The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

The quarters seemed so empty without his presence filling them. Not so long ago she would have been glad of the comfortable, warm rooms to lounge in while food and drink was brought to her. There was promise of a wage at the end of it all, as well. She should be content to wait. It was better than being on the streets seeking a customer.

Yet she could not stop herself wanting to leave the room, and wondering why he could not take her with him when he went out. She was being hunted down in all likelihood, but she could easily have disguised herself. He had proved himself a master in that area, and she might even be useful to him in whatever tasks he was undertaking.

There had to be a reason why he left her here, where he feared she would run away, instead of keeping her safely by his side at all times.

Her eyes snapped open.

Was it another woman he had gone to visit, someone he would not ask to undertake the sordid task of seducing an enemy? A sweetheart, perhaps, a noblewoman he courted with aspirations to marry?

The thought of it made Jessie’s frustration swell and fester. That in turn let loose a powerful need for rebellion.

Sitting up, she stared through the bedchamber and into the room where the door to the landing was located. She sprang from the bed. By the time she was halfway to that door she had already mustered the enchantment that would open that lock, too.

Gregor paced up and down impatiently in the hallway of the most prominent auction house in Saint Andrews. His notary had given him the name of the auctioneer who dealt with most of the major land transfers in Fife, from Saint Andrews as far south as Kircaldy.

The scribe whose desk was located in the hallway where he waited lifted his quill from the papers he was working on and frowned at Gregor. It was the third time he had done so. Gregor forced himself to take a seat.

Although he had left his quarters at the Drover’s Inn in a calmer state than he had the day before, he had gradually become agitated. The cause was, of course, the same: Jessie. He should be thinking about his business matters, but no. Once he had engaged in intimate congress with her it only seemed to make his lust increase. What was it about this woman that made it so difficult to stop thinking about her?

Then she’d made him feel guilty for doing what any man of sound mind would do—lock her up for her own safety. The worst of it was that the downturn of her pretty mouth and those sad eyes pleading with him affected him more than they should, unaccountably so. Her crestfallen expression haunted him for the entire journey to Saint Andrews. He cared too much for her comfort. And he shouldn’t have told her his given name. She was a common whore whom he had hired to undertake a task.

Strangely, though, Jessie did not seem to fit that description, at least not to his mind. Never had he met a more uncommon woman. There was something unusual and oddly appealing about her. She had the cheek of the devil, but even when that was the case he couldn’t stop himself from admiring her spirit. She was like no other woman he had encountered.

Even as he rode into Saint Andrews and passed down the busy high street he thought of her and her lusty ways. He knew with certainty that she would do well at the task he had set her, so long as she could keep herself in check. When she was in a temper she was harder to control than an entire crew of men who were overdue their issue of rum. It was that cheeky tongue that he had to teach her to harness. He had to offer her more tangible rewards, perhaps.

That thought drove him to visit a seamstress before he even arrived at the auction house. He asked around in the marketplace and was referred to a suitable-looking establishment in a side street of the ancient burgh. Once he had stabled his mount, he located and entered the seamstress’s workshop—a narrow cottage with a sign in the window. When he went inside he only meant to procure some items for Jessie to use, things that might keep her occupied.

Once he was in there, however, and he imagined what Jessie would think of such finery, he purchased more than he had planned to. He caught sight of a woolen shawl the very same color as her eyes, and gestured at it. The seamstress lifted the item from the display and took it to a table where she began to fold and wrap it.

“Have you clothing suitable for a serving woman?”

The seamstress paused and then held up the item she had been working on when he arrived. “Aye, here are some samples of our work.”

Gregor looked that dress over and another she brought out, and thought them suitable for Jessie to appear in as a decent person in search of employment. When he put his hand around the waist they looked to be about the right size. “I’ll take them both.”

“These are being made for another customer, but if you would like to order something similar—”

“I need them soon. I will pay highly if you complete those two items for me instead.”

The seamstress seemed astonished by his behavior, and at first would agree to none of it, until she saw the amount of coin

s he offered to secure the items. When he said he would take what was ready and return the following day for the dresses, the woman’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. But she spoke with a girl who sat in one corner sewing, and after some whispered debate and several glances at the money, she promised the work would be done.

As he was about to leave, he spied a gown somewhat more extravagant than he was planning to buy, in the hands of the helper. It was a blue silk affair, the sort of thing a lady might wear. He imagined Jessie swanning about his quarters in it, smiled to himself and told the seamstress to add it—and any necessary undergarments.

“This will run to a tidy sum,” the seamstress warned.

“That is not an issue. I will return for the goods at the same time tomorrow.”

Now that he was waiting to discuss business with the auctioneer, it disturbed him that his mind kept wandering to images of Jessie in the garments he had seen, rather than preparing his thoughts to discuss important matters of business.

Brooding on it, he knew he’d done the wrong thing indulging his lust for her. Too long without a woman of his own, perhaps. The whore was for his enemy, not himself. There hadn’t been any denying it that morning, however.

Eventually he was ushered in, which was just as well, for he was growing increasingly angry with himself, and that made him uneasy. It was with relief he turned to matters of business.

The auctioneer was a heavyset man with calculating eyes and an expensive powdered wig that seemed rather too ostentatious for his offices. At a bureau nearby, a thinner man hunched over a stack of papers, his quill barely rising from the page to gather more ink as he worked.

Gregor introduced himself and took the seat he was offered. The auctioneer rambled through a lengthy and irrelevant monologue about the state of affairs under King George’s rule, and as soon as Gregor could interrupt, he hastened the discussion in the direction he wanted it to go.