Page 75 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

He passed his hands over his face, again, searching the great hall in his mind’s eye. She hadn’t set foot in the place. The queen’s folk had taken the table she’d usually sat at with the children. He sifted through his memories…then tensed.

Euphemia’s smirk.

‘Twas a smirk that meant something. He was sure of it. His blood began to boil.

“My lord?” a clansman called as he sprinted past him.

Taran didn’t stop.

The door to Euphemia’s chamber opened on the second volley of the assault. The moment the latch lifted, he knocked back the door and was through, striding across the darkened room to the bedchamber beyond, astonished women darting out of his path like frightened rabbits.

Euphemia lay already in bed.

In three strides, he was by her side. He yanked the covers straight off and grabbed her shift to lift her half off the bed.

“My lord,” she squeaked, her eyes wide.

Taran brought her face to his, so close, their noses nearly touched. “Where is she?” he whispered, his voice low and with a calm that belied the turmoil burning within.

Euphemia’s lashes fluttered, “Who?”

He arched a silent brow.

Anger leapt into her eyes. “She’ll stay unharmed if ye do your duty.”

Relief coursed through him at the words ‘stay unharmed’, but then the temptation to wring Euphemia’s scrawny neck nearly overwhelmed him. “Duty?”

Euphemia’s lashes swept down over her eyes. “Bed me. Make me yours,” she breathed the words more than said them. Her hand dropped to his groin.

He stared at her, repulsed. Was there no limit to how far she would go to attain what she wished?

“I’ll never bed ye.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “The thought alone summons bile to my throat.” He clamped his hand over hers, allowing his shriveled manhood to underscore that fact. Then, disgusted with her fingers closing around him, he caught her wrist in a vicelike grip and squeezed.

She gasped and let go.

“Nay, lass, ye dinna know just who ye’ve chosen to make an enemy,” he informed her softly. “I dinna need your father’s influence at court. If ye dinna do as I say, by the time I’ve finished, there’s not a man in Scotland, England, or the continent, as well, who will come within a mile of ye.”

Even in the dim light, he could see her pupils widen.

“Aye,” he said when it was clear she would say no more. “’Tis heartening to see we’ve reached an understanding. Tell me, what have ye done with Moll. Where is she?”

She swallowed, and in the profound silence, he could hear every muscle of her throat work.

Then, her shoulders sagged. “In the chapel.”

Taran frowned, puzzled. His men had searched the chapel. He had himself. Several times. “Where?”

Looking like the angry venomous snake she was, she spat, “There’s a priest hole, behind the alter. ‘Tis an iron ring on the floor.”

He dropped her like a hot coal. “Never let me lay eyes on ye again.”

He strode toward the door, pausing only long enough to shove her chair back with his foot, and then he left the room.

Outside the ancient chapel next to the aviary, he grabbed a torch from the wall. Then, he was inside, running to the alter. He knocked the fat wax candle off the iron stand and jammed the torch in its place as he scanned the floor for the priest hole ring.

He found it, between the alter and the wall. ‘Twas much smaller than he’d expected, and the stone covering difficult to move. His muscles strained, and he gritted his teeth, pulling hard until finally, with a sound of rock grating on rock, he shifted the stone, then sat back and shoved it aside with his feet.

“Moll! Lass! Moll!”