Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  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.

  “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.

  “Nay.” ‘Twas George, sounding garbled, as if he spoke underwater. “She’s not ill, my lord.”

  “She’s not eaten since yesterday,” Francis chimed in. “And near nothing the week before.”

  Their voices continued urgently, but Moll paid little heed. Sweat broke out on her brow as her knees turned to jelly. She pitched forward again, but this time, a strong arm swept under her legs and she found herself lifted as easily as a child.

  ‘Twas strange, truly, that as her shoulder collided with the Highlander’s broad chest that she failed to feel the wave of nausea she’d always felt whenever Thomas had touched her. She frowned. Lord have mercy, mayhap she was ill.

  “Follow, the lot of ye.” Taran’s voice sounded loud in her ears. Moll lifted her gaze as he tilted his dark head toward the large building rising at the far end of the courtyard. His jaw was square, strong, and up close, she could see the hint of stubble shadowing his chin. His carved lips parted again, and he added, “To the hall. I’ll see ye fed.”

  At once, the children’s pensive expressions melted into smiles, and as Taran set off, they fell into a line behind him like chicks trailing a mother hen.

  Halfway to the hall, Moll recovered her presence of mind. “I’m a grown woman,” she protested, squirming a bit. “Put me down.”

  His arms didn’t budge. Moll grimaced. Not only did he look like a mountain, he was as difficult to move, as well.

  “I can walk, my lord,” she insisted.

  “After ye eat,” he grunted.

  Moll hesitated, then gave in. ‘Twould be wise not to anger the man—at least, until they’d been fed. They hadn’t been this close to a proper meal in days.

  She snuck a look at the man from under her lashes. He was handsome—sinfully so, the opposite of Thomas in every way. Thomas had been old, weak-chinned, and pasty-skinned. This man projected masculinity, from his patrician nose to the distinct cleft in his chin. Even the line of his lean jaw dotted with a healthy day’s growth of beard announced his virility. Thomas had merely managed to produce a few straggly hairs after a week.

  Moll averted her gaze, feeling strangely warm.

  Uneasy, she glanced about. While on the road, they’d spied the castle from afar, spreading out over the hilltop. ‘Twas so large that she’d at first thought it was a city. Crenellated towers perched on each corner of the massive outer wall, and at the very top of each tower, scarlet banners snapped in the wind. Inside, the castle seemed even larger, boasting a lower and an upper courtyard, each ringed with clusters of stone buildings and behind them all, a wide expanse of grass surrounding a majestic, granite stone keep.

  Yet, for all its size, Haddon Hall appeared strangely deserted. Aside from the guards pacing the walls and themselves, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  The stones of the great hall appeared much older than those of the neighboring buildings. Moss and lichen grew in e
very nook and cranny of the walls and above the diamond-paned windows, the winged gargoyles were little more than large, stone ovals, having been nearly worn smooth from the passage of time.

  “Open the door, lads.” The Highlander nodded at the massive, age-blackened door.

  George scrambled to obey and stepped back as Taran ducked under the lintel and carried her inside.

  The savory aroma of meat awakened her stomach with a roar. She winced, knowing the Highlander must have heard, but then, at the sight of the splendor spread out before her eyes, all other thoughts faded away.

  ‘Twas a wondrous place, magnificent, fit for the queen herself. The late afternoon sun streamed through the diamond-paned windows, casting patterned shadows on the floor. Tables lined the lime-plastered-walls. Finely crafted tapestries hung suspended from iron rods. On one end of the hall, the head table, laden with Venetian glass and finely wrought silver, stood on a raised dais. Directly opposite, at the other end, a minstrels’ gallery had been erected over four sets of doors. ‘Twas puzzling truly. Why would one need so many doors to enter a room when one would suffice?

  As she strangely pondered the thought, Taran arrived before a fireplace large enough to burn an entire tree. Above the mantle hung an impressively wrought coat of arms with words emblazoned at the top of the filigreed shield and not for the first time, she wished she could read.

  “Sit,” Taran barked.

  Moll jerked, startled.

  At once, his piercing blue eyes sought hers in apology. “Ach, I spoke to the lads and lassie,” he confessed with a rueful twist of his lips.

  Gently, he set Moll on her feet before one of the long tables lining the walls. Still feeling weak, she sank down onto the nearest bench.

  With a nod and a grunt, Taran wheeled, and leaving them there, crossed the hall and disappeared through the doors beneath the minstrels’ gallery.

  “Mind yourselves,” Moll hissed the moment he’d left. “Don’t offend the man.”

  “Is he truly feeding us?” Charlotte whispered with shining eyes.

  Moll hesitated. She couldn’t promise what she didn’t know, and even if he did choose to feed them, just what would he expect for his charity?

  “Is he?” Charlotte insisted.

  Moll sighed. “We can only hope.”

  Overcome with the exhaustion of the past week, she closed her eyes and rested her head upon her arms.

  The minutes passed, the crackling of the fire and the occasional creak of the bench were the only sounds to be heard.

  The doors under the minstrels’ galley opened and Taran returned, followed by a birdlike-woman balancing a large wicker basket on each bony hip.

  “’Twill be the evening meal soon enough,” she grumbled as she arrived. “Here’s a bite to tide you over.” She dropped the baskets on the table with a thud that set their contents rattling, and then, with a grim twist of her lips that might have been a smile, she dusted her hands off and left.

  The children lunged, but Moll stopped them with a single clap of her hands. “Wait your turn, poppets,” she reprimanded with a stern look. “Remember our family rule? It’s share and share alike. Take your seats and sit on your fingers to keep them out of mischief.” She waited until they obeyed, then nodded at George and Francis. “Please, serve the food.”

  The children watched, eagerly, as Francis removed earthen mugs and a jug of ale from one of the baskets, and George grabbed several loaves of barley bread from the other.

  “Eat, Moll,” he said, his face grim with worry.

  He tore off a chunk of bread and offered her the first bite.

  Moll hesitated. ‘Twas difficult to swallow even a crumb without knowing the price, yet one look at the anxious faces around her—and another look at the bread that made her drool—and she knew she’d do anything to keep them fed.

  The moment her teeth sank into the crust, there was no stopping. She ate, bite after bite, very much like a ravenous wolf. An earthen mug of ale appeared in her hand. ‘Twas watered-down, but even so, amongst the strongest she’d ever drank. Dimly, she heard the noises of happy children, drinking and chomping very much like herself. Whatever lay ahead, at least, she’d succeeded in gaining everyone a hearty meal.

  Finally, after she’d eaten the last crumb, she drew a long, steadying breath. ‘Twas time to pay, time to pin the Highlander down on his price—even though she’d already eaten the ‘goods’.

  She squared her shoulders and faced the man where he lounged against the neighboring table, arms loosely folded and his long legs crossed at the ankles.

  “My lord,” Moll began, placing her palms flat on the table to rise.

  The Highlander straightened and stayed her with a hand. “Nay, lass, be still.”

  He joined her. Lord help her, but he looked even more intimidating towering over her as she sank back onto the bench. She had to tip her head all the way back to see his face.

  “Call me Taran, aye?” he was saying in a low voice. “Surely, after six—nay, seven—bairns together, ye shouldna call me naught else?” A glint of dry humor appeared in his blue eyes.

  Alarm ripped through Moll. Did he think to make her his plaything? “I’m not a woman who pays her debts that way,” she snapped.

  Taran’s mirth vanished at once and genuine surprise arched his brows. “Nor am I a man who extracts such payment from those in need,” he replied, clearly taking insult.

  Their gazes locked and held.

  His eyes softened, and his broad shoulders relaxed. “Not every man thinks with his loins, lass.” He frowned. “I intend only to see ye fed.”

  Moll had learned long ago, just how cheap words could be, but still, the kindness in his voice seemed startingly genuine. Torn, she cleared her throat. “We’ll pay our debts this very night and before we leave, my lord. I can sew, clean, and cook well enough. The children work hard, as well.”

  The muscle on his lean jaw twitched as his gaze flicked over the children still bolting down their bread. “Nay,” he said shortly. “Ye’ll stay until Lord Haddon sees fit to open the gates.” His tone was final.

  Moll frowned. She hadn’t planned on staying past the meal. “Pardon, my lord?”

  “The gates are sealed.” He met her gaze, his expression inscrutable.

  “My lord,” a woman’s soft voice interrupted from behind.

  Moll swiveled to see two richly dressed women standing only yards away. She hadn’t heard them arrive, but then, their rich velvet slippers allowed them to tread as silent as cats, quite unlike her own wooden-heeled shoes.

  The taller of the two women, a statuesque blonde, seemed very annoyed, though Moll couldn’t identify any outward indication. Perhaps ‘twas the cool look in her gray eyes, or the way she fingered the amber glass beads adorning the ruff of her green velvet gown. Her redheaded companion, clothed in gold silk, hovered nervously at her elbow, squinting and wrinkling her nose in a manner that reminded Moll of a pointy-nosed shrew.

  The blonde’s gaze shifted to Taran. “My lord?”

  Appalled she’d forgotten to rise in the ladies’ presence, Moll jumped to her feet but again, Taran stopped her. This time, with a hand on the shoulder.

  “Nay, lass,” he murmured in a voice that brooked no argument as he gently pressed her back down. “Sit.”

  She had no choice, truly. With a sharp, uneasy breath, Moll obeyed.

  To her surprise, Taran joined her, sitting backward at her side to stretch out his long legs as he leaned lazily back against the table, and again folded his arms.

  “My lord.” The blonde invited herself closer.

  This time, Moll caught the lilt in her voice. Scottish. As the woman dipped into an elegant curtsy and the redhead scrambled to follow suit, Moll shot a quick glance at Taran, seeking a hint as to the nature of their relationship, but his face had smoothed into an unreadable mask.

  “Euphemia.” Taran nodded absently at first to the blonde, before he acknowledged the redhead, “Anne.”

 
The women rose in a rustle of silk and velvet.

  The look in both women’s eyes harkened of jealousy. ‘Twas as clear as day they had designs on the man, and that meant, he was, as yet, unwed.

  Euphemia’s gaze shifted to the children licking the crumbs from the table, and her lips curved into a smile, a forced, false one. “My, my, what a hungry lot we have, aye?” Her eyes darted to the swell of Moll’s pillowed belly, and her smile hardened even more. “Who might these weary travelers be, my lord?”

  Moll tensed.

  The man at her side stirred.

  “Moll,” he replied easily enough as he reached for Moll’s hand and laced his fingers through hers. The gesture announced what his words did not. Then, he cocked a brow at the children behind him and added, “My bairns, the lot.”

  Silence met this revelation, the pin-dropping kind.

  Moll swallowed. Never had she imagined her ruse at the gate would end like this, and from the set of the man’s jaw at her side, neither had he.

  Then, Anne gasped, a huge sucking in of air.

  Euphemia’s smile hardened yet even more.

  “All of them?” Anne asked faintly. Her chin dipped as she counted each child in turn.

  “Aye.”

  Moll bit her bottom lip. Why had the man continued the deception? Did he expect her to play the part of his pregnant lover indefinitely? How could she? She knew nothing of him, and ‘twas clear the two female vultures watching her every move, obviously did. Their gazes had latched onto her, clearly waiting for her to confirm his statement.

  Did she have a choice? Taran’s gentle squeeze of her fingers announced she did not.

  Forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile—and feeling very much like a puppet on a string—Moll nodded, as bid.

  “Nay,” Anne squeaked even as Euphemia’s lips thinned into a grim line.

  Moll clenched her jaw. Lord help her. What kind of hornet’s nest had she stumbled upon?

  “Ach, are ye wed, then, Taran?” Anne practically wailed.

  “Dinna be foolish, Anne,” Euphemia inserted before he could reply. “Men of Taran’s station dinna wed such women.” She met Moll’s gaze and smirked.