Page 53 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“My lord.” Only the flutter of her lashes betrayed her displeasure. “’Tis a pleasure to have ye join me here.” She waved her hand at the high table.

“Ye’ll leave Moll be,” Taran said, driving straight to the matter at hand. He cocked a brow at the maid and then Euphemia. “And that goes for ye, as well.”

The maid curtseyed and turned away, stumbling in her haste to leave.

“My lord—” Euphemia began.

Taran cut her short. “Dinna try me.”

‘Twas chilling how well she concealed her anger. Her smile remained unchanged, but he caught the subtle trembling of her chin before she fluttered her lashes and regained complete control. “I know ye were fair dazed last night, but ‘tis the king’s will. This marriage will happen, my lord.”

“Nay, ‘twill not. I promise ye.”

A look of alarm flashed across her face. She didn’t stop him as he spun on his heel to leave. He strode toward the table he’d so often shared with Moll, but while the children sat on the benches with their bowls of porridge, Moll did not.

“She’s in the laundry, Athair,” Charlotte whispered as he arrived.

Taran paused a moment, struck by the dark circles under the wee lassie’s eyes. ‘Twas clear she hadn’t slept a wink, as well. “After ye eat, get some sleep, lassie, aye?”

“Aye, Athair,” she replied with a nod.

He gave her a sympathetic pat on the head and then stalked away.

Moments later, he paused on the threshold of the laundry room door.

Moll sat on a stool with her back to him, picking through a pile of lichen on the table.

Slowly, he leaned against the doorjamb and took his fill of her curves, from the elegant arch of her neck to the pleasing flare of her hips. His body stirred. He wanted her, but now she was denied him, he wanted her even more.

Almost as if sensing his bold inspection, Moll suddenly glanced over her shoulder, then froze, her eyes wide.

With his gaze never wavering from hers, he straightened and entered the room.

It wasn’t until he’d reached her side that she moved, as if suddenly released from a spell.

“Your shoulder?” she asked, slipping off the stool.

“Astonishingly well,” he answered as he flexed his arm. “Never have I healed so quickly.”

She smiled, but then turned back to the pile of lichen. “You should rest, my lord.”

He hadn’t realized he’d kept moving until he felt his hands on her hips. He needed to touch her. Hold her.

“Euphemia—” she whispered, turning rigid beneath his fingers.

“God’s blood, dinna say her name.” Taran swore under his breath.

He knew he should leave, that he had no business being there, but the heady fragrance of her hair and the softness of her hips proved too much of a temptation to resist. With a need that bordered on desperation, his lips found hers.

Locked Out

Moll closed her eyes the moment Taran’s palms skimmed low over her hips. Soon, by the king’s command, he would take Euphemia to wife. Yet, the moment his cheek brushed her hair, she couldn’t stop herself from melting against his warmth. What power did the man possess? He had but to hold her in his arms and fears of the past—along with those of the future—simply faded away.

Then, his lips caught hers. This was no gentle teasing of the lips. ‘Twas fire, the soul of passion. As in the aviary, his touch awakened something deep within.

Giving into instinct, she pressed herself against him as his tongue swept into her mouth, teasing and dancing over hers. ‘Twas a new way of kissing that made her feel as light as a feather, carefree. She met his tongue with hers, stroke-for-stroke, and pressed herself against him, wanting to feel his hands caress every inch of her skin.

He stepped back, taking her with him as he sat down on the stool to pulling her into his lap while lifting her skirts just enough to allow her to straddle him. ‘Twas far too elegantly done, a well-practiced maneuver on his part, but the stab of jealousy vanished the instant she felt their most intimate places connect. He was hard. She could feel him beneath his plaid.