Page 48 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

His fingers splayed low to cup her buttock. As he squeezed, a flash of panic erupted. ‘Twas instinct that wrenched her lips from his and lifted her hand.

She slapped him. Hard. Across the cheek. The sound resounded through the aviary like the crack of a whip.

In an instant, fingers of steel captured her wrist.

Moll gulped. “Forgive me,” she choked, fear and shock warring with an overwhelming sense of regret.

“Why?”

How could she explain when she wasn’t entirely sure herself? ‘Twas as if her hand had been spelled. “Forgive me,” she repeated in a strangled whisper.

“I dinna ask for an apology, lass,” came his soft reply as he slowly let her wrist go. “I thought ye were enjoying yourself.”

He stepped back, but she caught his shirt with both hands. She didn’t want him to leave. “I was,” she breathed.

She felt his chest expand beneath her breasts as he inhaled, deeply. ‘Twas so very astonishing. He was a mountain of a man, a man nearly twice the size of Thomas and so very much stronger, yet inexplicably, she felt safe, protected—even after slapping him across the face.

Two fingers slipped under her chin, forcing her face up to his. ‘Twas dark, she couldn’t see his expression, but there was no denying the gentleness of his touch.

“Dinna think of him, lass,” the deep rumble of his burr vibrated through her as much as she heard the words. “Let him go.”

There was no doubt of who he meant. Thomas. She shuddered. Thomas was dead. He and his horrors had no place in her life—especially not now. Here.

“Aye,” he murmured, taking her response for the admission it was.

Slowly, the warmth of his arms returned to cradle her as if she were something precious, fragile, made of glass. With a long, shaky breath, she lay her ear against his chest. ‘Twas calming to hear the steady rhythm of his heart, her witchy instincts reaffirming with each beat that this was a man worthy of trust, even though she already knew it from the bottom of her soul.

She stood there, frozen in time, until he shifted, ever so slightly, pulling her into an even closer embrace. The lazy ripple of muscle moving beneath her cheek brought the words finally to her lips.

“You’re not angry with me.”

“For that wee slap?” he asked lightly. “How could I? Ye warned me fair from the start.”

Moll lifted her head. “Warned you?”

“Aye, ye told me I’d be missing a piece...”

Moll drew a wavering breath, torn between amusement and the sudden desire to weep.

“There’s time, lass,” he whispered in her ear.

She did weep then, all of the tears she’d wanted to shed over her marriage to Thomas but never had. Just how long she stood there locked in his arms, she could not say. Gradually, she became aware of his hand softly stroking her hair.

“Trust,” she heard herself whisper, at last. “I do trust you.”

She felt him tense beneath her, and for a fleeting moment, she feared she’d erred, but he was only wrapping her closer still.

“Ye sound angry, huffing in the dark—” Taran’s deep voice began.

Again, instinct guided her. She threaded her arms about his neck and pulled his head down.

‘Twas an awkward kiss. Never before had she willingly kissed a man. She pressed her mouth to his in more of a quick mashing of flesh than anything else. Embarrassed, she pulled away, but he caught the back of her head with his hand and dipped his head to catch her mouth with his. ‘Twas elegantly done, a move of consummate skill that, in the back of her mind, begged a question of just how many bumbling maids he’d ensnared. Then, such foolish thoughts faded as, once again, she fell prey to his magic.

This time, as his tongue teased hers, she met him, thrust for thrust. Time vanished. There was nothing but their tongues, dancing a delightful, heated dance.

Unfamiliar tingles swept over her entire body. She heard a moan—hers?—as a thrill of heat began to pool deep in her belly.

“MacKenzie,” a voice called, sounding as if from far away.