The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

“Morag, Miss.”

The water was still warm and she wriggled her toes.

Morag picked up a cloth and began to sluice the water up her legs.

Jessie’s cheeks flamed. “Tell me about this place. Is the Drover’s Inn well frequented of an evening?” She vaguely recalled the reek of stale ale when they had reached the inn. Two men had slumbered over a table in one corner, fists still tightly locked around their tankards, when she’d walked through the place.

Morag picked up a jug and filled it with water from the pail. “Tip back your head, miss.” Jessie did so and the girl poured it through her hair and over her shoulders. “Most days we are kept busy, and especially so when it is market day in Saint Andrews. The farmers stop here on their way home. They spend some of their earnings if they have had good sales.”

Jessie found herself thinking that might be a good source of custom, before she reminded herself that was not why she was here. It was to Mister Ramsay that she answered. Just then she noticed that he was pacing back and forth outside the door, glancing in as he passed. “And who else lodges here?”

&nbs

p; Morag was armed with her washcloth. Unceremoniously, she lifted each of Jessie’s arms and scrubbed her pits. “People come and go.” She shrugged and pushed her sleeves higher. “Mostly they only spend the one night in order to break their journey and rest their horses in the stable.”

That did not sound very interesting. Jessie shot the girl a conspiratorial look. “Mister Ramsay is the only gentleman who has taken rooms for longer?”

“There is one other gentleman, Mister Grant. He stops here for longer. He’s an excise man.” Morag paused and her eyes rounded. “Oh, we aren’t supposed to put that about.”

Jessie chuckled. “An excise man never is a well-loved person. Do not fret. I will not pass the word along.”

“Thank you.”

Mister Ramsay was now standing in the doorway, his shoulder resting against the frame, arms loosely folded across his chest as he stared blatantly at her naked form. Jessie noticed that his shirt was made of good quality cotton, and it fell softly about his collarbone, where his skin was tanned. The column of his neck and his jawbone were both strong and distinctive. The fine leather breeches he wore drew her gaze. It was the first time she had been able to appreciate him in a good light. The fact that he wanted her for another man was a damn nuisance.

This was the first time he had seen her entirely naked, she realized, and he was no doubt checking the goods he had purchased. His gaze was cool and assessing, and yet it kindled heat in her, making her wish he had bought her for his own pleasure. Still, she could make the best of it. Despite her better judgment, she wanted Mister Ramsay to dally with her as he had in Dundee, not give her lessons.

When she saw him admiring her breasts, she lifted her wet hair and turned this way and that. His eyes grew darker for a moment, and he clearly lost track of his thoughts. It was good to know that she could distract him if she wanted to. These things were important. Her plans ticked on.

“Your cousin seems very fond of you, miss,” Morag commented beneath her breath as she worked.

Jessie laughed softly. She liked the maid, she decided. The young woman was a practical sort. “He certainly seems to appreciate the view.”

Morag smiled and pushed her sponge lower, between Jessie’s thighs.

Mister Ramsay’s stare followed.

Jessie ran her hands over her breasts. When the sponge moving back and forth between her legs stimulated her cunny, she let her head drop back, and sighed loudly.

To her surprise—for he had looked as if he were enjoying what he saw—he strode over, plucked the linen from the washstand and wrapped it around Jessie from behind, covering her up.

“You dally, my dear,” he whispered close to her ear, his voice like velvet, “and we must begin work.”

Jessie swayed when she felt his warm breath against the side of her face. Then he rubbed at her with the linen, his large hands measuring her at waist and hip. The desire to couple with him swelled at her center. She recalled how easily he had lifted her. How good it had felt when he had rammed her up against the wall of that cell and his sturdy length had thrust inside her.

Morag rose to her feet, drying her hands on her apron.

“Do you have clothing you could lend my cousin?” he asked. “Her own was torn on the journey.”

Morag nodded.

“Please fetch it.”

She curtsied and shot off.

They were alone. Jessie turned to face him expectantly, her desire simmering. “How thoughtful you are, sire.”

One corner of his mouth was lifted, but he shook his head. “A used sack would have been preferable to the filth you were wearing. Now dress and be quick about it. You are here for a purpose and there is work to be done.”