Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  The twins groaned.

  Taran fixed them with a look. So, they’d sought only to stir the younger lads into trouble? They couldn’t see his face in the dim chamber light, but they read the stern line of his jaw well enough.

  They leapt to their feet in a flash.

  Satisfied, Taran opened the door and waved the lads through. Minutes later, he had them lined up before the garderobe used by the guards walking the walls.

  As they went about their business, he leaned against the rough stones and inhaled the cold night air. The wind blew steadily against his face, carrying with it a smattering of rain. Ach, he should be in bed, asleep a good hour or more—not standing in the cold, waiting for a gaggle of lads to piss. He snorted. When he’d awakened that morning, he’d never imagined such an end to his day.

  A small hand plucked his sleeve. It was one of the lads named James. “We’re finished, m’lord,” he whispered, hooking his thumb at the others clustered by the door.

  Taran eyed them thoughtfully. Three lads shared the same name, aye? Jesting aside, he could hardly call them all the same name. As he passed them by, he dropped his hand on each lad’s head and christened them, one by one. “You’re the tallest, so I’ll call ye James. Ye, I’ll dub Jamie, and the wee one we’ll call Wee Jack. Now, be silent.”

  He jogged down the tower stairs to the floor below without looking back. The boys followed, whispering and shoving each other along the way. Once inside the bedchamber, he kicked the fire to give them enough light and they dutifully returned to their pallets, silent as wraiths.

  ‘Twas only then that Taran allowed himself to glance at Moll. Still asleep, the shadows accentuated the curve of her hip as the lush spill of her hair glistened gold in the firelight. ‘Twas a sight that stirred a man’s blood, but he knew better than to allow that for long.

  Heaving a breath, he dropped onto his pallet, wrapped himself in his blanket, and closed his eyes.

  Finally, ‘twas time to sleep.

  But, sleep eluded him.

  Each time he hovered on the verge, one of the lads moaned or coughed in the surrounding darkness.

  As the minutes passed, Taran’s frown deepened.

  Long had he called himself a lone wolf, a warrior, a leader of experienced, battle-hardened men. He spent his days securing clan borders and fighting on the king’s behalf. He hadn’t truly shared a chamber with a soul in years—not even with the lasses who struck his fancy. After a few hours of their fine company, he’d retire to the solitude of his own sanctuary. ‘Twas how he preferred to live.

  Jamie began to snore.

  Wee Jack coughed.

  One of the twins—Francis?—began to toss and turn.

  Taran clamped his jaw tight and willed sleep to come.

  An hour passed, and maybe even another before, finally, he felt himself drift away.

  Auld Bertha appeared by his side, reaching out for him and cackling loudly.

  Taran jerked awake with a frown. Auld Bertha. He hadn’t thought of the woman in months, not since he’d visited his cousin, Alec, now happily wed to Sorcha. Uneasy, he settled back on his pallet.

  Again, his eyes closed, and again, sweet, blessed sleep stood within his grasp.

  Aye, that stone heart of yours ‘twill turn tae water soon, ye clot-heid. Auld Bertha’s words echoed in his mind, speaking the words from the day she’d met him and his cousin so many months ago in Scotland. But ye’ll journey to find her. A Sassenach, that’s who she is.

  Taran opened his eyes, disconcerted. He snorted softly under his breath. When he’d met the old woman on the road to Edinburgh many months ago in Scotland, he’d thought her mad, even though her dire predictions concerning the untimely deaths of his cousin’s clan had come true. ‘Twas coincidence, surely. Aye, even if his cousin’s future had proved true, the old loon’s predictions of himself meant little. Journeying to find a lass? He most definitely wasn’t looking for one, not when he knew he must wed as the clan and king willed.

  And his heart? He snorted, a wee bit louder. His heart suffered no ills. ‘Twas fine as it was.

  He was a lone wolf.

  Irritated, he forced his eyes closed, swearing at himself to relax and fall asleep.

  * * *

  Taran awoke with a start. The dim morning light lit the room. Something lay across his leg. In an instant, his hand dropped to his dirk, but his fingers had scarcely touched the hilt before he spied a small, tousled head in the gray morning light. He paused, confused, and then memory returned with a rush.

  Ach, ‘twas Wee Jack, using his leg as a pillow. Apparently, the laddie had crawled down from the bed sometime during the night.

  Taran blew a breath and released his dirk. Mayhap, with children in the chamber, he shouldn’t sleep as was his wont, armed.

  Carefully, he extracted himself from under the laddie and surveyed the various snoring piles of arms and legs dotted around the room, ending with Moll.

  The lass lay on her back with one arm hanging off the bed. She’d kicked off her covers during the night. He was tempted to smile. Even in sleep, she was a fighter. For several moments, he enjoyed the view of her soft curves, the swell of her breasts before he caught the selfish nature of his thoughts.

  He forced his gaze to the window.

  ‘Twould be foolish to foster an attraction toward the lass. She wasn’t the dallying kind, and soon, he’d choose a wife—if for no reason other than freeing himself from the king’s constant barrage of irksome candidates.

  He strode to the window and unlatched the shutters, enough to see a cloudless, pink-and-lavender streaked sky. As silently as he could, he opened his trunk and selected a linen shirt. He’d change in the guardroom above. As the children around him stirred, he left the chamber.

  A weak morning sun warmed Taran’s face as he walked the ramparts a short time later. The bite of the wind reminded him of home. Already, he was weary of Haddon Hall. For three months now, Queen Elizabeth had danced around granting him an audience. Aye, she was a wily one. She’d used every tool at her disposal to avoid their meeting, a meeting she knew right well required her to pay the silver she owed. Now, with the Black Death’s arrival, she very well might dangle him a year—maybe more. He ran his hands through his hair. He had no desire to live his life in England, catering to the queen’s whim.

  He continued to walk around the wall, this time, stopping to view of the stables. The stable hands had stayed outside the gates to mind the livestock. He frowned. They’d best mind his horse right well, or there would be hell—

  “MacKenzie,” a harsh voice called.

  Taran exhaled and turned as Lords Hay and Maxwell bore down on him like ships at full sail. Anger marked their every step.

  “A word, MacKenzie.” Lord Maxwell glowered from under his thick red brows.

  “Ye’ve insulted my Euphemia.” Lord Hay came directly to the point, his face already a fine shade of red up to the roots of his fair hair. “Flaunting your whore as if—”

  Taran cut him short, “Nay, not a word.” He leveled the man a look, his every instinct compelling him to defend Moll’s honor.

  Lord Hay swallowed. “Aye, I understand a man has his whores, but ye may as yet wed Euphemia—”

  “Or my Anne,” Lord Maxwell cut in.

  Taran clenched his jaw. “Nay,” he grated.

  The men clamped their mouths shut, surprised. Indeed, he surprised himself. The word had spoken itself. ‘Twas the truth. He couldn’t abide wedding either lass—despite what advantages they offered his clan. For a time, he’d thought that might be enough…now?

  “Then, ye’ve made up your mind, at last?” Lord Hay arched a brow.

  Taran didn’t miss the glittering gleam of calculation in his eyes. Aye, Euphemia was so very much like her father. The thought dealing with them both for the remainder of his life was a chillingly sober one. And Lord Maxwell? The man was fair difficult—his daughter, as well.

  Nay, he’d ride home and consult with the clan
. He’d make his case for a different wife. Surely, there were other brides upon which they could agree? Then, he’d speak with the king. Until then? He eyed the lords. Truly, there was no reason to prolong the conversation. ‘Twas only bothersome to them all.

  “I bid ye good day.” He bowed with brevity.

  The vein on Lord Maxwell’s forehead popped. Lord Hay tilted his head to the side.

  Never one to waste words, Taran spun on his heel. He’d learned long ago the value of listening, speaking little, and cutting angry words short.

  “Ye’ve not heard the last of this matter,” Lord Maxwell shouted. “’Tis my Anne that ye’ll take to wife.”

  Taran squared his shoulders and kept walking.

  At the north tower entrance, Lord Haddon stepped into his path. “They seem rather irked.” He gestured at the two Scottish lords still standing on the wall.

  Taran shrugged.

  Lord Haddon’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis not often a man can choose as he pleases.”

  “Aye,” Taran agreed. Disinclined to discuss the matter, he switched subjects. “Tidings?”

  “None,” Lord Haddon answered readily enough. “No doubt, with the plague afoot, the queen hides in her castle. If your messenger hasn’t been hung for daring to ride to her door, then he’s escaped to France by now for fear of failing his duty. I’d wager you won’t hear from the man again, MacKenzie.”

  ‘Twas the truth. For the messenger’s sake, he could only hope the man was now in France.

  “You’re caged in Haddon Hall, dancing to the queen’s tune, along with us all,” Lord Haddon muttered, locking his eyes on the rolling hills spreading across the horizon. He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head as if waking from a dream. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve matters to attend.”

  Taran watched the man, his jaw clenched tight. Caged? He didn’t care for cages nor did he enjoy dancing with queens, king’s bidding or no. Striving to contain his rising irritation, he propped his elbows on the rim of the castle’s inner wall and glanced over the grounds.

  In the upper courtyard beneath him, his men milled about, battle-hardened MacKenzie warriors. They’d seemed inordinately amused as the rumors circled of Moll and ‘his’ bairns, but they’d yet to ask a single question. Strangely, he wasn’t inclined to explain.

  Catching his eye upon them, several raised their arms and whistled, “Victuals, my lord.”

  Taran lifted a hand in acknowledgment. He’d join them later, after he’d seen to Moll and the children.

  Taking the tower stairs two at a time, he descended to the corridor leading to his room when voices echoed up the stairwell from below.

  “Moll will have our hides,” a voice snapped.

  “Ma, not ‘Moll’,” another retorted. “How many times do I have to remind you, Francis?”

  Francis snorted. “No one’s addlepated enough to believe she’s our ma. Did she birth us at age, what? Five? La mercy, George. Think, will you?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? We’ll be gone soon enough,” George groused in reply. “Whilst we’re here, we call her ‘ma’, and as I’m not of a mind to tempt fate, we’ll stick to the plan. I’m the—”

  “I know,” Francis interrupted, then mimicked in a whining tone, “I’m your elder.”

  Their bickering continued as Taran rounded the last turn to see them lounging against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

  The instant they caught sight of him, they straightened and dashed out the door.

  Taran arched a suspicious brow. The plan? What plan was that? He’d have to speak with Doughall, the leader of his men, to have someone keep an eye on the lads afore they embroiled themselves in trouble.

  With a thoughtful frown, he pivoted on his heel, headed back up to stairs, and scare a minute later, lifted the latch to his bedroom door and stepped inside.

  A soft gasp met his ears followed by the distinct rustle of cloth. It took him a moment to realize he’d interrupted Moll dressing, but he looked, anyway. She stood by the bed. The odd angle of the pillow beneath her gown along with her exposed ankle betrayed he’d caught her strapping the contraption about her waist.

  “Good morning,” he said, feeling strangely lighthearted.

  “Good morning, my lord,” Moll dutifully replied. Dark circles underlined her eyes and her skin looked pale. With the amount of wine and ale she’d imbibed the night before, he could only imagine how raw she felt.

  He offered a sympathetic nod.

  Moll smoothed her skirts and then curtseyed, low. “I thank you for your aid and the night’s shelter, my lord. After the morning meal, we’ll be on our way.”

  Not bloody likely. Had she forgotten she was as much a prisoner as he? “Lord Haddon’s order still stand, lass. The gates will likely remain sealed for some time.”

  A look of alarm crossed her face. So, she hadn’t remembered…but then, ‘twasn’t surprising. No doubt, the spirits had caused her to forget many things.

  She lifted her chin, then stated firmly, “My lord, I can hardly stay here, pretending to be your lover.”

  “Why?” His gaze took in her winsome body and lithe curves. “‘Tis quite believable, I assure ye.”

  “’Tis preposterous.” Her eyes flashed.

  The force of her reply only tempted him to evaluate her curves once again. She was too thin, to be sure, but precisely the kind of woman he’d always found attractive—spirit included. “Nay,” he disagreed. “I’ve always chosen the bonny, high-spirited lasses. Those who know me would expect naught else.”

  Her eyes widened in shock.

  Clearly, she’d meant something else, but what, he couldn’t fathom. Seeking to set her at ease, he added, “I ask naught from ye, lass.”

  She stood there, distrust rampant in her stunning eyes.

  He waited. He was a man of patience.

  Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but in a tone of challenge, “Why are you helping us?”

  “Is not aiding the weak required of a man?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He shrugged. “’Tis Highland honor, lass. Have ye met no honorable men?”

  Her continued silence spoke volumes.

  He moved passed her to open the shutters and peered out. “Dinna think I’ve evil intent toward ye, lass,” he said as gently as he could. “’Tis my duty to see ye and the children fed, and when this is over, I’ll escort the lot of ye safely to your kin.”

  “Kin?”

  The bitterness of her tone caused him to glance at her, surprised.

  She fixed him with a stony gaze.

  “Surely, ye have kin?” he pressed.

  “Do you want the truth?” she challenged, jutting her chin fiercely. At his nod, she continued, “My kin gave me to a tailor for a pair of pants, then told me never to return. I suffered in hell with the man for a year, until near a fortnight ago, when the plague swept through London and we fled for our lives. I have nothing and nowhere to go.” She paused, then with a defiant toss of her head, asked, “Does your Highland honor still feel responsible now?” She couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes.

  Taran surveyed the lass with a thoughtful tilt of his head. She stood there, fierce and proud. He could only admire such a spirit. Aye, she might be small and frail, but ‘twas clear enough she had the soul of a warrior. Did he feel responsible? Truly, he was feeling more responsible with each passing moment in her company, though why that should be so, he didn’t stop to ponder.

  “Aye,” was all he said.

  Moll drew a sharp breath. “I’ll not sleep in your bed.”

  “I dinna ask that of ye,” he retorted. Rather insulted, he added in a cooler tone, “I’ve no trouble in finding a willing lass when the fancy strikes.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  They stood there a time, huffing and glaring, until he noticed the angle of the sun hitting the chamber floor. Soon, breakfast would be over.

  “What’s done is done, lass,” he said in a matter of fact tone. �
��Ye’ve spent the night in my chambers. ‘Tis too late to tread a different path. Within Haddon’s walls, you’re known as Taran MacKenzie’s lover.” ‘Twas true, whether she liked the fact or no.

  She swallowed, her shoulders sagged in acknowledgment.

  Inordinately pleased, Taran nodded, then his thoughts sobered. “For the safety of us all, ye canna share where ye harken from. I doubt even I could stop Lord Haddon from hanging ye at the gate, should he learn ye hail from London.”

  Alarm flashed across her face. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then hie yourself off to the hall. No doubt, the wee ones are stirring mischief.”

  She made for the door, but he caught up with her in two long strides. The instant his fingers closed over her arm, she whirled, as if prepared to fight.

  He let go. Ach, she was as skittish as a colt. A strange blend of pity and attraction rolled over him as he nodded at the pillow hanging lopsided near her knees.

  “Mind the bairn, aye?” was all he said.

  Then, he stepped past her and strode out the chamber door.

  * * *

  Moll occupied Taran’s thoughts the entire morning and well into the afternoon as he trained with his men. ‘Strewth, but she intrigued him. If he’d been presented him with such a lass, he just might have found himself wed, years ago—lone wolf be damned. A fiery lass could rule a man. A gentle lass could drive a man to cherish her above aught else. Moll seemed a fascinating mix of both, the kind of lass who could make him want to protect, challenge, and worship her all at once.

  Catching his thoughts, he expelled a breath. ‘Twould be difficult to live with her in close quarters if he weren’t mindful. ‘Twas grossly unfortunate that she was precisely the kind who could stir his blood to a boil. Already, ‘twas growing warm.

  With renewed vigor, he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and attacked his opponent.

  More than once, he spied Euphemia watching him from the walls above as he leaned against his sword to rest and wait his turn near the chapel where his men practiced. By God, did the woman have no pride? Was she that desperate to become Lady MacKenzie that she’d willingly ignore the arrival of her intended’s lover and six children besides? His distaste for the woman only grew the longer she dawdled.