Page 76 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Silence met his call, then, a voice sweeter than heaven rasped, “Taran? Is that you?”

Freedom

As a Witch of the Heart, Moll didn’t mind mice and other woodland creatures of the night. She’d often encountered them as she gathered mushrooms in the forest—but whatever moved beneath the dank, moldy straw was hardly the same.

“A pox on you all!” she spat for the tenth time as something slithered over her ankle.

She knew it had only been a matter of hours that she huddled in the damp, chilly darkness, scarcely larger than a garderobe, but, somehow, it felt closer to days. At first, she’d pounded against the stone walls with her fists, feeling the small walls closing about her, but she’d screamed her voice raw.

‘Twas a nightmare, to huddle in the dark, battling the visceral fear in her gut and cursing at the things slithering and squeaking beneath her. She could only hope that Euphemia wasn’t as coldblooded as she’d seemed.

After what felt an eternity, the stones above her groaned. Gravel and dust cascaded down, striking her cheek. She stepped back, but the sudden squeak and skittering beneath her heels sent her forward again.

Protecting her face with her arm, she watched as the sliver of light turned into a flood and a voice above her boomed, “Moll! Lass! Moll!”

Choking with relief, she shielded her eyes from the now blinding light. “Taran? Is that you?”

“Here, lass, grab hold,” he grunted.

He tossed a rope down, and with shaking hands, she shrugged into the loop. Then, he was pulling her up with his muscular arms, clenching his teeth with the effort as he bodily hefted her onto the chapel floor. They fell back together, and for several, long moments, she lay with her head against his chest, gripping his shirt tightly as if she’d never let go.

Gradually, she became aware of his fingers stroking her hair.

“Marry me,” he whispered in her ear.

Moll drew back to search his face in the flickering torchlight.

His blue eyes pierced hers. “Marry me, Moll.” He caught her hand in his and raised her fingers to his lips, looking all the while into her eyes.

“’Tis a strange jest,” she half-choked, half-sobbed.

He pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair. “Do ye think I’d jest over that?” His voice was low, soft.

Moll shivered. “’Tis impossible.” It was difficult to say the words when her heart and her lips both wanted to scream yes.

“Nay, it’s not,” he disagreed, sitting up.

Was he trying to rip her soul in twain? Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I’m still wed,” she spat bitterly. “Even if I wasn’t, you have no more choice than I.”

Taran rose to his feet and then lifted her. “Nay, I’ll have your mockery of a marriage annulled, and as for the king and the clan…” His arms slid about her waist. “In this matter, I will choose a wife of my own.”

The words made her shiver again.

A gleam entered his eye and his head angled down, the flickering torchlight accentuating the cleft in his chin. “Marry me, lass,” he whispered again. “Hither to my side when I call ye.” His hand dropped to the flattened pillow hanging limp, sideways about her waist. “Bear my bairns.”

Moll couldn’t breathe as his eyes bored into hers.

“Forgive me for intruding.”

Moll jerked, surprised, as Lady Haddon stepped into the circle of torchlight.

“You must hurry.” The lady of the castle smiled, waving at them both. “Please, hurry.”

“My lady,” Moll gasped. “Should you not be abed?”

Lady Haddon rolled her eyes. “Do you not understand the power of your own brew, Moll?” she teased lightly. Indeed, ‘twas hard to deny she looked quite strong. “You must hurry. Lord Haddon has so far, delayed the opening of the gates until Moll was found, but even he can delay no further.”

Even as she spoke, they could hear the castle’s gates beginning to groan.