Page 56 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Snatching her cloak from the foot of the bed, Moll fled down the tower stairs.

‘Twas near dark. Surely, with the gates open and the queen and her retinue arriving, no one would see her slipping out of the castle. She’d be quick. ‘Twas only a stone’s throw away, and truly, what was the harm?

The castle inhabitants milled about the gates and lined the walls above as Moll arrived. ‘Twas difficult to see over the wagging heads and in the gathering gloom.

Determined, she pushed forward and had nearly arrived at the front of the throng when three armored men astride black horses filed inside, the first bearing a magnificent red silk banner stitched with three white lions.

Directly upon their heels, a gaunt, aged woman with a pale, powdered face and flaming red hair entered, riding a white palfrey. The deep, regal red of her gown, the ermine-trimmed cloak, and the jewels bedecking her bony fingers announced her as Elizabeth, Queen of England.

The crowd bowed.

As Moll rose from her curtsey, she caught sight of Taran, his dark brows furrowed as she stood behind Lord Haddon in the middle of the courtyard, waiting for the queen.

The queen’s palfrey pranced forward, lifting its hooves in an elegant dance up to Lord Haddon, and then straight past him, to stop before Taran, instead.

A murmur rippled over the crowd. ‘Twas a public shaming of Lord Haddon that none could miss. No doubt, no other matter would be discussed for days, but the sight of Taran receiving the queen only tore her heart.

She bowed her head. The country duck with the swan. What a fool she’d been to forget. She had no place kissing a man who received a queen.

Grimly, she turned her head, unwilling to watch a moment longer.

The queen’s attendants streamed through the gates, men on horses and donkeys pulling laden carts—one packed with a stunningly carved headboard and the posts of a bed. Apparently, the queen planned on taking up residence in Haddon Hall for quite some time.

‘Twas then Moll noticed the gates. They stood wide open, offering her a tantalizing view of the stables behind the sea of servants still surging inside.

She hadn’t realized she’d slipped through until she stood outside the castle walls, watching the tail-end of the queen’s procession march inside.

Lord help her, what had she done?

A quick, startled glance revealed the men guarding the ramparts distracted, their attention focused on the proceedings within. As one began to turn, back toward the road, Moll realized she stood too far from the gate. She’d never be able to dash back inside without him noticing.

Truly, there was only one way to remain undetected, and that was forward.

Without another thought, she picked up her skirts and ran for the stables as if the Devil himself nipped her heels.

The strong scent of hay blasted her nostrils as she darted through the door. For a minute, maybe more, she leaned against the wall, willing her pounding heart to still, half expecting the guards to barge through and drag her away at any moment.

The unmistakable sound of grinding metal intruded upon her fears, and with her heart in her throat, she crouched by the door and peered around the corner, back at the castle.

‘Twas as she’d feared. The castle gates were closing.

Moll swallowed.

She stood on the wrong side.

Greetings from the King

Taran eyed Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England, as she sat at the high table, presiding over the great hall. Pale-skinned and thin lipped, the hallows beneath her cheeks lent her the appearance of a bird of prey. The keen, hawkish gleam in her brown eyes only served to underscore the comparison, as did her long-fingered hands with nails of exceptional length.

“Lord MacKenzie.” The queen tilted her red head in his direction, again deliberately ignoring the castle’s own lord where he stood, scarce five feet away.

Taran’s lip curled into a smile. ‘Twas far amusing, truly, that the only alternative at Her Majesty’s disposal was himself—a man she’d avoided for months. The ironic gleam in her eyes revealed the observation was not lost upon her, as well.

“Lady Haddon?” the queen asked no one in particular, her voice as hard as steel. “Why does she not greet us?”

From the corner of his eye, Taran could see Lord Haddon tense. ‘Twas fortunate the queen was hellbent on ignoring him outright and failed to take note. One breath of illness within the walls of Her Majesty’s newfound haven, and Lady Haddon might very well find herself hanging with the rest who dared bring illness into the presence of the Queen.

From the sickly pallor of Lord Haddon’s face, ‘twas clear the thought crossed his mind, as well.