The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

He shook his head and turned his back on her, striding off. If she wanted to risk remaining here, that was her choice.

Within moments she was hastening behind him.

He resisted comment, though the urge to do so was fierce.

“They torture and kill witches in Fife,” she grumbled, as much to herself as to him as she walked alongside him.

“Then you must stop pretending that you practice witchcraft.”

Her head lifted and she peered at him in the gloom. “And there was me thinking it was one of my ‘fancy tricks’ you wanted me to play on this man who has upset you so.”

Gregor grasped her by the upper arm and hurried her on, annoyed at the inferred curiosity about his private business. He was paying her to do as he said, not speculate over his motives. She was canny indeed. Given her curiosity, could he honestly hope to keep her at arm’s length while preparing her for the task ahead? Perhaps, if I resist her charms and keep her solely for my enemy.

Apparently his task grew more complicated by the moment. He’d possessed her. With any other woman tha

t would have been enough, but it would take some will on his part to resist this shapely wench if she were there for the taking. “Your fancy tricks led me to believe you might have a bit of sense in your head,” he muttered, “but I am beginning to doubt it. It was your bare arse that made me think you were worth having, and nothing more, and don’t you forget that.”

“My arse?” She wrenched free of his grip.

Her face bore such an affronted expression that the tension he carried broke and Gregor laughed aloud. “Yes, your arse, the one that you were exposing to the whole of the inn while you tussled in the dirt. What, did you not know that your rear end was on display to the entire gathering?”

Obviously she had not, for the news silenced her.

Gregor gave her a sharp slap on the behind in order to keep her moving along, and to drive his point home.

Her mouth opened and she looked astonished, but she said nothing. Instead she rubbed her bottom and stared at him ruefully.

Finally. She seemed bereft of words.

Gregor stored away that fact. A sharp slap on the rear end might be needed from time to time with this one, if he was to keep her in line for the duration of their time together.

Now why did that seem to signal even more trouble?

THREE

IT WAS THE SOUND OF CONVERSATION THAT woke Jessie. When she looked about the place she found herself in she did not recognize it. Sitting bolt upright, she rubbed her face. The light that edged in through the thin curtains at the window made her blink, and she peered around the room with curiosity. She barely remembered arriving here the night before, but she did remember the arduous journey, and that her rescuer had forced her to climb up behind him on a horse—a horse!

She had been so high from the ground she felt quite ill, and had to cling to his back whimpering, with her eyes tightly shut. He, of course, found that greatly amusing, which only increased her annoyance about being obliged to stay with him. So distressful had the journey been that she was greatly fatigued by the time they finally reached their destination.

The room was sparsely furnished. She’d been sleeping in a narrow cot, in her shift. Her torn dress, petticoat and stays lay on the floor, together with her shoes, where she recalled depositing them after he’d ushered her into the room. The cot had a serviceable blanket and was reasonably comfortable. In the opposite corner of the room stood a pail, covered over with a piece of wood. Nearby, a bowl and cloth and a jug of water stood on a wooden washstand. It was more appealing than the cell she had last rested in, as well as the hovel she lodged in with six other women in Dundee.

Sitting up on the cot, she poked open the curtains and peered through the window. Green hills rolled away from the building, a sweeping view. Instantly she felt the age-old desire to be out there, to smell the wild grass and walk barefoot over the ground. And this was Fife, a fertile region that could just be seen from the highest part of Dundee. Often she had gazed across the Tay and wondered about it. It looked pretty enough, but she had been put off venturing here even when she thought she should leave Dundee, because dreadful stories came from the villages of Fife—tales about the torture and hanging of those who practiced the craft. The very thought brought back painful memories for Jessie, memories of her mother.

Forcing her attention back to the present, she saw that the door to the adjoining room was slightly ajar. She got up, used the pail to relieve herself and then peered into the jug suspiciously. Two mint leaves floated on top of the water. She picked them out, then lifted the jug in both hands and drank deeply. Doing so was risky, for it might hold disease, but she was always thirsty in the summer and there had been little sustenance while they traveled the day before. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she set the jug down.

She was about to go to the door when she remembered the coins she had asked her new sponsor for in Dundee. It was important to hide them, and quickly. Inside her stays she had stitched a pocket where she dropped her earnings, and she removed the coins and sought a hiding place for them in the room. She wedged the two shillings in between the floorboards and then stood on them, embedding them there. Tugging a few stray threads from the hem of her shift, she covered the coins over. Satisfied they were safe, she crept closer to the door and listened.

“You did not say you would be keeping company.” It was a woman who spoke.

“A change in circumstances.”

Jessie recognized the man’s voice, for it was the one who had come to the tollbooth for her. She did not yet know his name.

“You do not need to concern yourself,” he added, “I will pay you well.”

Jessie could not withhold her curiosity. She tugged her torn shift across her bare breast, knotting it and tucking the bunched fabric into her armpit before she opened the door and peeped out. Her rescuer was seated at a table in a much larger room, a private parlor of what was clearly substantial living quarters. It housed a table and chairs, and a winged armchair by the fire that flickered in the hearth. There was a good stack of peat nearby. Through a doorway directly opposite she saw another room, a bedchamber. A large, comfortable-looking bed stood on the far side, with heavy, half-drawn curtains around it. Next to it, Jessie noticed a trunk with a hefty lock and key. At present the lid was open, and when she craned her neck she spied clothing and papers heaped inside.

The woman her rescuer was conversing with stood by with a tray of food in her hands, the contents of which drew Jessie’s attention. She had not eaten in two days.