Page 41 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Moll curtseyed.

With an absent smile, the woman waved to Bridgette for assistance as Moll took her leave, letting herself out of the room.

As the massive iron-studded door closed behind her, Moll expelled a breath. What would it take for Lady Haddon to trust her? To allow her to listen to her heart? ‘Twas clear the locket held a key to some secret pain, mayhap even the pain that stood at the root of her ills.

Slowly, Moll descended the keep’s winding stairs. Of all ills of the heart, those of sadness were the hardest to cure.

The moon inched above the castle walls as she exited the keep and crossed the grounds, hurrying toward the tower stairs leading to Taran’s bedchamber. Torches flickered in their iron brackets, sending shadows dancing across the cobblestones beneath her feet.

Had George found Taran? She’d sent the boy out with his potion, just before she’d left to deliver Lady Haddon’s. Had he drunk the brew?

A figure stepped out from the surrounding darkness. “Moll.”

Moll jerked.

‘Twas Euphemia, swathed in a blue velvet mantle caressing her statuesque form in elegant folds. She looked like a queen, so regal, powerful, but even in the dim torchlight, Moll could see her eyes were cold, detached, with all the warmth of a snake.

“My lady.” Moll dipped dutifully.

Euphemia sniffed in disdain. “Can ye not learn your place, Moll? ‘Strewth, be ye canna stay.”

Alarm gripped Moll. Her heart began to pound.

Euphemia stepped closer and lowered her voice, “Aye, I tolerated ye, out of the kindness of my heart and pity for the wee ones, but soon, I’ll be Taran’s wedded wife. I’ll not have ye as a distraction.” Her hand snaked out and caught Moll by the arm. “Know your place, or when I’m his wife, ye might just find yourself without a roof over your head where the winters are cold. Aye?” She dug her fingers deep into Moll’s flesh.

With a twist of her arm, Moll wrenched herself free. Would Taran truly wed this harridan? ‘Twould be a match made in hell. Then remembering just how miserable Euphemia could make her life, she obediently lowered her chin.

“Aye,” the woman purred. “’Tis best ye hie yourself off. Your time with Taran is done.”

“Euphemia?” a voice called.

As Euphemia glanced over her shoulder, Moll used the distraction to escape.

With the woman blocking the tower door, she’d have to enter the tower from the wall above.

Picking up her skirts, she slipped behind the great hall and raced up the steps near the aviary. A guard nodded her way as she passed him on the wall. ‘Twas dark, but every line of his body had denoted respect. Mayhap, word of her efforts with Lady Haddon had spread.

With a quickened pace, she sprinted along the wall, half afraid Euphemia would be waiting for her at the top of the tower stairs.

She’d just entered the north tower, when someone moved in behind her.

Startled, she whirled.

A tall figure of a man stepped into the circle of light cast from the torch on the wall.

‘Twas Taran, his dark brows drawn into a scowl.

“And what was Euphemia torturing ye over, lass?” he asked, his eyes boring through hers.

He caught her hand in his, ‘twas a light touch, but one that strangely rendered her incapable of noticing anything but the heat of his fingers, so gently circling her wrist. If she stepped back, he would let her go, no doubt. She held her breath, powerless to move.

“Did George give you the brew?” she asked, her gaze snagging on the cleft in his chin and his strong jaw still so enticingly shadowed.

“Aye, I thank ye,” he murmured, still holding her hand. “Euphemia?”

“’Twas nothing,” she hedged, her heart again beating loudly in her ears. She didn’t want to think of the woman’s spite or the fact she might very well wed the man standing before her, so very close.

He seemed to mull this over, then slowly, let her hand slip free from his grasp.