Page 78 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

It was the captain. “Why does the gate stand open?” he railed.

The man to Moll’s left broke rank and stepped forward as the men who had flanked him sealed the breach in the line.

Moll caught a fleeting glimpse of his thinning hair and prominent nose. ‘Twas Lord Haddon himself.

“Onward,” Doughall whispered.

As they began to move once again, the castle’s lord challenged the captain standing so belligerently before him, “The fault is yours. You’ve kept me long waiting.”

The captain snorted. “’Twas your men, Lord Haddon. They’ve been playing games, delaying the—”

“’Tis not my men who play games,” Lord Haddon cut in, his tone rank with contempt.

As the verbal match continued, Doughall hurried them through, and then, they were outside the castle, hugging the walls. First George, then Francis, dashed to the forest’s safety under the hoot of the owl, then, ‘twas Moll’s turn.

Holding her breath, she waited for the signal when behind her, she heard an all-too-familiar voice.

“Where are you taking me?”

‘Twas Thomas.

Moll gasped and whirled, clamping her hand over her mouth.

The captain stood mere feet away with only Lord Haddon’s men between them. At the sound of her gasp, he turned in her direction, but Lord Haddon’s men shifted and began to cough.

“Be quick,” Lord Haddon stepped forward. “I’ll not stand here all night, indulging your every whim.”

Distracted, the captain turned his attention back to his prisoner as his men dragged the tailor forward.

“And what crime has this man committed?” Lord Haddon asked.

“He dared place Her Majesty in grave danger,” the captain clipped. “He came from the heart of London’s plague and…”

Then, Taran’s arm was pulling Moll back as she heard the hoot of an owl echoing from the forest.

“Run,” Taran breathed in her ear.

She did.

The sting of winter seemed much more pronounced under the eaves of the forest. The Highlanders waited for her there, some standing beside their horses and others already mounted, ready to ride. In the moon’s dim light, she could saw the children, seated before the clansmen, wrapped in warm, woolen plaids.

Moments later, Taran arrived with Doughall quickly upon his heels.

The sudden sound of a man’s scream pierced the air, but even before Moll turned, the sound came to an abrupt end. When she looked, she saw only his feet, dangling in the moonlight, and then, she could look no more.

A strong arm caught her about the waist, effortlessly hoisting her into the saddle.

“Dinna look, lass,” Taran’s deep brogue warned. “There’s naught that can be done.”

“Not that there should be,” George muttered from nearby.

“’Tis justice,” Francis added. “For his previous wives and their untimely ends.”

Taran lifted a hand. “‘Tis time to ride.”

He drew his cloak around Moll, shielding her from the view of the castle as well as the cold, and then, he dug his heels into his horse’s flank.

Moll inhaled with a sense of finality and bowed her head.