The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

Fear for his safety was her first reaction. Perhaps he had been waylaid by a brigand, or maybe he had fallen from his horse in the forest. Or he might have had ill thoughts about her because of her craft. The last two nights she had not been able to stop herself from exposing the radiance of her magic when they coupled. It had been a revelation to him, and she was afraid he might turn his back on her after all.

As she stood by the stables, watching and waiting, she saw a flare of candlelight through one of the windows in the main house. Then another. They moved in quick succession, as if being carried. All had been quiet when she’d emerged from the hall. Now there was movement inside, at least two people. She could not risk waiting here in case someone saw her from inside the house and decided to question her. If Gregor came down from the forest now she hoped he would see the light and stay away.

Darting back toward the servants’ entrance, she crept inside. To her dismay she saw that the kitchen door was open, and in the hall beyond, several candles had been lit. She’d barely stepped inside when she was grabbe

d and shoved along and out into the hallway.

It was Cormac at her back, she knew, but why was he pushing her out into the light? On the previous occasion he had lingered in the gloom with her.

As soon as she arrived in the hall she realized why. Another man awaited them there. He had his back to them, facing the sideboard, where he was busy pouring wine into a glass.

“Here she is,” Cormac said, “the new serving girl, skulking about, up to no good by the looks of her.”

Jessie tried to bolt, and her beloved blue shawl dropped to the floor, but Cormac had a tight grip on the back of her dress. Even though she twisted and turned she could not break free. He held her at her arm’s length as if displaying her for the other man. Who was it, if not the master of the house?

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Harlot of Dundee.”

Jessie’s head snapped around and she stared in disbelief at the man who had spoken. It was not Master Wallace. It was a much younger man.

His cruel gray eyes raked over her and his full lips curled in delight, as if he was relishing the sight of the woman being held out to him. His face looked familiar, but for a moment she could not place him. Then she realized who he was. The last time she’d seen him he’d worn a wig and a heavily embroidered coat. Tonight his head was bare and his hair tied with a ribbon. His shirt was loose and hanging down over his breeches. The boots were just as she remembered, ostentatious. It was the man whose custom Eliza and herself were competing for on that final, fateful night in Dundee. This man had encouraged them to squabble over him, and Ranald Sweeney was all too willing to agree, knowing he would make money on the bets.

This was bad, worse even than if Cormac or the master of the house had come after her, because this man knew who and what she was. Jessie’s skin flashed hot and cold as she realized the dangerous nature of her situation.

Cormac spoke. “You know the wench, Master Forbes?”

Forbes. This was Ivor Wallace’s son, whom there had been much whispering about throughout the household. He’d been due to return, but she had taken little notice, because her mind was occupied elsewhere.

Cormac grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged on it, forcing her head back and her chin up. Pain shot through her neck. It was twisted badly, causing her to cry out. Her gaze darted this way and that as she tried to seek out the best route for her escape. She’d fled before with nowt but the clothes on her back when confronted with men who would rather force themselves on her and beat her than pay for what she offered.

Cormac peered at her as if he should know her, too, because his master did. “She’s not from the village.”

“No, she’s not from the village.” Forbes stepped closer and surveyed her as he did so. When his gaze shifted to her chest, he licked his lips.

“It seems I cannot turn my back on this place for a moment,” he commented to Cormac, “what with the old man selling land behind my back. And as if that is not enough of a concern, I find he has brought a homeless slut under our roof.”

There was disapproval in his tone, but Jessie could see he was secretly delighted. If the rumors she had heard were true and he was trying to take his father’s place, he could use this against the master of the house.

He swigged heavily from the glass in his hand, draining it. By the looks of him and Cormac, they had shared plenty of spirits already. Forbes’s petulant mouth was made even uglier once damp and stained by the wine.

“The Harlot of Dundee. Jessie Taskill is her name.” He gestured at her with the glass before setting it down. “They are looking for you. They discovered you crossed the Tay. Word passes from mouth to mouth along the coast. It won’t be long until it is the hangman’s hand you feel.”

There was loud thudding in Jessie’s ears as images from her past shot through her mind. Her emotions were already unsteady because Gregor had not appeared, and they were fast coming unraveled.

Cormac’s grip on her hair had not loosened and he peered at her again. “Who is she?”

“A dirty whore, and that’s not all.” Forbes sneered, but she sensed he was enjoying the situation, which did nothing to reassure her. “She has been charged with witchcraft. She was in the tollbooth awaiting the hangman, but somehow she escaped.”

“Witchcraft?” Cormac let go of her and stepped toward his master, with whom he seemed on good terms.

Jessie edged away, her hands seeking the wall behind her. Again her gaze flitted to the doorway to the kitchens. Cormac blocked her path. That there were two of them would make it more difficult. She could use an enchantment, but what if they discovered she was working for Gregor? She did not want him to be associated with witchcraft.

“I’ve already made the acquaintance of our newest servant in Dundee,” Master Forbes was saying to Cormac. He grinned her way. “I feel we must revisit our last encounter and bring it to its unfulfilled conclusion.”

Jessie’s breath was locked in her chest. She shook her head at him.

“I sponsored your actions that night in order to bed you, my dear. You owe me the rest of that performance, and more.” He rubbed his hand over the turgid bulge in his breeches and then glanced at Cormac. “Take her into the dining hall and strip her.”

No. I do not want this. At one time she would have flirted with such a suggestion, if only to keep a customer like him happy—anything to keep a violent streak in check. Not now. Not anymore.