Page 54 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Then, his teeth grazed her jaw and the scratch of his stubbled chin sent ribbons of pleasure straight down her back. She shivered, unable to stop her hips from pushing against his hardness.

He moaned, the sound so deep, so primal, her eyes flew open and she half lifted herself from his lap, but he was quick. With battle-honed reflexes, he gripped her hips and pulled her back down again.

“Stay,” he breathed the plea.

With that brogue rumbling in her ear, how could she resist? Lord help her, she didn’t want to go, she wanted more of him—all of him.

He was watching her through hooded eyes, unable to conceal his lust, a lust she knew was equal to her own. As if in a trance, she lifted her fingers and tugged her bodice laces.

Taran caught her chin with his hand. “Are ye certain?”

The intense heat of his smoldering gaze made her every nerve tingle in excitement. As she began pulling her gown off her shoulders, he caught her fingers and lifted them to his lips.

“Nay, lass,” he rumbled as his lashes lowered even more.

Moll froze. Had she erred? Did he not want her? He must think her wanton, a—

“This is my journey, lass,” he murmured. “A journey to savor.”

He pulled her close and nibbled her neck as his hands slid over her skin and then, ever so slowly, slipped beneath her shift. She held her breath as with an agonizingly delightful slowness, he slid his hand down to cup her breast in a soft caress. Lord help her, but every bone in her body turned to jelly at that touch. As he nuzzled her ear, his fingers kneaded and teased, each stroke sending shivers of delight to pool low in her belly.

She couldn’t hold still. She had to move. Again, she pushed against him, but she wasn’t as close as she liked. The pillow strapped about her waist stood in the way. Irritated, she yanked at the straps.

Then, Taran slipped her gown over her shoulder and took her breast in his mouth.

All thoughts of pillows vanished in a flash.

“Moll! Moll!”

Startled, Taran lifted his head.

Shocked at the state of her undress, Moll slid off his lap and covered herself in a rush.

‘Twas none too soon. The next moment, Francis burst into the laundry. “’Tis Charlotte. She fainted and we can’t wake her.”

Behind him, George suddenly loomed.

Moll took one look at their worried faces and ran.

* * *

By evening, Charlotte began to moan. She lay on the bed, her cheeks pink with fever and sweat beading her brow. Moll stayed by her side, wordless, worried. Again and again, she’d listened to the little girl’s heart, but each time, she heard merely the beat. ‘Twas as if Charlotte had tucked her heart away, behind a fortress of stone.

“Nothing?” Francis asked again from where he sat at the foot of the bed.

Moll shook her head. ‘Twas odd. The illness had come quick.

The door to the bedchamber opened and Taran entered. ‘Twas the third time in the past hour alone that he’d returned for news.

“Anything?”

Again, Moll shook her head.

“Mayhap, we can—” he began when outside the window, men began to shout.

Arching a brow, Taran crossed to the window and peered outside.

“What is it?” Moll whispered from Charlotte’s side.