Page 45 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Taran stepped forward and gave her arm a gentle squeeze as he raised his voice over hers. “’Twas an ill-thought jest, Haddon. A foolish prank the lads played on my men. Nothing more.” He’d deal with the twins later—a proper punishment to set them on a straight path, a path that would keep them there.

“Yes, my lord.” Francis seized the explanation and immediately folded in a contrite bow. “’Twas a bet, my lord. A game. A challenge how far we could filch afore the clansmen noticed, my lord.”

The lad’s smooth delivery seemed so genuine, so natural, that Taran felt sore tempted to applaud his performance.

Doubt and irritation flashed across Lord Haddon’s face and on more than one face in the crowd.

Lord Haddon scowled and ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I’ve more pressing matters,” he growled. “I’ve not the time for such foolish pranks. Next time, in addition to whatever punishment your father heaps upon your head, I’ll whip you both, myself.”

“Aye,” Taran agreed.

With a curt nod, Lord Haddon left.

Appearing disappointed, the crowd began to disperse.

Taran turned on the twins. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. They read his anger right well enough. When he pointed in the direction of his bedchamber, they quailed and scrambled to obey.

The door to his bedchamber had no sooner closed then Moll whirled on both lads.

“How could you, Francis?” she choked, her eyes red with unshed tears. She reached up and twisted his ear, repeating the word ‘why’ again and again until he ducked out of her grasp.

“La mercy, Moll,” Francis began with a glare, but upon noticing Taran’s censorious gaze, clamped his mouth shut and skulked to the window.

Moll turned to George then. “Why, George? Why? We’re on the edge of ruin already. Why endanger us all?” This time, she could no longer hold the tears back.

The sight of Moll in tears disturbed Taran mightily, but as he moved to intervene, ‘twas clear her weeping sobered the lads more than anything else could. They stood there, stricken, apparently for the first time realizing the enormity of what they’d done.

‘Twas when the younger children began to cry that Taran cleared his throat. ‘Twas enough.

But Moll was not yet done. “I trusted you,” she gasped. “Where shall we go now? ‘Tis winter.”

“Winter is precisely why, Moll,” Francis was quick to reply. “How else can we eat when we’re tossed on our arse in the freezing cold?”

“We can’t see you starve yourself again,” George interjected hoarsely. “Not when this lot would most likely never notice anything missing.”

“They wouldn’t have if…” Francis began but after glancing at Taran, he fell silent.

All eyes latched onto Taran, nervously. Moll covered her mouth with her hands, her breasts heaving, as the children watched, wide-eyed, their wee faces pinched with worry.

Taran inhaled a long breath. Of course. The lads merely sought to see them fed. ‘Twas little to blame. Their hearts were in the right place.

Slowly, he raised a hand and fixed the twins with a stern look. “Men dinna steal. Men work. ‘Tis dishonorable to risk the lives of those in your care.”

Their nostrils flared.

Taran tilted his head in challenge. “Can ye care for Moll and the wee ones if ye rot in prison or even hang?”

Silence greeted his question.

“Aye, then.” He folded his arms and assumed a voice of command. “From this moment forth, ye’ll work from dawn till dusk. Honest work will keep ye safe from mischief.”

“Work?” Francis retorted hotly. “There’s no work to be found for the likes of us. We’ve tried, time and again.”

George clenched his jaw in silent agreement.

‘Twas likely true enough. Folk were leery of pickpockets, but now, ‘twas time to change that.

“Ye’ll return what ye stole,” Taran continued in a hard voice. “Report to Doughall, at once. Ye’ll make amends with the clansmen by polishing their boots, washing their plaids, or whatever else they wish from ye until I say otherwise. And for so foolishly infringing on Lord Haddon’s time, ye’ll clean the aviary from top to bottom, starting this very day.”