The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

Making it last as long as he could, Gregor thrust slowly and easily until neither of them could fight the release any longer and they both shattered. Then she clutched at him gratefully, whispering his name, and he rolled free and drew her into his arms, tucking her against him for sleep.

FOURTEEN

GREGOR LET HER SLUMBER ON THE FOLLOWING morning because her sleep had been so fitful. He rose quietly and prepared for the day ahead. When she stirred and sat up, she held the blanket to her chest and peered at him with sleep-heavy eyes.

He strolled over to her. “I will ask the alewife to send up some breakfast for you. When you are dressed, come downstairs and we’ll be on our way.”

He reached out and caressed her cheek.

She nodded, and then covered his hand where it rested against her soft skin.

“I have things to attend to,” he said as he drew away and reached for his hat. The truth was he needed to clear his head.

He had slept even less than she did. He’d watched over her, concerned that the nightmares would return again. Then he’d wondered why he was doing such a thing. It had taken several more hours for his muddled reasoning to subside and his thoughts to alight on Balfour Hall and its owner. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about. Jessie was taking his attention away from that goal. The Libertas would return in less than six months and everything had to be in place for that moment. They had to move forward.

Once he was outside he took a deep breath and headed to the stables. The morning was fair, which boded well for their journey.

When Jessie appeared, she was wearing the pale gray dress he had purchased for her, and had her shawl tightly knotted over her bosom. Her hair was neatly secured and her face seemed freshly scrubbed. She looked rather pale, as if being indoors for so long had not served her well.

Why did that make him feel guilty and concerned for her? Why was it that he’d rather have her unruly and passionate, with high color in her cheeks and her hair tumbling down over her bare breasts?

Lust, that’s why.

Sure enough, it could drive a man to madness. He had never experienced it this intensely before. Rubbing his head, he doubted his sanity for a moment. For eleven years he’d concentrated on earning good coin in order to come back his own man, a man capable of buying land and seeking retribution for his father. Gregor had taken women here and there, of course, but never had he enjoyed…what? What was this? It was something quite apart from the desire between them, the hearty nature of their fornication. Companionship, he supposed.

As she approached him, he noticed that she looked upon the two horses with a troubled expression. Pushing the lingering thoughts of intimacy from his mind, he recalled the way she’d acted that first day when he’d had her mount the horse behind him. She’d clung to him like a limpet for the entire journey. At the time he’d dismissed it and assumed she was trying to work her female charms on him. Now he wasn’t sure that was the case.

Remembering how she had been when he teased her, he vowed to handle her with as much caution as he could. Their recent discussions had been fraught enough. He was not sure how much more revelation he could take, and he needed his faculties clear when they got to Craigduff.

He nodded at the horses. “We will travel quicker with two mounts.”

Her hands knotted together, unraveled and then knotted again against the front of her skirt, yet she forced herself to nod in response to his statement. Then she glanced at him and away, her gaze flitting about as if she was planning something. He had become familiar with that particular habit. What was she up to? Was it horses she disliked? Was she unwilling to mount?

The stable boy lingered to assist.

“This one is meant for me?” She pointed at the smaller of the two, a tan-colored mare.

Gregor nodded.

The horse lifted its nose, scenting the air as she approached it. She ran her hand over it. “Hello, my beauty.”

Then, in a much lower voice, she spoke in what sounded to his ear like Pictish. Intrigued, Gregor watched. He had already heard her speak a few Gaelic words, and apparently she knew some Pictish, an ancient Scottish tongue, too. One of his seamen, Jacob Carr, would lapse into the language when he had too much rum, a habit he swore was passed down from father to son in his family. What Jessie murmured to the horse sounded to be of similar origins.

The horse nuzzled her uplifted hand.

“It is a beautiful morning. Just look at the view,” she commented. She gestured at the hillside. He looked in the direction she pointed, scoured the pigpen at the edge of grounds and the tufted hills on the horizon, but saw nothing as compelling as she seemed to indicate.

When he looked back at her, he found her attention was once more on her mount. The beast had lowered its head in submission, and she rested her forehead on its mane. Her eyes were shut. Gregor watched, bemused, as her lips moved as if in a silent prayer. When she opened them they seemed more vital, bluer than ever before, and strangely vivid.

Even as he noticed it, the effect was gone.

For the first time, his mind flitted back to that night at the inn when he had first seen her, and the accusations that were made while they waited for the bailie to appear. Someone had declared they had seen a strange look in her eyes.

A feeling of unease crept over him while he watched her, and he thought about what had been shouted about her that first

night in Dundee. Now he knew about her mother, too. He rubbed at his jaw, and then rapidly shrugged off the notion. Once again his thoughts were wandering.

Jessie was smiling his way, and that made it easier to ignore the accusations that had surfaced in his memory.