Page 7 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“But what of true love?” the young Charlotte insisted as she obliged.

Moll snorted and lifted her skirts, startling Taran with an unimpeded view of slender thighs and shapely legs. With his lip curving in devilish amusement, he watched the young widow position the pillow over her stomach and begin to fashion a harness by tying thin strips of material around her waist.

“Love is a myth, concocted to fool young dew-eyed maids into an old man’s bed, Charlotte,” she said as she anchored the pillow firmly to her belly. “Believe me, there’s no delight there. And kisses?” She paused to shudder.

“Did your husband fool you?” Charlotte prodded.

Moll shot her a querulous glance. “Why the sudden interest in marriage, now? ‘Tis naught be misery. If you must know, I had no say in the matter. ‘Twas how my father got himself a new pair of breeches and freedom from having to feed me. Thomas was an old man, near fifty with rotten teeth, a foul temper, and he stank like the pig he was. ‘Twas nigh a year of hell, Charlotte. When he wasn’t bedding me, he was beating me with a stick. I’ll never wed again, nor will I trust any man. They’re fools and, Sweet Mary, they stink. They just want a full stomach and a woman in their bed, and when they’ve had a bad day, one to beat as well. Heaven help me, but I bless the day he died.”

Dead silence met the end of her heartfelt speech.

Taran couldn’t help but eye the lass with a deepening curiosity.

It was almost a full minute before Charlotte muttered, half in disbelief and half in dismay, “Sounds nothing like the tales of love. Surely, not all men are so evil? Some are exceedingly handsome, and they don’t smell, Moll.”

Moll snorted and turned her attention back to the pillow ties. “Then you didn’t get close enough, poppet,” she grunted. “Nay, my widowhood suits me fine, and what need have I for a man when I’ve the lot of you to warm my heart? We’ll find ourselves an abandoned house, grow a garden, and find some pigs.” The pillow she’d strapped to her waist suddenly slipped. “A pox on this pillow!” she swore.

As she gave a few other choice curses, Taran suppressed a chuckle and allowed his eyes to rove appreciatively over her lithe, winsome figure.

“There,” Moll said at last. She dropped her skirts and smoothed the lump, pleased. “I’m a respectable widow with children and expecting another. Who can refuse us a bite to eat? Fetch young James, now.”

Charlotte crouched and held out her hand. “Come, James, be quick.”

Almost at once, a small boy with a shock of red hair slithered out from under a cart to grab her fingers.

“Good then.” Moll shooed them forward but stopped. “Well, look at that.”

“What?” the lassie asked.

“Mushrooms,” Moll replied, pointing to a small cluster of mushrooms growing along the base of the stable wall. “Those are rare, Charlotte. They can cure a broken heart.”

“Shall I pick them?” Charlotte stretched out her hand.

“No, poppet.” Moll smiled and shook her head. “They must be gathered only under moonlight, and only then, by a Witch of the Heart. There’s naught we can do now. Come, come. ’Tis time to eat.”

They’d no sooner disappeared around the corner of the stables than Taran found himself stalking after them and keeping out of view. Something about Moll caught his fancy, something more than the sway of her hips as she made for Haddon Hall’s open gates.

She didn’t get far.

“Halt!” a watchman cried as he lowered his spear.

Moll and the children drew up short.

The next moment, the tall, gaunt figure of Lord Haddon stepped through the gates. Jutting his jaw, he planted himself before his castle with folded arms and feet spread wide.

“What have we here?” he boomed, the wind ruffling what it could of his prematurely thinning brown hair. “Where have you come from, woman? To what purpose?”

Moll dropped into a deep curtsey and yanked young Charlotte to do the same as the frightened boy darted behind their skirts.

“Speak!” Lord Haddon thundered. “If our good Queen Elizabeth hangs nobles who dare ride to her castle in these plague-stricken times, I’ll not hesitate to do the same for a peasant walking up to my very gates.”

Moll’s back went rigid.

Taran lifted a brow. If he knew one thing about Lord Haddon, ‘twas the man never jested. Last week, tidings of the plague’s return had set even rocky-steady nerves on edge. The thought Lord Haddon might very well execute his threat sent Taran sprinting across the road.

“There ye are, my love,” he rumbled as he slid an arm around the young widow’s waist. He gave the pillow hidden under her dress a firm tug as a warning to play along. “I told ye to rest, didn’t I now? For the bairn’s sake?”

The young woman tensed under his touch but quickly regained her composure to twist in his arms and smile. As she peered up from under a long sweep of sooty lashes, it was his turn to be surprised. Her eyes were unusual, rare, a mix of gray and gold surrounded by a ring of green. He’d seen those eyes before, on Alec’s wife, Sorcha.