Page 8 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“I couldn’t wait, love,” Moll murmured in sultry, dulcet tones. “The children missed you so.”

The ease with which she assumed her part amused him, despite the tense situation. Clearly, she was a lass as wily as she was beautiful, though beneath her creamy complexion and her full, pouty lips, he saw signs of exhaustion. A honey-shaded curl had escaped the confines of her hairnet to loop around her particularly delicate ear. That ear. Ach, it outright invited a nibble—nay, a bite.

The thought startled him. ‘Twas odd. He wasn’t one to fall prey to a woman’s spell so easily.

“Get your woman inside then, MacKenzie,” Lord Haddon barked. “Make haste. I’m sealing the gates.”

Alarmed, Taran shifted his gaze to Lord Haddon, at once. “What news?”

“The plague,” the man replied curtly. “I’ve tidings ‘tis now ravaging Nottingham. I fear, ‘tis a goodlier size outbreak than before.” Lord Haddon waved at his men to hurry before turning back to Taran. “I’ll not risk the life of my heir. I’ll not open these gates until the danger has passed or the queen herself stands before them.”

Taran clenched his jaw. ‘Twas troubling news, indeed. His plans to return home, to Scotland, would yet again suffer delay.

The castle gates began to groan.

The young widow in his arms stirred, and he blinked, startled to realize he still held her close. Her stunning eyes had narrowed into slits, and her smile was brighter than before.

“I’ll just fetch the others right along then, love.” Before he could respond, she broke from his embrace, stepped sideways, and called out, “Hurry, poppets. Be quick. Run before the gates close.”

From behind the barn, four lads emerged, two gangly, red-haired youths and two mere children. After taking one look at their thin, drawn faces, any objection Taran might have had quickly died. He wasn’t a man to see children tossed in harm’s way.

“Yours?” Lord Haddon rasped, raising a brow. “All?”

“Why, yes, my lord,” Moll smoothly replied. “All six and soon seven.” She gave her pillowed stomach a pat.

Lord Haddon’s brows inched higher.

Taran could only watch as the children dashed past him and under the iron portcullis. ‘Twas amusing. Truly. The bonny lass had played him right well.

She turned to him then and smiled. “Shall we, Taran?”

She looked so wary, fierce, with her small hands clenched into fists, reminding him of a wild boar protecting her young. He dropped his gaze over her winsome form. Truly, ‘twas hardly a chore to find himself locked in a castle with such a spirited, bonny-eyed beauty.

“Aye,” was all he said.

Haven

As the heavy iron portcullis groaned shut, Moll willed her heartbeat to slow and forced her lips into a calm, reassuring smile. She had to be strong—or at least appear so—for the children’s sake. Lord help her, but she’d just meant to beg food, not wind up locked inside a castle. What had she done?

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she turned toward the strange man speaking with Lord Haddon and standing just inside the castle gates. A rush of wind whistled through the courtyard, molding his green and blue kilt over his lean hips and muscular thighs. After working in a tailor’s shop for a year, she knew something of the Scottish and their plaids. The man was a Highlander and from his looks, a fierce one. Everything about him spoke of command, discipline, and power. Even the castle lord paid him respect.

“Then I’ll leave you, MacKenzie,” Lord Haddon’s voice rose above the wind. He spun on his heel but nodded at Moll in a gesture of respect before he strode away.

The courtesy surprised her. Obviously, this Taran MacKenzie was a noble of high standing that even she was accorded some measure of respect. Her heart began to pound as he stalked her way with an easy, loose-limbed grace. Lord save her, he was a mountain of a man, easily topping six feet, and his every inch, composed of hard, chiseled angles. Why had he offered aid? More importantly…what did he expect in return?

Taran stopped before her, the wind whipping his long, dark hair about his face as he peered down at her through ice-blue eyes. He was even larger up close. She took an unwitting step back.

A dark brow lifted. “Moll,” he rumbled in a deep Scottish brogue.

Shivers shot down her spine. “What do you want from me?”

“I could ask the same, aye?” Taran’s chiseled lips curled.

He was right, of course. She had, after all, surprised him with six children. She opened her mouth, struggling for a suitable explanation when suddenly, the courtyard began to spin.

Her cheek struck the man’s midriff. Then, strong hands tipped her upright.

“Ho there, are ye ill?” The Highlander’s baritone sounded so strangely far away.