Page 46 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Their jaws dropped.

‘Twas just the beginning of what he had in mind for the lads. He’d erred by not keeping them busy from the start.

Pointing a finger at the door, he uttered a single word, “Go.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, they headed for the door, but Moll stopped them along the way. Silently, she twisted their ears. Hard. ‘Twas a gesture that expressed so much, fear, relief, love.

He didn’t miss the sheepish looks of apology the twins tossed her in return, the bond between them all so plain to see. He recognized the look. ‘Twas the same kind of bond he’d long shared with his men on the battlefield, a bond he’d found nowhere else.

As the three younger lads began to relax and smile with relief, Charlotte threw herself at Taran.

“I knew you wouldn’t toss us out, Athair,” she wept as she wrapped her thin arms about his waist in a fierce hug.

Pain sliced through his sore ribs the harder she squeezed, but he only patted her on the head. “Dinna fret, lassie,” he murmured. When he could bear the discomfort no more, he gently extricated himself from her grasp and stepped back.

Soft fingers touched his arm. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Indeed, he was certain he could recognize her by the feel of her skin on his alone.

“How can I repay you for your mercy?” Moll whispered hoarsely.

What he wanted she couldn’t give, his freedom, release from putting the welfare of everyone else above his own. Beyond that, there was only one thing he truly wanted. Gently, he placed his hand over hers. “Trust, lass. I would ye repaid me with trust.”

‘Twas only then that he turned to face her.

A single tear spilled down her cheek. Slowly, he traced the glistening trail with his thumb, breathing deeply all the while. If only he could hold her close, offer her the comfort of his arms whilst he kissed her tears away.

It took every ounce of discipline in his possession to will his hands to drop and turned his feet toward the door.

* * *

Snow fell that night. Taran stood in the gray morning light, peering out at the white expanse covering the castle grounds. He’d returned to his bedchamber the previous night, determined to keep a closer eye on the wayward twins.

Again, he woke in the morning to discover he’d slept through the night without waking, and again, Wee Jack had crawled down from the bed to fall asleep on his chest.

Carefully, he eased the lad aside, and then stole a look at Moll. ‘Twas an act of self-torture, nothing less. His groin tightened at the sight of her lying on the bed, a dangerous mix of soft flesh and shapely curves, the blanket dipping between the vulnerable spread of her thighs. Just as quickly as he’d glanced, he forced his eyes away, back to the snow. Aye, ‘twould take both snow and the icy water of the well to cool the heat of his blood this morn.

He stalked to the twins still snoring on their pallets.

“Up,” he ordered in a whisper, toeing them both awake. They began to groan, but he silenced them with a sharp jab of his foot and hissed, “Dinna wake the others.”

Grumbling, they stumbled after him out the door.

They detoured to the guardroom first. There, Taran nodded at the three-legged stool. “Bring that with ye, George. Be quick.”

George obliged, balancing the stool on his shoulder with a black look, but obeying all the same.

Taran led them down the tower stairs and into the cold morning air. The snow had stopped, and in the distance, the clouds had parted enough to let the sun shine through. Silently, they trudged across the courtyard to the great hall, their boots crunching loudly on the crust of the snow.

The meal was a quick, but hearty one, warm bowls of sage-seasoned barley and venison custard, then, ‘twas off to the aviary, this time Francis lugging the stool, instead.

The courtyard stood empty, ‘twas early yet for the men to arrive, and with the snow, they’d likely delay their practice even further.

“Leave the stool here.” Taran pointed at the section of wall opposite the aviary door, then pointed at the spades and buckets stacked against the wall. “My men have readied your tools. ’Tis time ye started.” He nodded at the aviary, and then masking his nose with his plaid to ward off the smell, settled himself on the stool and leaned comfortably back.

“’Tis foul,” Francis objected, at once.

George shot his brother a look and rolled his eyes.

“Aye, ‘tis why you’re here,” Taran chuckled, giving voice to the lad’s expression. Tipping the stool back on two legs, he added, “Dinna expect a harvest if you’re too lazy to plow, lads.”