Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  Nay, ‘twas far more expedient to simply inform His Majesty that he would forge his own clan alliances. He eyed the letter he’d already written to his father. Even his father’s reaction didn’t concern him. His father would support the will of the clan…and that was the heart of the matter. The clan concerned Taran the most. ‘Twas their livelihood, safety, and future at stake—the blood of their sons.

  He bowed his head. If only he could choose his own wife, based on her merit, a strong-hearted lass who could inspire, a lass who could lead the clan in his absence, and a lass they could fall in love with…as he could, himself.

  He reached for the bottle of whisky and tipped another mouthful, and then, picked up the quill again.

  “Athair? Are ye coming to bed? ‘Tis late, Athair.”

  Taran glanced over to see Charlotte standing at the end of the table, her small hands clenched into fists. The wee lass tried so hard to mimic him. He owed her the truth. Yet, from her furtive manner and pinched face, ‘twas clear she’d heard the rumors circling of the king’s decree. ‘Twas clearly too cruel to shock the lassie again.

  “I am not yet weary, lassie.”

  Charlotte bit her lip, and then hopped onto the bench by his side, still wary and pensive. “I’ll keep ye company.”

  Taran reached over and tousled her head.

  “Charlotte,” Moll’s voice slipped through the hall.

  She stood only a table away, her face stoic, emotionless as she refused to meet his eyes. By God, what had he done? He should never have kissed her. She’d taken the first step of trust…and now? What could he offer her?

  The quill snapped in his hand.

  “Are ye coming to bed, Athair?” Charlotte whispered, poised to leave.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Come, Charlotte,” Moll said firmly, holding out her hand.

  Still, she refused to look at him as Charlotte scampered to her side, and then, they were both turning to scurry away.

  Grimly, he watched them go. A lone wolf? Hardly. Now, he felt like an outcast, shunned from the pack.

  Time passed.

  At the midnight hour, he gave up all pretense of writing and strode to the walls for a breath of air.

  The hours marched on.

  ‘Twas a cold, miserable night, yet he couldn’t rest. He wandered the walls under the bright stars in the vast night sky above, the expanse offering only an illusion of freedom. Now, Haddon Hall felt more like a trap than a cage.

  At last, the sun rose over the rolling hills and the castle stirred to life. When the morning bells rang to announce the morning meal, he merely yawned and leaned against the wall. His appetite had shriveled away. ‘Twas only when he spied Euphemia grandly sweeping through the great hall doors, and then, a moment later, Moll exiting the North Tower with the children in tow that he roused himself.

  He couldn’t let Moll walk straight into the viper’s nest.

  Euphemia’s voice was hard to miss. He heard her the moment he ducked under the hall door, speaking in earnest with her maid.

  “Send them to the kitchens. I willna see her in the company of her betters.” There was little doubt of whom Euphemia spoke. She stood next to the high table, shimmering in a forest-green silk gown and with every strand of her blonde hair carefully coiled.

  No doubt, she considered herself a bonny lass, but he saw only a shrew.

  “As for where she sleeps?” She tapped her chin. “Aye, the storerooms, or better yet, the laundry. Remove her, forthwith—”

  “Nay,” Taran clipped the word.

  The maid saw him first. She winced and cringed as Euphemia jerked, then faced him.

  “My lord.” Only the flutter of her lashes betrayed her displeasure. “’Tis a pleasure to have ye join me here.” She waved her hand at the high table.

  “Ye’ll leave Moll be,” Taran said, driving straight to the matter at hand. He cocked a brow at the maid and then Euphemia. “And that goes for ye, as well.”

  The maid curtseyed and turned away, stumbling in her haste to leave.

  “My lord—” Euphemia began.

  Taran cut her short. “Dinna try me.”

  ‘Twas chilling how well she concealed her anger. Her smile remained unchanged, but he caught the subtle trembling of her chin before she fluttered her lashes and regained complete control. “I know ye were fair dazed last night, but ‘tis the king’s will. This marriage will happen, my lord.”

  “Nay, ‘twill not. I promise ye.”

  A look of alarm flashed across her face. She didn’t stop him as he spun on his heel to leave. He strode toward the table he’d so often shared with Moll, but while the children sat on the benches with their bowls of porridge, Moll did not.

  “She’s in the laundry, Athair,” Charlotte whispered as he arrived.

  Taran paused a moment, struck by the dark circles under the wee lassie’s eyes. ‘Twas clear she hadn’t slept a wink, as well. “After ye eat, get some sleep, lassie, aye?”

  “Aye, Athair,” she replied with a nod.

  He gave her a sympathetic pat on the head and then stalked away.

  Moments later, he paused on the threshold of the laundry room door.

  Moll sat on a stool with her back to him, picking through a pile of lichen on the table.

  Slowly, he leaned against the doorjamb and took his fill of her curves, from the elegant arch of her neck to the pleasing flare of her hips. His body stirred. He wanted her, but now she was denied him, he wanted her even more.

  Almost as if sensing his bold inspection, Moll suddenly glanced over her shoulder, then froze, her eyes wide.

  With his gaze never wavering from hers, he straightened and entered the room.

  It wasn’t until he’d reached her side that she moved, as if suddenly released from a spell.

  “Your shoulder?” she asked, slipping off the stool.

  “Astonishingly well,” he answered as he flexed his arm. “Never have I healed so quickly.”

  She smiled, but then turned back to the pile of lichen. “You should rest, my lord.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d kept moving until he felt his hands on her hips. He needed to touch her. Hold her.

  “Euphemia—” she whispered, turning rigid beneath his fingers.

  “God’s blood, dinna say her name.” Taran swore under his breath.

  He knew he should leave, that he had no business being there, but the heady fragrance of her hair and the softness of her hips proved too much of a temptation to resist. With a need that bordered on desperation, his lips found hers.

  Locked Out

  Moll closed her eyes the moment Taran’s palms skimmed low over her hips. Soon, by the king’s command, he would take Euphemia to wife. Yet, the moment his cheek brushed her hair, she couldn’t stop herself from melting against his warmth. What power did the man possess? He had but to hold her in his arms and fears of the past—along with those of the future—simply faded away.

  Then, his lips caught hers. This was no gentle teasing of the lips. ‘Twas fire, the soul of passion. As in the aviary, his touch awakened something deep within.

  Giving into instinct, she pressed herself against him as his tongue swept into her mouth, teasing and dancing over hers. ‘Twas a new way of kissing that made her feel as light as a feather, carefree. She met his tongue with hers, stroke-for-stroke, and pressed herself against him, wanting to feel his hands caress every inch of her skin.

  He stepped back, taking her with him as he sat down on the stool to pulling her into his lap while lifting her skirts just enough to allow her to straddle him. ‘Twas far too elegantly done, a well-practiced maneuver on his part, but the stab of jealousy vanished the instant she felt their most intimate places connect. He was hard. She could feel him beneath his plaid.

  Then, his teeth grazed her jaw and the scratch of his stubbled chin sent ribbons of pleasure straight down her back. She shivered, unable to stop her hips from pushing against his hardness.

  He moaned, th
e sound so deep, so primal, her eyes flew open and she half lifted herself from his lap, but he was quick. With battle-honed reflexes, he gripped her hips and pulled her back down again.

  “Stay,” he breathed the plea.

  With that brogue rumbling in her ear, how could she resist? Lord help her, she didn’t want to go, she wanted more of him—all of him.

  He was watching her through hooded eyes, unable to conceal his lust, a lust she knew was equal to her own. As if in a trance, she lifted her fingers and tugged her bodice laces.

  Taran caught her chin with his hand. “Are ye certain?”

  The intense heat of his smoldering gaze made her every nerve tingle in excitement. As she began pulling her gown off her shoulders, he caught her fingers and lifted them to his lips.

  “Nay, lass,” he rumbled as his lashes lowered even more.

  Moll froze. Had she erred? Did he not want her? He must think her wanton, a—

  “This is my journey, lass,” he murmured. “A journey to savor.”

  He pulled her close and nibbled her neck as his hands slid over her skin and then, ever so slowly, slipped beneath her shift. She held her breath as with an agonizingly delightful slowness, he slid his hand down to cup her breast in a soft caress. Lord help her, but every bone in her body turned to jelly at that touch. As he nuzzled her ear, his fingers kneaded and teased, each stroke sending shivers of delight to pool low in her belly.

  She couldn’t hold still. She had to move. Again, she pushed against him, but she wasn’t as close as she liked. The pillow strapped about her waist stood in the way. Irritated, she yanked at the straps.

  Then, Taran slipped her gown over her shoulder and took her breast in his mouth.

  All thoughts of pillows vanished in a flash.

  “Moll! Moll!”

  Startled, Taran lifted his head.

  Shocked at the state of her undress, Moll slid off his lap and covered herself in a rush.

  ‘Twas none too soon. The next moment, Francis burst into the laundry. “’Tis Charlotte. She fainted and we can’t wake her.”

  Behind him, George suddenly loomed.

  Moll took one look at their worried faces and ran.

  * * *

  By evening, Charlotte began to moan. She lay on the bed, her cheeks pink with fever and sweat beading her brow. Moll stayed by her side, wordless, worried. Again and again, she’d listened to the little girl’s heart, but each time, she heard merely the beat. ‘Twas as if Charlotte had tucked her heart away, behind a fortress of stone.

  “Nothing?” Francis asked again from where he sat at the foot of the bed.

  Moll shook her head. ‘Twas odd. The illness had come quick.

  The door to the bedchamber opened and Taran entered. ‘Twas the third time in the past hour alone that he’d returned for news.

  “Anything?”

  Again, Moll shook her head.

  “Mayhap, we can—” he began when outside the window, men began to shout.

  Arching a brow, Taran crossed to the window and peered outside.

  “What is it?” Moll whispered from Charlotte’s side.

  The men’s voices grew louder, reverberating from the walls above, at first distant, but then in words they all could hear, “’Tis the Queen! The Queen!”

  Taran’s broad shoulders stiffened.

  “The Queen?” Francis gasped.

  As if in answer, the unmistakable grinding of the castle gates resounded through the air.

  Taran turned to Moll, his jaw clenched tight. “Dinna let anyone know she’s ill.”

  She swallowed. With a queen who hung men for riding through plague-ridden lands, who knew what else she might do?

  “The Queen!” the shouts resounded again.

  Taran drew a sharp breath. “’Tis best I leave. The rest of ye, stay here. We canna risk news of Charlotte escaping the room, aye?” He eyed each boy in turn, from the youngest to the twins, then moved to the bed to stand there a moment before reaching down to trace a finger softly over the back of Charlotte’s hand.

  The little girl lay still.

  “Heal her, Moll,” Taran murmured, and then he was gone.

  As the shouts outside grew louder still, George pulled the window shut.

  “Try again, Moll,” Francis urged from his post at the foot of the bed. “She was struck down so quick. Try again.”

  Frowning, Moll dropped her ear to Charlotte’s chest for the tenth time.

  The beat sounded uneven, frail. She waited, listening for more. Disappointment washed over her. Nothing. Nothing from the heart. Still.

  Then, she heard it. The echo. Moll held her breath.

  Surely, she was mistaken?

  Filling with fear, Moll listened with every fiber of her being. There was no denying it then. Beneath the beat, she heard the same despairing resonance as she had with Lady Haddon.

  She choked.

  Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Lord help her, she should have known. Despite the bright face the little girl had worn since leaving London, she ached for her mother.

  “What is it?” Francis whispered.

  How could she tell them? Yet, even more, how could she deny them the truth? “Her heart…’tis broken.”

  The twins tensed as one. The younger boys gasped. Confused, Wee Jack began to cry.

  “Can you heal her?” Francis clenched his hands into fists.

  Moll drew a shaky breath. Both Lady Haddon and Charlotte would die, and soon, if she couldn’t fetch the mushrooms from the stables, but how could she make her case, when she must keep Charlotte’s illness a secret? And how—

  “The gates!” she gasped, leaping to her feet.

  “Gates?” George repeated.

  Charlotte moaned in her sleep.

  “Sleep, poppet.” Moll kissed the young girl’s cheek. “I’ll be back with a brew to set you to rights. You’ll be dancing in your new gown by the end of the week.”

  “Truly?” Francis mouthed as Moll pushed past him.

  She nodded, firmly. There could be no other ending. She wouldn’t allow it. Charlotte wasn’t going to die, not when the cure stood just outside the castle walls. A pox on Lord Haddon and the Queen of England if they tried to stop her.

  Snatching her cloak from the foot of the bed, Moll fled down the tower stairs.

  ‘Twas near dark. Surely, with the gates open and the queen and her retinue arriving, no one would see her slipping out of the castle. She’d be quick. ‘Twas only a stone’s throw away, and truly, what was the harm?

  The castle inhabitants milled about the gates and lined the walls above as Moll arrived. ‘Twas difficult to see over the wagging heads and in the gathering gloom.

  Determined, she pushed forward and had nearly arrived at the front of the throng when three armored men astride black horses filed inside, the first bearing a magnificent red silk banner stitched with three white lions.

  Directly upon their heels, a gaunt, aged woman with a pale, powdered face and flaming red hair entered, riding a white palfrey. The deep, regal red of her gown, the ermine-trimmed cloak, and the jewels bedecking her bony fingers announced her as Elizabeth, Queen of England.

  The crowd bowed.

  As Moll rose from her curtsey, she caught sight of Taran, his dark brows furrowed as she stood behind Lord Haddon in the middle of the courtyard, waiting for the queen.

  The queen’s palfrey pranced forward, lifting its hooves in an elegant dance up to Lord Haddon, and then straight past him, to stop before Taran, instead.

  A murmur rippled over the crowd. ‘Twas a public shaming of Lord Haddon that none could miss. No doubt, no other matter would be discussed for days, but the sight of Taran receiving the queen only tore her heart.

  She bowed her head. The country duck with the swan. What a fool she’d been to forget. She had no place kissing a man who received a queen.

  Grimly, she turned her head, unwilling to watch a moment longer.

  The queen’s attendants streamed through the
gates, men on horses and donkeys pulling laden carts—one packed with a stunningly carved headboard and the posts of a bed. Apparently, the queen planned on taking up residence in Haddon Hall for quite some time.

  ‘Twas then Moll noticed the gates. They stood wide open, offering her a tantalizing view of the stables behind the sea of servants still surging inside.

  She hadn’t realized she’d slipped through until she stood outside the castle walls, watching the tail-end of the queen’s procession march inside.

  Lord help her, what had she done?

  A quick, startled glance revealed the men guarding the ramparts distracted, their attention focused on the proceedings within. As one began to turn, back toward the road, Moll realized she stood too far from the gate. She’d never be able to dash back inside without him noticing.

  Truly, there was only one way to remain undetected, and that was forward.

  Without another thought, she picked up her skirts and ran for the stables as if the Devil himself nipped her heels.

  The strong scent of hay blasted her nostrils as she darted through the door. For a minute, maybe more, she leaned against the wall, willing her pounding heart to still, half expecting the guards to barge through and drag her away at any moment.

  The unmistakable sound of grinding metal intruded upon her fears, and with her heart in her throat, she crouched by the door and peered around the corner, back at the castle.

  ‘Twas as she’d feared. The castle gates were closing.

  Moll swallowed.

  She stood on the wrong side.

  Greetings from the King

  Taran eyed Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England, as she sat at the high table, presiding over the great hall. Pale-skinned and thin lipped, the hallows beneath her cheeks lent her the appearance of a bird of prey. The keen, hawkish gleam in her brown eyes only served to underscore the comparison, as did her long-fingered hands with nails of exceptional length.