Page 51 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

He turned toward the sound of her voice. ‘Twas strange. His name felt so natural on her lips, mayhap because of the kiss? With a private smile, she flew to his side.

Then, his hands were cradling hers, his skin rough, warm. She looked at his fingers over hers. He was so kind, a man truly worthy of trust, a man she hadn’t known could walk the face of the earth, and even though they had no future together, she still wanted to kiss him again.

“Taran,” a woman’s low voice sliced through the air like a sword.

Over Taran’s shoulder, Moll saw Euphemia approach, moving slow, unhurried, her velvet, fur-trimmed mantle whirling in the breeze.

Taran tilted his head.

“Taran,” Euphemia repeated as she drew abreast. Ignoring Moll outright, she pulled out a letter from the depths of her mantle. “’Tis a decree, from the king,” she said, looking quite pleased. “His Majesty has made his choice, my lord. He sent me a letter, as well.”

“Choice?”

“Aye, my lord.” Euphemia looked smug, a conqueror gloating over the vanquished. “By the king’s command, we are to be wed. Straightaway.”

By the King’s Command

Cold anger swept through Taran as he broke the red wax seal. As Euphemia’s simpering tones faded into the background, the words leapt from the page, words he’d never expected the king to pen. “We have decided,” “Delay no longer,” “Take Euphemia Hay to wife,” followed by “This is our command”.

Wed Euphemia? By command? Hellfire and damnation, she must have had a hand in the matter—mayhap even two. ‘Twas not how alliances were created. He’d have none of it.

Still standing next to the fireplace in the great hall, he read the letter again, stunned into silence.

“’Tis wondrous tidings,” Euphemia purred.

Taran lifted his head.

Moll hadn’t followed them. He had a dim recollection of her honey-blonde head vanishing into the tower as Euphemia had spewed the fateful words of ‘we are to be wed’.

A hand touched his arm. Euphemia’s. The sight of her fingers brought a shudder of revulsion.

Irritated, he brushed her hand away.

From birth, he’d been reared to place the welfare of the clan above all else. He’d never failed in that. But now? He’d much rather cast a millstone about his neck and jump in the nearest loch. He’d not let the Hay clan force their way into his house. He knew the MacKenzies would support him in that, at least.

“MacKenzie.”

‘Twas Lord Hay, bearing down upon him like an angry bullock.

“Father,” Euphemia greeted, curtseying low.

The man ignored her to look straight at Taran,

“Ye’ve insulted my daughter enough, MacKenzie,” Lord Hay accused, his face a dark red. “You’re betrothed to my daughter now, and now, I’ll see her treated with respect. From this moment forward, ye’ll turn out that whore and those bast—”

Taran stopped him with a brow. “Have a care.”

The muscle on Lord Hay’s jaw twitched. “Ye’ll wed my daughter, as the king commands.”

Taran folded his arms as a bitter anger began to burn. He’d never wed the spiteful shrew, and as for the king and his decree?

Locking his gaze with Lord Hay, he crumpled the king’s letter and tossed it into the fire.

Euphemia gasped as the flames caught hold.

He didn’t care. He owed them no further explanation. He wasn’t their puppet on a string.

Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and strode away.