Page 9 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“Nay.” ‘Twas George, sounding garbled, as if he spoke underwater. “She’s not ill, my lord.”

“She’s not eaten since yesterday,” Francis chimed in. “And near nothing the week before.”

Their voices continued urgently, but Moll paid little heed. Sweat broke out on her brow as her knees turned to jelly. She pitched forward again, but this time, a strong arm swept under her legs and she found herself lifted as easily as a child.

‘Twas strange, truly, that as her shoulder collided with the Highlander’s broad chest that she failed to feel the wave of nausea she’d always felt whenever Thomas had touched her. She frowned. Lord have mercy, mayhap she was ill.

“Follow, the lot of ye.” Taran’s voice sounded loud in her ears. Moll lifted her gaze as he tilted his dark head toward the large building rising at the far end of the courtyard. His jaw was square, strong, and up close, she could see the hint of stubble shadowing his chin. His carved lips parted again, and he added, “To the hall. I’ll see ye fed.”

At once, the children’s pensive expressions melted into smiles, and as Taran set off, they fell into a line behind him like chicks trailing a mother hen.

Halfway to the hall, Moll recovered her presence of mind. “I’m a grown woman,” she protested, squirming a bit. “Put me down.”

His arms didn’t budge. Moll grimaced. Not only did he look like a mountain, he was as difficult to move, as well.

“I can walk, my lord,” she insisted.

“After ye eat,” he grunted.

Moll hesitated, then gave in. ‘Twould be wise not to anger the man—at least, until they’d been fed. They hadn’t been this close to a proper meal in days.

She snuck a look at the man from under her lashes. He was handsome—sinfully so, the opposite of Thomas in every way. Thomas had been old, weak-chinned, and pasty-skinned. This man projected masculinity, from his patrician nose to the distinct cleft in his chin. Even the line of his lean jaw dotted with a healthy day’s growth of beard announced his virility. Thomas had merely managed to produce a few straggly hairs after a week.

Moll averted her gaze, feeling strangely warm.

Uneasy, she glanced about. While on the road, they’d spied the castle from afar, spreading out over the hilltop. ‘Twas so large that she’d at first thought it was a city. Crenellated towers perched on each corner of the massive outer wall, and at the very top of each tower, scarlet banners snapped in the wind. Inside, the castle seemed even larger, boasting a lower and an upper courtyard, each ringed with clusters of stone buildings and behind them all, a wide expanse of grass surrounding a majestic, granite stone keep.

Yet, for all its size, Haddon Hall appeared strangely deserted. Aside from the guards pacing the walls and themselves, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

The stones of the great hall appeared much older than those of the neighboring buildings. Moss and lichen grew in every nook and cranny of the walls and above the diamond-paned windows, the winged gargoyles were little more than large, stone ovals, having been nearly worn smooth from the passage of time.

“Open the door, lads.” The Highlander nodded at the massive, age-blackened door.

George scrambled to obey and stepped back as Taran ducked under the lintel and carried her inside.

The savory aroma of meat awakened her stomach with a roar. She winced, knowing the Highlander must have heard, but then, at the sight of the splendor spread out before her eyes, all other thoughts faded away.

‘Twas a wondrous place, magnificent, fit for the queen herself. The late afternoon sun streamed through the diamond-paned windows, casting patterned shadows on the floor. Tables lined the lime-plastered-walls. Finely crafted tapestries hung suspended from iron rods. On one end of the hall, the head table, laden with Venetian glass and finely wrought silver, stood on a raised dais. Directly opposite, at the other end, a minstrels’ gallery had been erected over four sets of doors. ‘Twas puzzling truly. Why would one need so many doors to enter a room when one would suffice?

As she strangely pondered the thought, Taran arrived before a fireplace large enough to burn an entire tree. Above the mantle hung an impressively wrought coat of arms with words emblazoned at the top of the filigreed shield and not for the first time, she wished she could read.

“Sit,” Taran barked.

Moll jerked, startled.

At once, his piercing blue eyes sought hers in apology. “Ach, I spoke to the lads and lassie,” he confessed with a rueful twist of his lips.

Gently, he set Moll on her feet before one of the long tables lining the walls. Still feeling weak, she sank down onto the nearest bench.

With a nod and a grunt, Taran wheeled, and leaving them there, crossed the hall and disappeared through the doors beneath the minstrels’ gallery.

“Mind yourselves,” Moll hissed the moment he’d left. “Don’t offend the man.”

“Is he truly feeding us?” Charlotte whispered with shining eyes.

Moll hesitated. She couldn’t promise what she didn’t know, and even if he did choose to feed them, just what would he expect for his charity?

“Is he?” Charlotte insisted.