Page 81 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

She knocked on the twins’ door next.

“Is Charlotte there with the children?” she asked when George opened the door with a yawn.

George frowned as Francis’ head popped up over his shoulder. “They’re upstairs,” he said, pointing to the floor above. “In Taran’s bedchamber. Charlotte found the key today.”

Moll arched a brow and rolled her eyes. Of course, Charlotte would find the key. Muttering, she swept up the steps. She’d rouse them from the bed and send them back down the stairs to their own. They were growing more challenging by the day—especially Charlotte. The young girl had yet to be told Taran wasn’t her true father. Indeed, he’d seemed in no hurry to divulge the truth. Moll twisted her lips in thought. Soon, she’d have to be told, but she supposed there was no harm in waiting awhile.

She arrived at the very top and paused. Like Haddon Hall, Taran’s room stood behind a most impressive door. ‘Twas no small wonder the children were fascinated with what lay behind it. If truth be told, she was, too.

Curious over Taran’s private domain, she gingerly lifted the latch and peeked inside.

A fire burned on the hearth, revealing a large room, sparsely furnished with a thick fur rug, a chair, and a large clothing chest placed beneath the window. Moll smiled. Of course, the clothing chest would be the most magnificent item in the room. ‘Twas so very like the man.

She crossed over the rug to the inner door.

There, on the large four-poster bed, the children slept in a pile of arms and legs. She opened her mouth to wake them, when she saw Charlotte asleep on the pillow, her hands twisted in a green plaid.

Charlotte missed him. Lord help her, she did, too.

With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hands over the blankets. If only he were there with them—with her, holding her close.

Slowly, she slipped off her shoes and nestling next to the children, lay her head down on the pillow.

A shaft of light fell over Moll’s face.

She opened her eyes, surprised she’d fallen asleep so easily.

The light came in through the open bedroom door. ‘Twas still dark, not morning. The fire in the room beyond had been given a second life. She frowned and glanced at the children for a quick count. Wee Jack had fallen asleep across her leg. Charlotte lay still clutching the plaid with James and Jamie snoring at her side.

‘Twas then she froze, registering only that a man stood at the foot of the bed, a large man, with arms crossed. Then she saw his face.

‘Twas Taran.

She was on her feet in a flash but stopped short of throwing herself into his arms as her fears came crashing down all at once. What if he’d changed his mind? How horrible ‘twould be to come back to find her in his bed.

“They missed you,” she blurted.

Taran stirred, and then his Scottish brogue teased, “Just the wee ones?”

Relief rolled over Moll. He still wanted her. He met her halfway and she slipped into his arms. ‘Twas such a natural place to be.

He pressed her close, but only for a moment, and then pulled her to the door. “Come, lass.”

The fire burned bright in the outer room. He must have only just arrived. His cloak lay draped over a chair, the hem dripping water onto the floor.

“Is it raining?” she asked, glancing at the still dark window as he shut the bedroom door behind them. “You must be weary.”

Taran gave a laugh that warmed her heart, and catching her beneath her knees, carried her to the fire. “Aye, I’ve ridden hard. I thought I could sleep the entire week through, but one look at ye, lass, and I’ve strength anew.” His cheek creased in a smile.

He set her on her feet. The fur rug felt so soft, warm beneath her toes. “Then, your journey went well?”

Taran brought her fingers to his lips and then snorted. “The king had no choice—nor did my father.”

“Choice?”

“On the lass I choose to wed.”

Moll held still.