Page 43 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“Athair, I saved ye porridge,” Charlotte piped as she shoved a bowl across the table.

“I thank ye, lassie.” With care, he arranged himself on the bench.

“’Tis time to take Wee Jack to the others now, Charlotte,” Moll said with a firm nod.

For a moment, Charlotte appeared as if she would object, but then thinking better, rose to her feet instead. “I must leave now, Athair, but I’ll be back.”

“Aye,” was all he said.

The lassie had barely gone when Moll stirred at his side. “Athair?” she queried. “Charlotte believes the word means ‘father’.”

Taran drew a sharp breath. “Aye.”

“Aye?”

Taran arched a brow and faced her. As he watched, she pursed her lips. How he itched to trace his thumb over that soft, pink lip, aye, then slide his finger inside. A flash of hot desire burned through him like fire.

“My lord?” Moll’s face had knit into a puzzled scowl.

“Taran,” he repeated again, his voice sounding gruff even to his own ears.

Was that a faint blush of pink dusting her cheeks? The sight strangely lightened his heart.

She swallowed, and then drew a deep breath. “I fear she believes you are, truly her father.”

The words anchored him back to the matter at hand. ‘Twas time, then, to clear the misunderstanding. “Did ye tell her otherwise?” Something about the wee lass tugged at his heart.

“I will,” Moll answered at once. “I merely sought to understand, first, why you…might have said such a thing?”

The lassie was so vulnerable. Such news would devastate her, undoubtedly. “Where’s the harm?” he shrugged. “She’ll become disenchanted soon enough. ’Twould be kinder to tell her then.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” he assured.

His response perplexed her—as well as himself. Frown lines deepened between her brows.

Then, he was no longer paying heed to the conversation. How could he when, again, he caught sight of the edge of her shift peeking so tantalizingly beneath her collar? Ach, he wanted to bed the lass, ‘twas clear, and most definitely, more than once. With a firebrand like Moll, would take many times to sate the need she aroused in him.

Abruptly, he swung his legs off the bench. “If ye’ll excuse me, lass.”

He’d interrupted her, he was sure, but to save his life, he hadn’t a clue of what she’d been speaking about.

He stalked away.

* * *

‘Twas several days later when the sound of a trumpet sounded from the gates. Taran was there before the rest, eyeing the messenger astride his gray gelding, his arms resting loosely on his knees.

“Tidings?” he called down to the man. “Of the queen?”

The man lifted his head, pulling the reins as his horse shifted and stamped nervously beneath him. “Nay, my lord,” he raised his voice in reply.

“The plague?” Lord Haddon’s voice boomed by Taran’s side.

“My lord,” the messenger shouted his greeting back. “The plague still ravages Birmingham, my lord.”

Lord Haddon expelled a loud breath. “No further north?”