The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

He was fixed on his task, and he had put a distance between them. That made it easier for him. Did it make it easier for her? No! His encouragement might. Instead, he had become cold and silent. She would do anything for him. Foolishly, she had grown to care what he thought of her, and now he acted as if this had been nothing but a business arrangement. She had been warned that danger lay in affection for a man—and yet she had left herself open to this one.

Foolish, yes. A man such as he could never truly care for a woman like her, a whore. For a day or more she had betrayed herself, allowing herself to believe that they shared each other, if only for a few days. Soon she would be gone from his life, and that made her greedy for the time they had left, resentful of his withdrawal.

The hours passed and the sun set. By then she was nursing her own raw temper. Hurt by his silence, she considered how sorry he would be if he knew he had underestimated her and that she’d been inside his precious trunk and had breached the locks on his doors. If he had only listened to the folk in Dundee, he might be afraid she could procure another protector at will and walk away from him and his quest for revenge.

She put on her new hide shoes and combed her hair. Then she presented herself to him. “If you will not speak with me and continue to prepare me for the task ahead, I will go downstairs and entertain myself there.”

His eyes blazed and for a moment she thought he might forbid her—that he would snatch her back into his arms and hold her to him.

“Do as you wish.” He stood up, turned his back on her and walked away.

Astonished, she stared across the room at him. Her statement was intended to force him to address her, to wake him from his trance. However, he no longer seemed to care where she went.

Crestfallen, Jessie watched as he poured water into the dish on the washstand and then pulled his shirt over his head. The sight of his naked torso only made her more annoyed, because she ached for his embrace. Fooled myself. He cared nothing for her. She was just a convenient whore he kept to do his bidding, knowing she was under the continued threat of condemnation and death, a woman who he thought should be grateful for protection and for the crumbs of affection he threw her. And what about the afternoons? she silently raged. When he went who knew where? To another woman, his real woman, perhaps. Someone he would never ask to do the sordid task of seducing an enemy in return for a full purse.

Infuriated, Jessie turned on her heel and stomped out of the rooms before he could stop her, racing down the rickety stairs and into the crowded inn.

Gregor stared down into the basin of water, then cupped his hands and filled them. The splash of cool drops barely registered. He cupped his hands again and doused the back of his neck. Then he dipped his head into the bowl, wetting his hair. He flicked it back, ran his fingers through the wet strands, then pressed his hand to his forehead. Several long moments passed, and then he realized that Jessie had gone.

Frowning, he looked around.

He walked to the sitting room, rubbing his jaw, and vaguely realized his beard was unruly. The door to the landing was ajar. He recalled her badgering him. He scarcely remembered what she’d said, because he had been deep in thought.

Picturing her face, he knew that she’d been upset.

It was wrong to blame her for the visit to Strathbahn, but he could not help himself, his temper was so bad. It was her fault they had gone, and her fault that he had begun to feel things more deeply again.

He’d also had the uneasy feeling that the claims about her practicing witchcraft might have some credence. There was that odd thing about her riding after she had seemed so unwilling, and then she’d said she could easily make too much housework for the servants to manage, and she truly believed it. Would it happen? Soon enough they would know.

What he could not forgive himself for was that he was concerned for the welfare of a whore. He had lost sight of his target, because of a woman he knew nothing about. Now he was almost willing to believe the claims about her, and that set loose another round of doubt. Hours had gone by in these rooms when he did not even think of his goal, because he wanted to claim her and bask in her glow instead. Was this the result of witchcraft? The unfamiliar doubts and feelings nagged at him until he grew grumpy and frustrated, and he’d snapped at her whenever she came near.

Here in these three small rooms he’d managed to lose his sense of purpose. He had to hold on to his focus to fulfill his goal, to live again. He owed it to his father.

Even so, the thought that she was down there, where the men leered at her and she could quickly find another sponsor, began to bite into him, and it was not a pleasant sensation. Over the last day he’d become numb. Not anymore. Anger shot through him, turning to ice in his veins.

The longer he stared at the open door and heard the sounds of laughter and cheering rising from the tavern below, the more tension and possessive anger built inside him.

She was a whore, but until he ended it she was his whore.

The clamor of voices and the smell of ale and bodies was a familiar experience to Jessie. She pressed into the crowd, even though she did not want to be here at all. She would not satisfy Gregor by returning to his side, however. Perhaps some time alone would wake him from that trance of his and they could move forward again.

The inn was heaving with drunken farmers and she overheard talk of the market in Saint Andrews. It was just as Morag had described. As Jessie made her way to the counter, where the alewife was busily working, she saw that Mister Grant was once more in residence, presumably after a long day of tax collecting. Several of the farmers reached out to grab at her, but she easily danced free of their grasping hands. Pausing alongside the excise man, she leaned forward to speak to the alewife.

When Mister Grant turned to look at her, she smiled his way.

The man’s cheeks colored. Then, when he noticed that Mistress Muir had appeared, he gestured at the jug of ale she carried. “A glass for the miss here…” he paused, blushed again “…and another for myself.”

“Thank you, sire.” Jessie stepped closer, glad of the conversation. It would keep her from running back to Gregor.

“Consider it an apology.” Her neighbor inclined his head, most gentlemanly. “My friend treated you quite poorly that day on the landing. He had no idea that you were lodging here, and feared you were a thief.”

“That is perfectly understandable, under the circumstances.” As she spoke to him, her mind flitted back to the more intimate moments she had witnessed, and she picked up the tankard that was set out for her to hide her secret smile. “I am guessing it is market day in Saint Andrews,” she remarked conversationally after she had wiped the ale froth from her lip.

They conversed rather awkwardly for some time, and Jessie was chuckling at one of his remarks when her laughter faded away because she felt a shiver run up her spine.

So bad was the feeling that she feared it was the bailie or some other soul from Dundee who had come for her. But when she glanced over Mister Grant’s shoulder, she saw that it was Gregor who filled the doorway beyond. Jessie’s heart beat faster when she saw the wild glint in his eyes, and a dire feeling came over her.

He had come for her, which should have pleased her. But the look on his face was thunderous. That he was in even worse humor finding her here conversing with the excise man was quite obvious. How long had he been watching? She recalled that she had touched Mister Grant upon the arm once or twice. Well, it shouldn’t matter. Gregor was training her for another man, after all. Nevertheless, Jessie had a feeling of dread when she met his black stare.