Page 52 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

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Taran pondered the empty parchment. He’d burnt the first missive he’d penned to the king. While he’d found the authoring quite freeing, calling His Majesty a “spineless scut”, “a shiftless will-o-the-wisp in the wind,” and a “bumbling moldwarp with the courage of a mouse, unable to stand against even a witless fool” would only prolong—and unnecessarily—complicate the issue. He’d wait until he’d resolved the matter, then have his say.

Nay, ‘twas far more expedient to simply inform His Majesty that he would forge his own clan alliances. He eyed the letter he’d already written to his father. Even his father’s reaction didn’t concern him. His father would support the will of the clan…and that was the heart of the matter. The clan concerned Taran the most. ‘Twas their livelihood, safety, and future at stake—the blood of their sons.

He bowed his head. If only he could choose his own wife, based on her merit, a strong-hearted lass who could inspire, a lass who could lead the clan in his absence, and a lass they could fall in love with…as he could, himself.

He reached for the bottle of whisky and tipped another mouthful, and then, picked up the quill again.

“Athair? Are ye coming to bed? ‘Tis late, Athair.”

Taran glanced over to see Charlotte standing at the end of the table, her small hands clenched into fists. The wee lass tried so hard to mimic him. He owed her the truth. Yet, from her furtive manner and pinched face, ‘twas clear she’d heard the rumors circling of the king’s decree. ‘Twas clearly too cruel to shock the lassie again.

“I am not yet weary, lassie.”

Charlotte bit her lip, and then hopped onto the bench by his side, still wary and pensive. “I’ll keep ye company.”

Taran reached over and tousled her head.

“Charlotte,” Moll’s voice slipped through the hall.

She stood only a table away, her face stoic, emotionless as she refused to meet his eyes. By God, what had he done? He should never have kissed her. She’d taken the first step of trust…and now? What could he offer her?

The quill snapped in his hand.

“Are ye coming to bed, Athair?” Charlotte whispered, poised to leave.

He cleared his throat.

“Come, Charlotte,” Moll said firmly, holding out her hand.

Still, she refused to look at him as Charlotte scampered to her side, and then, they were both turning to scurry away.

Grimly, he watched them go. A lone wolf? Hardly. Now, he felt like an outcast, shunned from the pack.

Time passed.

At the midnight hour, he gave up all pretense of writing and strode to the walls for a breath of air.

The hours marched on.

‘Twas a cold, miserable night, yet he couldn’t rest. He wandered the walls under the bright stars in the vast night sky above, the expanse offering only an illusion of freedom. Now, Haddon Hall felt more like a trap than a cage.

At last, the sun rose over the rolling hills and the castle stirred to life. When the morning bells rang to announce the morning meal, he merely yawned and leaned against the wall. His appetite had shriveled away. ‘Twas only when he spied Euphemia grandly sweeping through the great hall doors, and then, a moment later, Moll exiting the North Tower with the children in tow that he roused himself.

He couldn’t let Moll walk straight into the viper’s nest.

Euphemia’s voice was hard to miss. He heard her the moment he ducked under the hall door, speaking in earnest with her maid.

“Send them to the kitchens. I willna see her in the company of her betters.” There was little doubt of whom Euphemia spoke. She stood next to the high table, shimmering in a forest-green silk gown and with every strand of her blonde hair carefully coiled.

No doubt, she considered herself a bonny lass, but he saw only a shrew.

“As for where she sleeps?” She tapped her chin. “Aye, the storerooms, or better yet, the laundry. Remove her, forthwith—”

“Nay,” Taran clipped the word.

The maid saw him first. She winced and cringed as Euphemia jerked, then faced him.