The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

As he made his way back to the stables where he had left his mount, he wondered how best to handle the exchange of any information she might garner. Originally he had thought he would get her to send word when she found out what he needed to know. That would involve a third person, which might be dangerous for her. As he thought about it he changed his mind. Once she was established in Balfour Hall he would meet her on the grounds at night. That would be necessary in order to find out about her progress, and to guide her if she needed assistance.

With a wry smile, he reminded himself that although they had made progress over the past two days, it would be wise to keep a close eye on her, because Jessie had a mind of her own and she was wayward and difficult to manage. If he was to keep her focused on the task, he would have to rein her in each night.

That notion made his mind wander, and it was with no small amount of irony that Gregor wondered who would rein him in, when she swayed him in matters of intimate congress.

NINE

JESSIE PRESSED HER EAR AGAINST THE DOOR to the landing and listened. Somewhere beyond she heard noises, but it wasn’t close by. Ducking down, she blew into the lock, wrapped her hands around the handle and funneled her body heat there, whispering an enchantment as she did so.

Once again a haze of light moved into the lock and it clicked open smoothly. An answering burn in her chest reflected the power she had wielded, giving her a sense of satisfaction that she’d never had before. Again she was perplexed by the way the spell unfolded, but she was quickly distracted from wondering over it when the door swung open. It led onto a landing and she peered into the gloom.

There was no candle in the sconce near the door and the only light came up from the staircase on the far side. She could see that there were four other doorways, and darted over to the nearest one. It always paid to know who your neighbors were; many a time she had been saved from trouble with a customer by knowing that. When she pressed her ear to the door she heard voices in the room, but could not make out what they were saying.

Moving along the landing, she kept glancing at the staircase. At the next door, she heard nothing. Sounds from the inn below lured her—the very place she should avoid for fear of disc

overy was calling to her like a moth to a flame. She knew it was wrong, but she had a good mind to go down there. What harm would a quick glance about the place do? The chances of anyone from Dundee being about these parts were not high, she wagered. No one would recognize her. However, Gregor would find out she had gone down there because someone was bound to tell him, and she did not want him to know that she could get out and about when he thought he had her under lock and key.

Curiosity was nevertheless getting the better of her, and she walked to the top of staircase, ducking her head in an attempt to catch sight of the place below. She didn’t get too close. She had a terrible aversion to heights, and even walking up or down a staircase made her feel quite ill. The discomfort went back to the moment of her mother’s death, and even though she knew she should be able to force herself beyond it, it still haunted her.

The smell of ale and grease rose from the tavern below, mingling with the aroma of a peat fire. Somewhere in the distance she heard a voice shouting instructions. It sounded like Mistress Muir, but then faded away before Jessie could be certain it was her. The hallway below was stacked with barrels, sacks of provisions and at least three broken chairs. She vaguely remembered being marched up the steps on her arrival. They had passed through an inn where two men slumbered over tables and the fire was low in the grate, but the memory was not detailed otherwise.

Just as she was about to take a step down, one of the doors behind her creaked. Bolting upright, she glanced back. The door behind which she had heard voices was open a crack, but no one had emerged. Jessie darted back toward Mister Ramsay’s rooms, moving past the open door as quietly as possible. However, when she caught a glimpse of what was going on inside the room, she paused and took a second look.

The room was similar to the one she had emerged from. Two men stood by the fireplace. One was fair-haired and looked to be a nobleman, or at least a man who earned a good wage, for he was dressed well.

Jessie determined that this must be Mister Grant, the excise man whom Morag had spoken of the day before. His companion was a handsome, younger fellow with long dark hair. He looked to be a fieldworker. He wore a loose shirt with a simple yoke, and well-worn breeches. The dirty, rough hide shoes on his feet and the dark, threadbare stockings also indicated his status. The wealthier man wore buckled shoes and brightly colored stockings. As she quickly assessed them, Mister Grant cupped the other man’s face in his hand in an affectionate gesture.

Jessie was startled. She leaned closer to the gap in the door. How would the younger man react? The fieldworker lowered his head and rested one hand against the nobleman’s hip. Jessie’s curiosity was well and truly baited and her blood heated, for in an instant she saw their true nature and knew that they were lovers—secret lovers, hidden away here in the middle of nowhere, much as she was. Most fortuitous of all was that they clearly had no clue that the door was ajar, besotted as they were with each other.

Intrigued as to how their meeting might evolve, she flattened her body to the wall. That way she could observe the two men for as long as possible without discovery, and still glance over her shoulder in order to keep a watch on the stairs. The door to Mister Ramsay’s rooms was a mere dash away, should the need to make her escape arise.

“I’m glad you came here today. I had hoped to see you again.” It was the fair-haired man who spoke, and he did so while he removed his frock coat and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

Jessie had witnessed such encounters before, between men whose appetites were for each other rather than a member of her own sex. She’d seen them in the backstreets and alleyways where her kind sought custom, as well. Some of these men engaged in quiet bartering before slipping away into the night together, while others sought their release immediately, pleasuring each other there and then by hand and mouth on shaft, or up the rear, fast and furtive in the shadowed doorways.

But these two men wanted one another and they had done this here before; she could see it in the way they leaned together and touched with familiarity. It was the urgent flicker of hand and eye that indicated they were lovers who knew one another physically, lovers who sought each other out for another tryst.

The fieldworker pulled his shirt off in one swift move, revealing a body hard and strong from labor. He undid his waistband and reached inside for his shaft, letting his breeches fall to the floor, where he kicked them and his shoes off. The muscles on his chest were made more obvious by the dark hair that grew there, tapering down into a fine line that led her gaze to his groin, where his rod stemmed from a thick, dark patch of hair. There was no doubting he was a willing participant in this encounter. When he held his rod in his hand, offering it to his lover, Jessie observed how ready he was to be touched and used. His manhood stood out like a flagstaff, its foreskin drawn back and the head shiny and swollen. He cupped his large and heavy-looking ballocks as if offering them to his master.

Mister Grant’s eyes shone. His hands trembled as he shed his shirt, and he struggled with his buttons. Mumbled words of admiration and need were exchanged as they undressed. Jessie strained to hear, but they were speaking more quietly. Then Mister Grant reached to cup the other man’s hand in his own, embracing his heavy sac. As he did, his trews fell to the floor, revealing a pale, slender rear end and surprisingly strong thighs. His prick was up and hard, and it was long and bowed to one side.

The dark-haired man gave a hungry grin as he stared down at Mister Grant’s member. He reacted suddenly, grabbing his master around the back of the neck. He planted a possessive kiss on Mister Grant’s mouth while his hand stroked the long, bowed cock adoringly. In hurried movements they devoured each other at mouth and hip, hands feverishly exploring. Then they moved as one to the bed. Once they were reclined on it, their embraces grew even lustier.

Jessie peeped in as their bodies rolled together in an urgent rhythm, their hips thrusting, cocks rubbing one against the other. It was a lewd and stimulating sight, and she soon found herself with a nagging ache to frig herself to release.

Who would take whom? she wondered. Ranald would be accepting wagers on it. That thought tickled her and she almost giggled. Putting her hand over her mouth, she quickly contained the sound of her response. She kept her hand there when she observed the darker man turn and reverse his position on the bed, until they were top to toe and he could take his lover’s member in his mouth. Her eyebrows lifted as she observed the man underneath do the same, returning the favor. She had witnessed this act between two women before, but not between two men. It was startlingly arousing for her to observe and—as she could clearly see—for the two men to take part in. Her thighs rubbed together as she shifted from one foot to the other, her body growing eager for such ministrations, for the touch of finger and lip to her eager seat of pleasure.

Jessie could not help feeling oddly aligned with their situation. Although hers was very different, there was similarity in the way they must hide and keep their secret. She felt a bond with the pair of them, for they would be cast out much as she had been. Not only were they fornicating with their own sex, but the wealthier man let a mere worker order him about and defile him. The excise man’s sanity would be questioned if his tastes were put about.

Condemnation haunted them all.

Muffled grunts emerged from the entwined figures, and occasionally she caught a glimpse of their faces as they devoured each other. There was a bucking of bodies, thrusting and arching, until the fieldworker lifted his head and issued an instruction.

“Make ready for me now.” His voice was ragged with lust.

Mister Grant rolled free of his younger lover.

Taking charge once more, the younger man mounted his companion, who lay facedown on the bed. He was a fine-looking man, and now that he had assumed the role of master, he seemed even more attractive. Jessie could not help admiring him, especially when he began to stroke his own member, spitting in his palm before doing so, and coating the head and rigid shaft.