The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

“They will hang you for the crime,” she warned, ho

rror in her eyes.

The poker grew even hotter and he hurled it into a corner of the room. With his fist, he delivered a final blow to his opponent’s jaw, stunning him.

Gregor rose to his feet and flexed his fingers.

Jessie had risen to her hands and knees but was still on the table, eyes wide, body shivering violently.

“Come, we’re leaving.” As he grabbed her in his arms and placed her safely on her feet, voices issued from the corridor outside and a door at the opposite end of the room sprang open. A man with a candle raised strode in.

Ivor Wallace. The landowner had aged, but Gregor knew him the moment he walked into the room.

“What goes on here?” he demanded, surveying the scene. Meanwhile, a cluster of onlookers gathered in the doorway—an elderly woman in a nightdress, whom Gregor recognized as Mistress Wallace, and several hastily dressed servants.

Ivor Wallace’s gaze shifted to Gregor.

Gregor felt the old familiar hatred well within him as he stared at this man who had destroyed everything in his world eleven years before. “I am Hugh Ramsay’s son.”

It was no explanation, but for Gregor it had to be said.

Wallace’s head jerked in recognition, and as he did so Gregor saw it—the set of his eyes, the shape of his jaw and cheekbones, the heavy brows. As much as it made him sick to admit it, the likeness was there. This man was his father, and looking at him now, Gregor knew there was no denying it. Foreign emotions assailed him and he ground his teeth together. Secrets and lies had molded his history, and for a moment he hated them all, even his mother and Hugh, for destroying each other, for keeping the truth from him.

Ivor lifted his candle and stepped closer.

“You are Agatha’s son?” As he asked the question, the taper in his hand shook, the flame flickering wildly.

He knew. The recognition that shone in his eyes revealed the truth to Gregor. Ivor Wallace knew he was his son.

He scrutinized Gregor, and as he did his expression changed. Hope flared in his eyes, a smile lifting his lips.

Behind him, Wallace’s wife stifled a cry with her hand at her mouth, and then blessed herself with the sign of the cross.

She knew. They all knew, except him.

All the hatred Gregory had felt after Hugh’s death came back tenfold. It was as if he was that angry lad who wanted nothing more than to fight this man with his fists, to force upon him some small part of what he deserved.

Then he felt Jessie shift at his back, and he moved his hand to still her. Once again it occurred to him that she was his beacon amid this chaos. Jessie was the only good thing that had come from this sorry mess.

Forbes had regained consciousness, and he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth as he lifted himself on an elbow. “Keep away from the woman,” he warned. “She is wanted by the bailie in Dundee under a charge of witchcraft.”

Gregor steeled himself. Jessie was his only concern now.

He grasped her hand, holding it tightly in his.

Concerned murmurs passed among the crowd gathered at the doorway, and several more heads peeked around the door before disappearing once again.

Coolly, he glanced at Forbes—his half brother. The man disgusted him. And when he looked again at his natural father, Gregor knew that he would finally be able to let go of his cause. The past would be buried in the past, where it belonged.

“Yes, I am Agatha’s son, and I know who you are. But you will never see me again.”

The old man’s expression altered quickly, and he staggered. There was a broken, sad look in his eyes. Gregor saw the truth of it; he could not have hurt him more had he knocked him to the floor and torched his precious manor house.

He squeezed Jessie’s hand and turned away.

At his back, he heard Ivor Wallace’s voice. “You’ve turned out a fine young man, Gregor.”

Pain flared in Gregor’s chest. No thanks to you.