Page 22 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“Ye canna be as light on your feet as ye were afore the bairn,” his deep, Scottish brogue resonated in his chest, sending vibrations into her body. “Come, now.”

She didn’t—perhaps, couldn’t—resist. He guided her forward, one hand still supporting her pillow-belly as he dropped the other lightly on her hip. ‘Twas an intimate gesture, one of a man cherishing his love. ‘Twas enough to send the women around them into giggling, swooning fits.

Again, the rush of heat flooded Moll’s face as Taran escorted her out the door and down the tower stairs, but as they emerged on the corridor leading to his bedchamber, Moll broke free.

She couldn’t risk angering Lady Euphemia—especially when he’d chosen to wed her, and most importantly, they were stuck in the same castle for the foreseeable future.

“No,” Moll hissed and stopped in her tracks.

Taran turned and arched a curious brow.

“I can’t leave.” She had to go back. “I haven’t finished my chores.”

Again, he caught her about the wrist and pulled her down the corridor, gently, but with an unrelenting force. He didn’t speak until they stood safely in his bedchamber once again.

“God’s Blood, woman, do ye not know who I am?” he asked the moment the door swung shut. He hooked his thumb under her chin and directed her gaze to his. “Aye. How could ye?” he muttered in a half-growl, as if thinking aloud. Then he expelled his breath in a huff of disgust. “Ach, ye’ll not even give that shrew the time of day. Do ye hear?”

He stood so close, a shiver raced down the back of her neck. She could smell him, a pleasant combination of leather and spice—quite unlike Thomas…but then, he was so different than her husband had been in every regard.

Something sparked in the blue depths of his eyes, something that summoned a warmth in her blood, the manner of which she simply hadn’t thought possible.

Abruptly, Taran turned away and stepped to the window.

Moll drew a steadying breath and forced her thoughts back to her current predicament, Euphemia.

“My lord,” she began. She could see the hard line of his jaw. He was angry, yet clearly, not at her. “What am I to do, my lord? Lady Euphemia will be displeased, I’ve left tasks undone. I’m a peasant. She’s a lady. I cannot blithely go my merry way now, can I? If she asks anything of me, I am obliged to—”

“Nay.” A snort escaped Taran’s lips as he faced her. “That harridan has no power over ye.”

‘Twas a strange way to speak of one’s betrothed. “Are you not to wed her, my lord?”

His head snapped back. “What nonsense is this?”

Nonsense? Moll frowned. Everyone had implied the match—Euphemia included. “The women spoke of nothing else, my lord.”

“They’re mistaken.” His tone was final.

Moll blinked. “Then, ‘tis Anne to be your wi—”

“Nay,” he cut her short.

Why did those words please her so? Then, he was standing before her again, even closer than before. Her pulse jumped. Breathe, Moll.

His dark lashes flickered.

She stepped back, flustered.

“As lover to the MacKenzie heir, you’re no servant, Moll,” he said tersely. “Dinna forget that.”

Lover. The word stood out amongst the others and pulled her gaze down to his powerful thighs and groin, unbidden. Good lord, the women were right. He was built well. ‘Twas no small wonder they’d spoken of little else. A pox on those women and their incessant chattering. She jerked her gaze to the floor.

After a moment, Taran stirred and returned to his trunk beneath the window.

Her stomach knotted.

“Mayhap…” his voice trailed.

There was nothing to be done but meet the man’s gaze. Surely, it wasn’t that difficult. She’d done much harder things in her life. With a deep breath, Moll lifted her head.