large in the doorway, his blue eyes crinkled with amusement, and just like that, her nervousness returned.

The cheekiness of the man. He stood there so boldly, so calm and unperturbed. The fact he was now clothed from head to toe in a white, linen shirt and a green MacKenzie plaid did nothing to erase the memory of a bare, muscled with tanned skin, and powerful thighs.

Feeling her cheeks flame, she averted her gaze back to the lichen and picking up the knife, and began to chop the flat leaf lobes, far quicker than usual.

“I found no willow bark, my lord,” she said. “There was lichen aplenty, though. I found what you need, growing on the eastern wall. ‘Tis best to hasten the mending of wounds, and ‘twill lessen the pain, as well—even better than the willow bark, some say. That along with a mushroom, will do wonders. It shan’t be long afore it’s ready.” She winced and put the knife down. She was babbling like a madwoman.

“Aye.”

‘Twas only a single word, but his smooth, deep baritone made the hairs of her neck stand on end. He was obviously a man who weighed his words, but then, with eyes and a mouth as expressive as his, he hardly needed them.

She bit her lip to keep her tongue still and scooping up a handful of lichen, sprinkled it into the pot. “It shan’t be long,” she repeated, willing him to hurry his leaving of the room. “I’ll send George to you with the brew, my lord.”

Ignoring the door, he stalked to the table and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “I’ll stay,” he said.

Startled, she glanced up to see the spark of dry amusement still lurking in his eyes. ‘Twas clear he thought her seeing him without a single stitch of clothing quite humorous. As fresh images of his fine, unclothed physique danced once again in her head, she blew back a wayward strand of hair from her face with a huff.

Grabbing the knife, she began to chop the lichen again, vigorously, keenly aware of the Highlander lounging at the end of the table, studying her every move.

“Welsh herblore, aye?” he queried after a time.

She hardly heard the words. The lilt in his voice was dangerous. No doubt, he’d ensnared many a maid with that deep rumble and the soothing way the syllables slipped from his tongue…what had he asked? Ah, herblore.

“I know only of lichens and mushrooms,” she admitted with a shrug, sprinkling the last of the lichen into the pot and reaching for the second bundle. “My mother mastered herbs, barks, and even weeds of the sea. Folk came from leagues away to seek her wisdom and be cured of their ills. They crowned her Wales’s most powerful witch.” She smiled, recalling the awe in their eyes under her mother’s gentle touch.

“Witch?”

Moll glanced up, startled. His blue eyes bore into hers as a fine sense of horror crept down her spine. Lord help her, she was a fool. She’d let the man’s mesmerizing ways lull her out too far from her shell.

The sound of the fire cracking and popping filled the room.