The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue.

Gregor’s blood ran cold as he began to see it.

“He made your father’s life hell for claiming the girl he wanted. Even after your mother passed away, the hatred lived on. He wouldn’t rest until he had taken everything your father had worked for.”

Gregor’s heart thumped wildly against the wall of his chest. His mouth had gone dry and he could scarcely swallow. It was Ivor Wallace who had taken everything they owned—Ivor Wallace who had poisoned the cattle and then tricked his da into signing the land away. She couldn’t mean it.

“Hugh Ramsay was a proud man. He couldn’t live with the fact that he’d lost it all and you had no inheritance. So he took his own life.”

Gregor gripped the arms of the chair. “I am not Ivor Wallace’s son.”

Margaret met his angry stare with sad resignation in her eyes. He knew this woman well, and he knew that she would not lie to him about something as important as this. Unable to meet her gaze a moment longer, and sickened by what he had heard, he rested his forehead in his hands. “It cannot be. That man is immoral, greedy and cruel beyond redemption.”

“Aye, and made bitter by his need for revenge.”

Revenge.

Pain knifed through Gregor.

His eyes flickered shut and he pressed his fingers to his eyelids. He felt as if Margaret Mackie had held a mirror up to him. There in the reflection he saw it, and he was scalded by the truth. Revenge begets revenge. If Ivor Wallace had destroyed his father for the reasons Margaret gave, he was now carrying that same vindictive streak. His thoughts churned, and for a while Margaret’s words went unheard. Eventually she fell silent, leaving him to his sorry thoughts.

Eleven years he had let the quest for revenge rule his life. He’d ignored his only kin in Margaret here, and his old friends, because he could think only of his enemy. He’d sent sweet Jessie in there, knowing how dangerous it could be for her, so fixed was he on retribution.

Jessie.

The thought of her became a single shining beacon in the chaos of his denial and despair, something worth fighting for in a life of ruined beliefs and broken dreams. He had to get her out of there. He had to make her safe.

Lifting his head, he quizzed Margaret. “Does he know that I may be his son?”

“No one told him.” She eyed him cautiously. “Although he may have guessed there was a chance you were his. You came along very quickly after your mother wed.”

That possibility did not make him feel any better. Gregor rose to his feet. “I want nothing to do with him.”

“That does not surprise me. I have had many a year to think about this. I’ve little respect for Ivor Wallace, less each year as I have watched him become embittered and riddled with avarice. But I will say this…sometimes when a man loses the woman he loves, his reason is lost, too.”

When a man loses the woman he loves…

Gregor rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment, silently vowing that he would make sure she was kept comfortable and not wanting for anything, and then he was on his way.

Outside the cottage, he cursed when he saw how far the moon had moved in the sky. It was late. The evening had escaped him as he sat there while history unfolded.

Jessie would think he was not coming.

She would go back into the house.

Gregor ran. He ran as fast as he could. Back through the graveyard he went, and across the fields beyond.

Finally, Balfour Hall loomed on the horizon.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do was set foot inside that house, knowing he was the blood relative of his most reviled enemy. But he had to, because Jessie was there.

TWENTY-THREE

JESSIE PRESSED AGAINST THE WALL WHERE SHE could see the stables. To her left, the gardens and the hill that led up to the shadowy woods beyond were both within her sight. At first all was still, and the night was not too cold. Then the wind lifted and she wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders and huddled against the building.

Time passed. Clouds wisped across the moon, making it more difficult for her to judge how late it was. Her eyes began to ache from peering into the gloom, looking for him. Where are you, Gregor? It was a long while before she admitted to herself that Gregor had not come at the appointed time. Then she forced herself to consider that he might not be coming at all.

A tight knot of concern formed in Jessie’s chest. Once again she scanned the gardens and the woods beyond for signs of movement. She saw nothing. She darted toward the outhouses and the stable itself, and checked inside. He was nowhere to be seen.