Page 6 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

The sound of soft sobs broke into her thoughts. ‘Twas the children. Tears of her own threatened, but she couldn’t afford to cry, not now. She was their strength.

Summoning a bright smile, Moll squeezed the youngest boy’s hands.

“We’ll be fine. I promise, poppets,” she assured them all. “I’m your ma now.”

A Cunning Fox of a Lass

Ten days later in Haddon Hall, England

Alexander Taran MacKenzie, heir to the MacKenzie of Leod, brushed a speck of lint from his sleeve, crossed his arms, and leaned against the stone wall. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the crisp air, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun on his face.

A moment later, a familiar, strident tone shattered his solitude. “Taran? Taran? Is that you?”

He clenched his jaw and drew his brows into a line, not even attempting to hide the scorn churning deep inside. ‘Twas Anne. The very sight of the lass annoyed him. He couldn’t abide one second more of her company. He was a warrior. A lone wolf. Not some courtier to flirt with women and indulge in hours of useless conversation—especially with women he couldn’t abide. He ducked through an arched doorway and crossed the castle’s lower courtyard with a determined stride.

“Taran?” a lower, musical voice called from his right.

Ach, ‘twas Euphemia. Both lasses were after him now.

He quickened his stride.

There was a time not so long ago that he would have accepted his clan and the king’s bidding without a second thought and simply wed the woman assigned him. After all, ‘twas for the greater good, a benefit to the clan. He’d nearly wed Lady Helen—but then, she’d hied herself off to a nunnery. He’d felt nothing over the entire affair. After all, marriage was a duty, nothing more…but now? After his time with Alec and Sorcha, he’d changed in an inexplicable way, a way that found him overtly reluctant to choose either lass the king had presented him. His reluctance only worsened by the day.

As their voices echoed closer, Taran tossed his hair back from his face, adjusted his plaid over his shoulders, and strode out of Haddon Hall’s gates in search of privacy.

Somewhere. Anywhere.

The wind blew, sending a flurry of old leaves swirling around his boots as he broke into a run and ducked inside the stables just outside the castle walls. Peace. At last. He took a deep breath, welcoming the familiar scent of horse and manure. Aye, he much preferred it to the cloying aroma of Anne’s perfume.

Horses whickered softly as he passed through the building and out the other end to a line of carriages and carts. He stalked to the nearest coach, slid inside, and sprawled back on the leather seat with a loud, long sigh.

If only he could saddle his horse and gallop back to the Highlands. God’s blood, but surely King James knew the Queen of England would never return Scotland’s silver? ‘Twas the third time His Majesty had sent a party into England to collect the debt, and judging by matters thus far, Taran certainly wasn’t proving any luckier than his predecessors in collecting the debt. So far, Queen Elizabeth had surreptitiously avoided his every attempt to arrange a meeting. She’d kept him waiting in Haddon Hall, months already.

Taran drew his lips in a grim line and slouched further on the seat. Home. His heart ached for the Highlands. If only he were galloping across the rolling, endless moors. Exhaling a long breath, he closed his eyes.

Gradually, he grew aware of soft voices. Feminine.

Alarmed, he lifted his head and peered through the narrow open crack of the carriage door. At first, he saw nothing. Then a lassie appeared to lean against the stable wall directly in front of him, her dark brown hair bound in two braids and her homespun gown patched at the knee.

“Do you miss him, Moll?” the lassie asked, hugging a pillow to her thin chest.

“Who?” a strong voice asked from nearby.

A slim, shapely woman wearing a worn scarlet gown stepped into view, tucking her long, honey-colored tresses into a simple hairnet as she walked.

“Your husband,” the lassie replied. “Do you miss him, Moll?”

Moll snorted and placed her hands on her hips. “Not one whit, Charlotte. I’ll never pine over the loss of that pig. He was the cruelest man to walk Threadneedle Street. ‘Twas a happy day when I became a widow.”

Taran’s brow arched in surprise.

Charlotte appeared taken aback.

With a laugh, Moll reached over to chuck the girl under the chin. “Nay, love, my heart doesn’t ache, nor does loss grip my soul. You listen overly much to love poems. Love is the last thing required in a marriage. Don’t fool yourself thinking otherwise.”

The words arrested Taran’s attention and the corner of his lip quirked as he subjected the young widow to a deeper inspection. He received a fleeting impression of a heart-shaped face and a pert, upturned nose before she turned her back to him and held out her hand.

“Now, Charlotte,” Moll said. “Hand me that pillow.”