The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

“He is our neighbor,” Jessie offered conspiratorially, as if imparting knowledge of great importance.

Gregor frowned. That was all he needed, a neighbor at the inn who hailed from Craigduff. Someone who might remember exactly who he was and tell others that he had returned. He didn’t want Wallace to be forewarned when he took action. And how in God’s name did Jessie know that if she had remained locked up in her room all afternoon?

“How do you know that he is our neighbor?”

Her eyes rounded and then she blinked. “Morag told me there was a man by the name of Mister Grant staying in the rooms here.”

Gregor grew increasingly unsettled by the turn of events, and she was not helping. He should be hastening this along in order to get it done before news of his presence got about. Instead he was dallying with the woman he had hired to work for him. “Come, it is not safe here.”

“No,” she bleated forlornly. “No one has even looked at me, covered up as I am.”

She was wrong. Every man in the inn was staring. They were practically lathering at the mouth for want of a closer look. He glared at her. “It is not only you who does not wish to be identified.”

“Oh.”

When he saw her expression alter, he nodded. Now she understood.

“Shift yourself and be quick about it. I have a bottle of port upstairs. We can talk privately.” He checked that the papers were secure in his pocket and then swallowed the rest of his ale. The sooner they were back upstairs the better.

Jessie did not relish the suddenness of their departure, however. She looked woebegone when he rose to his feet, as if he had just informed her a close friend had passed on. He grasped her wrist and indicated in no uncertain terms that they must leave.

When he had her halfway up the stairs, she grumbled bitterly to his back, “I had barely sat myself down when you dragged me back up here.”

“And I should never have taken you down there in the first place,” he retorted over his shoulder.

She was dawdling, clinging to the banister as if she did not want to mount the staircase.

He frowned and gestured her on. “Neither of us needs to be identified.”

Once they reached his quarters, he ushered her inside and locked the door. She took the shawl from her head and cast it aside before putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

The frustrations of the day had already taken their toll, and his patience had worn thin. He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “How did you know that gentleman was our neighbor?”

Immediately she turned her face away. “I told you. Morag mentioned his name.”

“You are lying to me.”

She folded her arms across her chest.

“Has Morag been letting you out?”

“No.” She was adamant in that. “Ask her if you do not believe me.”

“You really think I am going to quiz the servants about your activities?” He shook his head and stomped off, retrieving the port bottle from the mantel shelf. He sloshed the dark wine into glasses and pushed one across the table toward her.

She followed in his footsteps. “I am no more than a servant to you, and you are quizzing me.”

Once again she revealed her annoyance about being beholden to him. “Indeed.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “But you are more trouble than you are worth. Perhaps I should have left you to rot in that tollbooth.”

The affronted look she afforded him made him laugh aloud.

Her eyes flashed angrily. “Where did you go today?”

Gregor lifted his brows. “You know where I went. To buy you clothes.”

“Did a woman help you?”

Lord, she was insatiable in her quest. “A seamstress, yes.”