Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  ‘Twas a smirk Moll had seen countless times on the faces of spiteful women in the markets, hellbent on heaping insults upon her head.

  “’Tis clear to see why men of his station look elsewhere.”

  It took her a moment to realize the words had slipped from her own lips. Her back went ramrod-straight. Lord save her soul. Had she gone mad? Perhaps, ‘twas the ale that had unleashed the devil of her tongue? The ale. Yes, it had to be the ale that had loosened her tongue.

  Euphemia stared, shocked.

  A shiver of pure fear crept down Moll’s neck and then released from her spell, she jerked forward to prostrate herself at the woman’s feet and beg forgiveness, when Taran dropped a possessive hand on the pillow tied about her waist and again, pushed her back to the bench.

  Moll froze.

  With a twitch of his lips that might have been a smile, Taran chucked Moll under the chin. “With a spirit like that, how can a man resist?” he teased lightly before he turned to Euphemia and added, “We’ve lads aplenty. A lass would be a blessing, aye?”

  Euphemia didn’t move.

  Anne choked. “So many,” she whispered. “Are ye certain they’re all yours, Taran?”

  ‘Twas an outright insult, but this time, Moll ducked her head, determined to keep her lips sealed.

  “Aye,” Taran’s deep voice rumbled at her side. “The lassie is Charlotte and the twins, George and Francis.” He sent Moll a veiled look, one she took to mean he’d reached the end of his knowledge.

  Reluctant to speak, she cleared her throat and replied in a forced whisper, “Straight down the line, ‘tis James, James, and James.” James had been quite the popular name on Threadneedle Street. She smiled reassuringly at the youngest, watching the proceedings with large, solemn eyes.

  Silence fell, one in which the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire.

  Then, Anne’s shrill voice inquired, “Surely, ye dinna name your lads all ‘James’, Taran?”

  Moll’s eyes widened. Horrified to realize that she’d blundered, yet again. She opened her mouth, searching for words.

  Taran chuckled. “Aye,” he replied gamely enough. “’Tis a right honorable name, after the king himself.”

  The women stared, clearly suspicious.

  The doors under the minstrels’ gallery opened and a particularly distinguished, sandy-haired gentleman in a red kilt appeared. Catching sight of the women, he scowled and let out a shrill whistle.

  To Moll’s relief, both Euphemia and Anne scurried away.

  ‘Twas clear the gentleman was a man of authority and judging by Euphemia’s sudden submissive behavior and the similarity of their looks, perhaps even her father. They exchanged words in low voices. Whatever was said caused the man to glare first at Moll, then Taran, with obvious disapproval.

  Moll’s stomach turned. “I cannot stay in this castle, my lord,” she whispered. “This is a game I cannot play. Forgive me, I had no cause to speak—”

  A finger caught her chin and Taran tilted her face toward his. This time, there was no denying the smile playing over his lips.

  “The lass deserved that and more,” he assured, brushing her concerns aside. Then, with a shrug, he added, “As for the game, we’ve gone far enough down this road, ‘tis now the only path we can tread. In truth, ‘tis advantageous for us both to play the role of lovers, aye?”

  He stood, and lifting his long legs over the bench, settled properly at her side.

  Moll snorted.

  The man at her side arched a curious brow.

  Moll turned her head away. If only he knew what he’d asked. Lovers? Love? What did she know of that? Of all parts to play, ‘twas ironic that she should be asked to play a woman in love.

  The hall began to fill in earnest, then. First, with servants lighting the candles on the tables and quickly followed by a handful of men and women, dressed in velvets and satins, but lastly, with men-at-arms and their families. ‘Twas strange. With so grand a castle, she’d thought to find it overflowing with lords and ladies, not the more common folk.

  “And who are your guests, Taran?” An elderly man with a bulbous red nose hailed from the next table.

  Taran dropped an arm over Moll’s shoulders and pulled her close. “’Tis Moll and my bairns.” His hot breath tickled her ear.

  A shiver raced down Moll’s neck, startling her from her thoughts. ‘Twas most unlike her to respond to a man. She was no naïve maid. No doubt, ‘twas truly the ale, yet still, she found herself examining the Highlander from the corner of her eye as even yet more introductions were made.

  After the fourth man had turned away, curiosity sated, Taran suddenly turned upon her. “And?”

  Moll’s stomach tightened, surprised he’d noticed. She frowned.

  The sudden hush in the hall spared her from answering.

  All eyes turned toward the high table as Lord Haddon stepped onto the dais and raised his hand.

  “The plague has escaped London’s nets and has struck Nottingham,” he announced without preamble. “Upon pain of death, the gates of Haddon Hall shall remain sealed until I give the order otherwise.” He paused, surveying each group of tables in turn, and then added, “May God have mercy on our souls.”

  A buzz of concern greeted this statement, but quickly subsided as a frail, pregnant woman appeared, the gem-studded hairnet that covered her dark brown locks glittered in the candlelight like miniature stars. Yards of rich, red velvet fell in graceful folds over her prominent belly as she stepped up to Lord Haddon’s side and looped her arm through his. From the possessive manner in which he placed his hand over hers, ‘twas clear she was a lady beloved.

  “There’s naught to fear,” Lady Haddon assured the hall’s occupants in a soft voice. “The queen’s men will stop the plague with methods tried and true. We’ve victuals and fine company aplenty. Eat your fill and rest with an easy heart. We’ve weathered this before, have we not? The danger will pass right quickly enough.” With a warm smile, she added, “Though ‘tis the evening, and we’ve had so little notice, the kitchens have prepared more than our usual evening fare. Let the feast begin.”

  As the lord and lady of the castle took their seats, the voices in the hall resumed and the feast began in earnest.

  Serving women filed in through the kitchen door in the corner behind the dais, bearing aloft steaming platters of sage stuffed piglet, carrot and parsnip pie, sweet almond cakes, and honeyed pine nut toasted bread.

  The children began to drool, and Moll caught herself, as well, as the platters paraded through the hall. Then, an army of servers arrived, filling their table with more food than Moll had ever seen in one place.

  They watched as Taran picked up the knife and began carving the meat.

  The savory scent teased her nostrils. She hadn’t tasted roasted meat in several years, not since she’d snitched a bite from the innkeeper’s kitchen where she’d worked as a serving maid in Wales—before her father had yoked her to Thomas. The thought of the man darkened her mood.

  Then, to her surprise, Taran turned to her first and slid the choicest cut onto her plate.

  Moll blinked, taken aback by the courtesy.

  “Eat, lass,” he said, then turned to a nearby serving woman holding a pitcher in each hand. “Mead, for the lady.”

  A pewter goblet appeared by Moll’s hand. Honeyed mead. The thought alone made her gag. She’d tasted it only once before—on her wedding day.

  She looked up to see Taran watching her curiously. Heavens, but the man had the eyes of an eagle. Did he miss nothing? She didn’t answer his unspoken question and turned her attention back to her plate instead.

  The wine and mead flowed. Delicacies she’d never tasted appeared on her plate. She ate her fill and then some, finishing with a poached pear topped with a brandied fig and Portuguese wine. ‘Twas stronger than she’d ever yet tasted, but as with the rest, she drained her goblet. Who knew when she’d ever eat this well again?

  After a time, t
he minstrels played, sending the soft strains of the lute through the hall. ‘Twas only when her eyes felt heavy that Moll realized the coil of tension present inside her for over a year or more had strangely melted away. This time, she was certain ‘twas the miracle of the wine. ‘Twas no small wonder that men and women succumbed to its charms. Now, if only she could sleep, she could die in peace, a life fulfilled.

  “Moll, is it?”

  The sound of her name made Moll jerk, but ‘twas near impossible to lift her lashes. She felt as if they had anchors, weighing them down.

  At last, she succeeded and focused on Lady Haddon standing at the end of the table. She was even younger than Moll had at first thought, but her large, brown eyes seemed aged beyond her years. A deep sadness lurked there, a sadness that spoke of suffering despite the smile on her face.

  Taran was already on his feet and straightening from a bow. “My lady.”

  Realizing she still sat, Moll lurched to her feet, but her mind felt groggy and her body heavy and awkward. Had the spirits affected her that much? Startled, she reached for the table to steady herself, but Taran’s strong arm was there first, firm under hers.

  “Oh, do sit, please, Moll,” Lady Haddon insisted with a silvery tinkle of a laugh. “I understand well how the feet and back ache.” She dropped a hand lightly over her swollen belly. “’Tis a blessing to have another mother here, in these trying times.”

  Moll stared, her thoughts muddled with wine and confusion, and then recalled the pillow still strapped about her waist. “To be sure, my lady,” she agreed. Abruptly, she sat back down on the bench, finding her thoughts slow and her wits strangely dull.

  “I’ve two months more,” Lady Haddon confessed with a shy smile. “I admit, I’m nervous about the birthing. It’s my first, but you’ve so many…I would you visit me and share a secret or two?”

  An awkward silence fell, then realizing the lady had asked a question, Moll blurted, “On birthing?”

  Lady Haddon’s lashes fluttered as she nodded.

  Moll frowned. Lord help her, the spirits had turned her thoughts to mush. What could she say? Her mother had birthed a babe every year, but she’d always sent Moll into the forest during the actual event. She’d died before Moll had turned eight. Her father had never remarried, nor had he seen fit to find a woman willing to offer his daughters any such related advice. Moll shuddered. No one had even warned her what to expect on her wedding night—one of the most traumatic events of her life.

  “Moll?” Lady Haddon asked.

  “Ah, yes, my lady.” The woman wanted a birthing secret. Well, she had witnessed the birth of a calf—once. The cow had kept walking until the calf slid out, feet first. Surely cows and humans weren’t much different? “The secret is to keep walking, my lady. They drop out, feet first.”

  At the muffled snort at her side, Moll looked up into Taran’s amused eyes.

  “Moll’s fair exhausted, my lady,” he said. “She’s away with the wine.”

  “Then let her take rest.” Lady Haddon laughed. She smiled at Moll. “We’ll speak of secrets when you’ve recovered, Moll.” With another laugh, she took her leave.

  Taran remained standing until Lady Haddon waddled away and then bent down to offer Moll his arm. “Shall we?”

  “We?” Moll frowned, ill at ease.

  Calmly, he pulled her to her feet and threaded her arm through his. “You’re nigh asleep, lass. ‘Tis time to rest.” He cocked a brow at George and Francis and added, “Bring the bairns, aye?”

  Moll released a long breath. George and Francis could mind the younger children well enough. Right now, she needed to sleep. The thought of a bed made her smile, and then, Taran was setting off across the hall.

  She couldn’t match his stride. Her feet felt like lead. The third time she stumbled, he swooped her into his arms and carried her through the doors and down a torch-lined corridor. She wanted to tell him she could walk, but the moment she opened her mouth, she found herself battling a yawn instead. To her own surprise, she gave up at once and allowed the pleasant hum thrumming through her body to sweep her away. For the first time in days, she felt warm. For the first time in several years, she felt completely full. No, more than that, she felt…comfortable, and the solid, muscular arms that held her with such ease felt…safe.

  She let her eyes close, only for a moment.

  The next thing she knew, a deep voice vibrated beneath her ear, “Here, lads, pull back the blanket.”

  The softness of a feather mattress caressed Moll’s back. She was on a bed. She smiled. Then, the realization struck that she was in a man’s arms.

  Fear jolted her awake. “No,” she gasped, flailing her arms.

  Strong fingers caught her wrist. “Easy, lass.”

  ‘Twas Taran. So close, so very close, leaning over her.

  “Keep your distance,” she spat.

  He said nothing but released his grip and stepped back.

  Moll forced herself to sit and then swung her feet off the bed. ‘Twas difficult, but finally, she stood on her own two feet.

  She was in a bedchamber, a large one with a fire merrily crackling on the hearth, an iron-banded wooden chest placed under the window to her right, and a massive four-poster bed. From the corner of her eye, she saw the children filing through the door to her right. She frowned, bewildered. Where was she?

  “You’re safe, Moll,” Taran assured.

  Everything began to spin. She collapsed on the bed but managed to support herself upright with an arm. “Keep your distance,” she warned, raising her gaze to Taran’s as he stepped closer. “If you don’t, when the cock crows, you’ll find yourself missing a peicsh…” She paused. The word sounded wrong.

  Taran lifted a dark brow.

  Moll frowned and tried again. “Peicesh.” An unexpected hiccup escaped her.

  The Highlander folded his arms and leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll find myself missing a piece?”

  Moll scowled and nodded. “Peicesh.” Bother the word, she couldn’t say it. It didn’t matter. She focused her gaze on his groin instead, intent on leaving no doubt as to exactly which piece she referred.

  Heaven help her, but he was a mountain of a man, one of the largest she’d seen. His muscled thighs were massive. She stared until an unfamiliar shiver raced under her skin, then, she winced, regretting the ale and wine. Why had she drunk so much?

  Then realizing she still stared at his groin, she wrenched her gaze back to his face.

  The twinkle was still there, along with an added lift of his lip. Bother it all, she could see she’d only entertained him. She closed her eyes. The man could be dealt with in the morning. With a yawn, she looked at the pillow just waiting for her head, then found herself tipping sideways, toward the floor instead.

  Taran caught her in his arms. “Ach, lass, sleep now, will ye?”

  Too exhausted to fight any longer, Moll simply closed her eyes and succumbed to the rising tide of darkness.

  “Remember, missing a peisch,” she stubbornly managed to mumble once again.

  A soft chuckle beneath her ear was the last thing she heard.

  A Feisty Lass

  Taran stared at Moll lying limp in his arms. Missing a piece? Dropping out—feet first? He was tempted to smile. The lass walked a dangerous path. ‘Twas obvious she knew nothing of birthing bairns, and from what he’d heard in the stables, ‘twas just as clear she and the children were victims of the plague’s scourge. God’s truth, but his desire to help had only put them in a more precarious situation. Should Lord Haddon discover they hailed from London, his unbridled wrath would fall upon their heads.

  Gently, he laid her on the bed. She moaned, and her lips parted as if to protest, even in her sleep. For a moment, he stood there, staring down at her face. She was bonny, exceedingly so, but his eyes caught more on the gaunt hollows of her cheeks, standing as a silent testament to her struggles.

  Pity stirred deep in his chest. Aye, he’d see after h
er and the children. What honorable man wouldn’t? Slowly, to prevent from waking her, he drew the blanket over her shoulders.

  Then he faced the children. They were practically asleep on their feet as well—except the twins, of course. The lads watched him wary, alert, and ready. He could respect that, even though he knew such traits only meant a future challenge.

  Someone had stacked a pile of bedding at the foot of the bed. “The lassie and the wee lad will take the bed with Moll. The rest of ye will join me on the floor,” he announced as he began pitching the blankets at the twins. “Make yourselves useful, aye?”

  Settling all six children took longer than he liked, but after much stomping of the toes and smothered oaths, he finally had everyone safely ensconced in their assigned spots for the night. With candle in hand, he surveyed the faces staring back at him. He’d thought his chamber good-sized before, but with the number of bodies now crowded inside, suddenly the room seemed small.

  With a curt nod at them all, he blew out the light.

  Relieved, he dropped to his own pallet near the dying fire. He was more than ready for a night’s rest.

  Almost at once, the whispers began.

  At first, he ignored them, but when the jostling started in earnest, he barked, “Be still.”

  They obeyed.

  A short silence fell.

  Then, the wiggling and muffled whispering began anew.

  After ten minutes, Taran propped himself on an elbow. “And?” he challenged, squinting at the restless forms illuminated in the dim firelight.

  “James drank too much,” a voice whispered in reply.

  “Me, too,” another chimed.

  “And me,” one of the twins snickered.

  Scattered, muffled snorts ringed the chamber.

  Taran clamped his jaw tight. Ach, he was a lone wolf, not a bitch minding her pups.

  Moll moaned.

  Taran released an irritated breath and reached for his boots. “Dinna wake the lasses,” he ordered the lads. “Up. The lot of ye.”

  The youngest James wiggled off the bed as the two older ones scrambled to their feet, apparently thrilled at the prospect of a late-night jaunt.