Page 39 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Then, Taran nodded. “Sorcha, my cousin’s wife, is a witch.” His chiseled lips lifted in one corner.

‘Twas a comforting smile, one clearly meant to set her at ease. Still, ‘twas fair difficult to breathe. “That’s a dangerous word to say, my lord,” she whispered.

Taran shrugged and lifted a wry brow. “Aye, but there are none here, save ourselves.”

Still somewhat on edge, she finished with the lichen and began to pick through the mushrooms.

“I’d warrant ‘tis your eyes that marks your gift,” his deep baritone observed after a time.

Moll paused. ‘Twas odd he should know the true mark of a witch lay in the eyes. Few folk did.

With his gaze locked on the flames dancing under the cauldron, he spoke as if merely thinking aloud, “Sorcha dreamt of events to come. I witnessed her gift with mine own eyes…though, ‘twas a day of sorrow—great sorrow, that she saw. Aye, a day best unseen by any.”

The raw pain in his voice summoned a wave of sympathy.

For a time, a companionable silence fell, one in which she returned to the fire to fill the pot again.

Then, strangely wanting him to know, she confessed, “I know only of the heart. ‘Tis my gift to listen to the hearts of others, should they allow, and then assist in healing what I might find.”

“The heart?” Taran shifted, another smile dancing on his lips. “Can ye tell me then, what does mine say?”

He was powerful, strong, with the body of a warrior. She didn’t need to listen to his heart to know that. “Your heart holds little that is ill, my lord. You are a man of thought, strength, and discipline.”

“Is that all ye hear?” he asked when she paused, his voice deepening.

Moll swallowed. “’Tis all I can determine, my lord, without…without…” The last thing she wished to do was place her ear upon his chest.

“Without?”

“Without listening to your heart.” She turned back to the fire.

“As in, truly listen?” There was a genuine curiosity in his voice.

She drew a breath and nodded, pretending to inspect the cauldron’s bubbling water.

“Then, lass, I beg ye put your ear to my chest,” came the words she dreaded to hear.

As a Witch of the Heart, she couldn’t ignore an honest entreaty. Slowly, she straightened and faced him.

He watched her approach. His eyes were so blue, a blue as deep as the sea, and his body, something she suddenly feared to touch—not because she feared him, but because…she didn’t.

“Shall I stand?” he asked, a note of something in his tone that quickened her pulse.

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured.

He rose to his feet, towering over her as she locked her gaze onto his chest and attempted to focus her thoughts. She failed. With her own heart thumping so loudly in her ears, she doubted she would even be able to hear a single beat of his. Biting her tongue, she stepped close, and turning her head to the side, placed her ear against his chest.

‘Twas far too intimate a position, standing so close to the man. Heat radiated from his body, a warmth strangely luring her closer. Why did he feel so intensely familiar? A sense of safety washed over her, mingling with a heightened awareness that prickled her skin. He smelled of soap and spice. She inhaled the heady scent, simply wanting to breathe him in, suddenly wanting more…but more…of what?

In her confusion, her gift steadied her thoughts, stilling her mind and drawing her focus to his heart, echoing so strong and steady beneath her ear.

Honor. Strength. Loyalty. A man truly worthy of trust…yet, about his own heart wound a shell of stone. Yes, he was a man of trust, but a man who trusted few. Her mother had oft claimed no potion could cure a heart of stone. Only one thing could. ‘Twas love.

Then, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck and her senses leapt, sending a foreign pulse of longing straight down her spine.

Her head snapped up and she stepped back, rattled. The eyes staring back at her were cool and so boldly unrepentant. Had his touch been accidental? With the honor she’d heard beating beneath her ear, she thought so, for truly, he was a man to trust.

Drawing a breath, she pronounced, “Your heart is strong, my lord, honor, discipline, and duty abound, yet…’tis overly fortified.”