The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

“I thought perhaps your enemy had torched the place,” she murmured.

“No. I did.” His voice had turned to ice. Steely determination shone in his eyes.

A dark tremor ran through her.

“After I buried him, I came back here and set fire to the place. I decided that if Wallace wanted it, he would not have it the way we’d left it.” He shrugged. “It was not until years later that I realized he did not care for the house. He didn’t use it or offer it to tenants. It was all about power to him.”

“The more land he had to his name, the higher his position in life?”

Gregor nodded, but still did not look her way.

Jessie’s heart ached for him, and her belly churned as she felt all his grief. Beyond that, she saw all too clearly what it had done to him, how the anger had controlled his life. He needed this to be over, to gain retribution so that he could truly bury his father.

It was as if he was back there; she could see that in his eyes. As if he was the one who had to let down his father’s corpse. She saw him there with his father’s crumpled body on the floor at his feet, grief blinding him, the loss building into something that would take him many years to control, to understand and to vow to revenge. Would the revenge he sought ever be enough to heal those wounds? she wondered.

Jessie had grown fond of him, and it was in her nature to reach out to those who were suffering, even though that often brought trouble her way. I will help him with this. I will make it right.

“Gregor.” She squeezed his arm.

Turning to face her, he stared at her vaguely at first, as if he did not recognize her. When he finally focused on her, his eyes narrowed. “Are you happy, now that you know?”

He was angry.

Jessie peered up at him with deep concern. “I had to under stand your quest for vengeance. I have thought of such things myself, often, after what happened to my mother. The truth of the matter is that revenge on your enemy will not change history.”

That was quite clearly not something he wanted to hear, for he glowered at her. Jessie had not faced a challenge such as this, not ever. She reached for his arm again, eager to calm his thoughts and comfort him.

“You wanted to know,” he muttered, and jerked his arm away. “Now you can do what you promised you would do. Gain his ear, inform me what land he is selling and I will buy it. This will be over once I claim back what is ours.”

It was as if a door had been slammed in her face.

“Gregor, wait.”

But he turned away from her, walked out of the house and strode rapidly across the walled area to his horse, mounting quickly and slapping the beast on the rear. Jessie watched in dismay as the horse galloped off, back in the direction from which they had come. Grabbing her skirts in her hands, she followed, cursing herself for having quizzed him. He had not wanted to come here, and yet she had to know, even though it had put him in a foul mood. And now she had to get back on her own mount without assistance.

Flustered, she tried to repeat the enchantment she’d made earlier, the one that kept her rear end in the saddle, whatever happened. It was the only way she could bring herself to ride, so great was her fear of falling. She knew that for most people the distance to the ground was pitiful, but for her it took her back to an unhappy moment. The moment when she had been forced to stand on a stone wall outside the village kirk and watch her mother be put to death.

The horse was restless, eager to be gone with its companion. As she looked beyond it, she saw Gregor and his mount about to disappear beyond the hilltop. Panic struck her, for she would have to find her own way if he did not slow down and wait for her.

“I will not fall,” she chanted un

der her breath, eyes closed and forehead pressed against the flank of the horse. “And I vow that I will not let Gregor down, whatever foul mood I have brought about through my wretched curiosity.”

SIXTEEN

GREGOR HAD RIDDEN AHEAD OF HER FOR THE entire journey back to the Drover’s Inn, and he made it obvious he did not want to converse with her. In their quarters once more, he sat in surly silence, his eyes on the window, his thoughts far away.

Jessie guessed at his emotions. If she had to return to the place of her mother’s death, she, too, would be crippled by the experience. What she did not understand was why he had turned on her, as if it was her fault. They had grown to understand each other, or so she thought, and yet he had scowled at her and turned away when she’d reached out to him. That stung. She tried to keep her feelings inside and make allowances for his reaction, retiring to the servant’s room until later.

When supper arrived, however, he pushed the plate away and ordered her back to her room.

“Gregor, please.” She rose to her feet.

To no avail. That night he told her to sleep in her own bed.

The following morning she found him seated as he had been the night before. Slumped, but not sleeping.

After another full day of silence, where he did nowt but glower into the distance with a bottle of port in one hand and a glass in the other, she began to doubt his sanity.