Page 40 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Taran lifted a brow, seeming only amused. “’Tis a flaw?”

“Hearts are meant to feel,” she murmured, for a moment, becoming the Witch of the Heart more than the uneasy maid. “Hearts are not meant to be stronger than stone, my lord.”

At the word ‘stone’, the line of his dark lashes fluttered in surprise, but he recovered quickly to comment, “Mayhap some hearts must set feeling aside in favor of duty and the greater good.”

‘Twas her turn to be surprised. His words dredged her father’s voice from the depths of her mind. Moll, you must wed the tailor for the greater good. Listen to your father now. ‘Tis for the greater good.

“Greater good?” she snorted and returned to the lichens steeping in the water. “’Tis the greater good that made me a tailor’s wife.”

She grabbed the knife and began to chop, attacking the lichen with a near savagery, mincing the lobes until they could be minced no more.

“A great wrong was done to ye, lass,” Taran murmured when she was done.

Moll clamped her jaw. She disliked sympathy. It only threatened tears. She jutted her jaw and replied, “It matter’s little, my lord. Now, I cherish my freedom all the more. Never will I wed again.”

To her surprise, she saw he’d moved closer, leaning now against the table, practically by her side. As she watched, his expression lightened, and a twinkle of mirth entered his eyes.

When he didn’t speak, she raised her chin. “And?”

“I’ll wager you’re wed within the year, lass,” he replied without hesitation.

The confidence in his tone made Moll snort. “I assure you, ‘tis absurd.” She stretched out her hand to pick up the pot when he chuckled. “My lord?” she snapped.

Taran crossed his arms and leaned close. “How?”

“How?”

“How is it absurd?” He leaned even closer still.

There hadn’t even been the slightest hint of stubble on his jaw that morning. Now, a day’s growth of beard graced his chin, setting her fingers twitching with the temptation to touch.

“How?” he repeated, softer still, a voice merely more than a breath.

Moll shivered and abruptly focused her gaze on her task. How was it absurd to find herself wed in a year? She snorted again. “Setting all else aside, my lord, what man would take on the raising of six children?” she asked briskly as she picked up the knife. “Six children, not of his own flesh and blood?”

Silence fell.

Then, Taran stirred at her side and hefted himself off the table. “I’ll be going, lass. I’ll send Doughall for the brew.”

Surprised at his sudden departure, she nodded and murmured, “My lord.”

On the threshold, he paused with his hand on the latch. “What man?” he asked suddenly, turning his head enough that she could see the firm line of his jaw. “I assure ye, Moll, there’s not a Highlander alive who wouldna want ye—nay, cherish such a bonny, bold lass so stoutheartedly willing to raise six wee ones naught of her own flesh and blood.” He snorted. “Aye, ye’ll find yourself wed in even less than a year. ‘Tis clear, ye were made for a man’s touch.”

The next moment, he was gone, leaving Moll standing by the table, her lips parted in surprise.

* * *

“Drink deeply, my lady, afore the life escapes,” Moll encouraged from where she knelt at Lady Haddon’s side.

The frail woman held the earthen cup in her trembling hands, and with a weak smile, drank. When she’d finished, she handed the cup to Moll with a grimace. “It tastes rather like pond water.”

“Mayhap closer akin to mud, my lady.” Moll laughed. “’Tis fortunate you must drink this only once a day.”

The humor on Lady Haddon’s face faded. With a sigh, she touched the locket hanging about her neck to her lips, departing a reverent kiss.

‘Twas a telling gesture. “’Tis such a beautiful locket, my lady.”

An expression of pain flashed over Lady Haddon’s face. “I do believe I shall sleep, now, Moll,” she said with a yawn. “Until the morrow, then?”