Page 57 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Taran bowed. “She is indisposed with child, Your Majesty,” he replied.

The queen arched a painted brow.

As her eyes narrowed with suspicion, Taran knew he needed a distraction—quickly. ‘Twas fortunate, he had one at the ready. “His Majesty, King James, sends ye his greetings, Your Grace.”

If not for the lives potentially at stake, he would have chuckled at her reaction. Her nostrils flared, and her lips thinned in a disapproving line.

“I am weary from the journey,” she announced.

As she rose and swept grandly from the hall, Lord Haddon bowed his head at Taran in silent gratitude. Taran dipped his chin in reply, then ducked through the door and out into the chill air. He clenched his jaw. By God, the queen could not have arrived at a worse time.

Charlotte’s sudden illness, along with Lady Haddon’s weighed heavily on his mind. All it took was one pair of loose, idle lips to summon disaster. But surely, Moll would find a way?

He turned his step to the north tower when Francis stepped out of the shadows to block his path.

“’Tis Moll.”

Taran straightened, alarmed.

Francis swallowed and shifted his gaze to the gates. “She ran to the stables,” the lad whispered. “For Charlotte. The mushrooms she needed are there…”

Taran inhaled a jagged breath. He was already moving. In moments, he stood on the ramparts, his eyes locked on the queen’s men felling trees at the forest’s edge. The purpose was clear enough. They were erecting gallows—more than one.

“Can we get her back inside?” Francis whispered at his side.

The lad couldn’t hide the tremor of fear in his voice. ‘Twas the same fear Taran felt himself, deep inside, but fear served no purpose now. Right now, he had to find a way to save Moll—or make one.

With locked jaw, he scanned the castle walls, a plan already beginning to form.

“Fetch George and Doughall,” he ordered the lad. “At once.”

* * *

Darkness fell with Taran still walking the walls, scarcely noticing the bite of the cold wind. ‘Twas fortunate he’d been restless of late. None paid heed to his presence to foster suspicion. To his right, Doughall idled on the ramparts, appearing as if asleep as the twins slipped in and out of the shadows, observing the guards' every move.

Outside the walls, the guards had nearly finished erecting the gallows—four, in all. Two stood as ominous sentries on each side of the gates. Finally, as the evening feast began, they finished their task and entered through the postern gate, leaving only two men to remain there, on guard.

At last. Only two men.

Taran leaned back and caught Doughall’s eye.

As the gray-braided Highlander arrived, two MacKenzie clansmen stepped out of the shadows on the left.

Taran frowned, displeased. He hadn’t wanted his men involved. The least who knew, the better.

“Ach, lad, dinna think we’d leave ye alone,” Doughall grunted, reading his face.

Taran cocked a brow. ‘Twasn’t the plan. He’d asked for only Doughall’s help, along with the twins, but ‘twas hardly the time to discuss the matter.

They stalked to the postern gate, slowly, waiting for the twins to signal the guards were looking in the opposite direction.

The hoot of an owl echoed through the courtyard, almost at once.

“Aye,” Taran muttered under his breath.

The next moment, he and his men stood at the postern gate. As the nearest guard turned, Taran’s fist connected with his jaw, just as Doughall slammed his fist on his companion’s head.

Both men sank soundlessly to the ground. They’d wake, later, with splitting headaches, but no worse for the wear.