Page 64 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Taran clamped his jaw. Lord Haddon was a fool of the highest order. “Anger consumes me like fire, lass.”

She lifted her head and caught his face between her hands. “There’s no time for that. You must go to her, Taran. Charlotte. She needs you. She wants so much to believe you’re her father. If there’s anyone who can give her the hope, the strength to hold on, ‘twill be you.”

Taran stared at the tears spilling down Moll’s cheeks. How had things careened out of control so quickly? And Charlotte? The thought of the wee sprite lying broken on the bed tore his heart, even as the thought of leaving Moll alone, in danger of the gallows, weighed on him, as well.

“Leave,” Moll urged, firmly placing her palms on his chest. “Your men will see me safe, along with George and Francis.”

She had too much faith.

“I’ll not see her die alone.” Moll closed her eyes tight, as if she could halt the horrors falling upon them out of pure will alone.

Slowly, Taran reached down and cupped her chin in his hand. “Aye, I’ll stay with her.”

The relief on her face lit her with an inner beauty that touched his heart in a way no other woman ever had—or would. There was only one letter to write to the king, his clan elders, and his father, as well.

But first, he had to see them all safely through the night.

“Soon, lass,” he whispered, then with one last kiss on the top of her head, he left the room.

Once outside, Taran slammed his hand against the wall.

He had to find this Eldric the pig-scalder. He’d have his men search every nook and cranny of the castle the entire night thorough, if that’s what it took.

Once they found him, he’d find out exactly just what game the man played.

The children’s worried faces swiveled as one as Taran stepped through the bedchamber door. They huddled around Charlotte where she lay on the bed, silent, white, and barely breathing.

‘Twas startling to see such a difference in the lassie. She’d been so vibrant, so full of life as she’d followed him about the hall, mimicking his accent as best she could.

The lads watched his face, searching for strength as the twins hovered at the foot of the bed.

“She’ll be well soon,” he heard himself say, his voice gruff. ‘Twas odd. He wasn’t one to believe in false hopes, but saying aught else seemed the gravest of sins, a reality he wasn’t willing to face. “Aye,” he said in a firmer tone. “Soon, the lot of ye’ll be riding the Highlands, each of ye on your own gelding and wee Charlotte on her own white mare.”

They hung on his every word.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently took Charlotte’s hand between his. Her flesh felt cold, clammy. “Fight, lassie. I’ll take ye to the Highlands. Soon.”

She moaned and then her lashes fluttered. “Athair,” she mouthed with great effort. “Stay.” Her small fingers closed around his, tight.

His throat closed.

The hours passed. He stayed by her side. The younger children fell asleep on the bed. At times, George or Francis slipped silently from the room to check on Moll. ‘Twas a restless night for them all.

As dawn painted the sky, Taran made up his mind.

There was only one way to bend Lord Haddon to his will. One way to save the life of the wee lassie, lying near death on the bed, and the life of the castle’s lady, as well. Of course, Lord Haddon would be furious. ‘Twould, no doubt, make them enemies, but one look at Charlotte’s face and he cared no more.

Taran lifted the lid of his trunk and selected his finest shirt and plaid.

“Where you going?” George whispered.

“To get Moll,” Taran replied.

Francis frowned. “And how?”

Taran paused at the door. “’Tis time to dine with the queen.”

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