The Libertine (Taskill Witches 2)

He laughed softly, strolled over and reached in to run his finger around the mixing bowl she had left on the table. “The recommendation to come here did not come from Keavey, I wager.”

Lennox sucked the sweet treacle dough from his finger as he contemplated it some more, relishing the opportunity.

Glenna shook her head at him. “It is boredom that drives you to these things.”

Lennox laughed, but there was some truth in her observation. His life was divided between the hunt for his lost siblings and the need to validate his people. When he failed to move forward with either cause he grew restless. Often enough he sought minor amusements to temper that. But he was angry, angry at those who persecuted his kind. When one of their women willingly offered herself to him it was a way for him to give the menfolk a taste of the destruction and loss he and his siblings had experienced. Because the affair always came out, one way or the other. The woman would tell a friend who told another, who told the husband. Reputations were ruined, hearts were broken and shame rained down. It was a drop in the ocean compared to what he and his kin had endured, and he would never take a woman unless she was willing, but when it had happened before he found perverse release in the repercussions.

Glenna muttered on. She wasn’t afraid of him, and nor should she be. They spoke their minds to each other, and he could see he was about to get another piece of hers now. She peered at him. “It’s as if you have a death wish, Lennox Taskill.”

Lennox’s mood altered quickly. Glenna only used his family name when she wanted him to heed her words. Locally he went by the name of Lennox Fingal, and he did not appreciate his real name being said aloud when Keavey’s cousin had only just left. Her comment scraped harshly along his bones, for every day he wished that he had been the one to be stoned and burned in place of his poor mother, who had been put to death for witchcraft when he was a lad. Craving his own demise was the only power he had over the painful memories, but hearing it spoken aloud was not easy for him, even after all these years.

“Hold your tongue,” he snapped.

A chair shifted loudly at the table. Nathan bade them good-night and left.

Lachie stayed, observing the conversation with a frown.

Glenna waved her hand dismissively. “You spend so much of your time trying to make us welcome in the burgh and yet when a temptation comes along...” She shook her head disapprovingly. “You are wayward and reckless.”

It was time to set her straight. “You are wrong there. I do not do anything without a thought. Tamhas Keavey is our barrier to a better life, that is why I admitted her. I realized the woman was somehow connected to him. If it were not for Keavey, the ministers from the Kirk would not be watching us, and the council of Saint Andrews would not be suspicious every time I tried to present matters of commerce to them. It is Keavey who puts the bad look on our ability to heal.”

“Is it worth seeking their approval?” Glenna demanded. “They will accept us while it suits them, but as soon as someone points the finger it all unravels. I’ve lived long enough to see it happen, just as you have. Young witches put to death on the whim of an enemy.”

Lennox felt the old pain building again. “I will protect you.”

Glenna cast her eyes to the left, to the place where her husband sat working a bit of wood, as was his way. The slender branch Lachlan had chosen to work upon was set between his thighs and he whittled with one hand, his left. His right arm was useless, strapped to his chest where it was secured by a stitch in his sleeve to the front of his coat. It was down to Tamhas Keavey that Lachlan has lost the use of his arm. Keavey had witnessed Lachie collecting forage from the riverside and called him out. Lachie had resisted, and Keavey had urged his mount to trample the old man where he knelt on the ground. Though they had gathered and pooled their restorative powers, Lachie had refused to be fully healed by his coven in order not to draw more suspicion upon them. When Lennox confronted Keavey, Keavey claimed he’d lost control of his mount. However, he also alluded to the fact the old man seemed to be collecting poisonous leaves. Keavey warned him he was watching and seeking evidence. Lennox denied his accusation, but he knew that if they took one step wrong it would not stop at a useless arm.

It only served to frustrate Lennox all the more. The fact that he could not always protect his people reminded him of his failure to protect his mother, and his sisters. If he went ahead with a plan to get at Keavey through the woman, it would mean going against his coven. Then he recalled Mistress Chloris’s upturned face, her vulnerability as she requested his assistance. He would have to tread carefully, and in secret, but he wouldn’t relinquish the opportunity. Have her he would. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said to Glenna, keen to put an end to her meddling. “Turn Mistress Chloris away if she comes back here.”

Ailsa sidled over and embraced him, clinging to his arm and warming him through. Glenna continued to work. It indicated the extent of her frustration for she would often busy herself with extra tasks when she was brooding upon something.

“We should be on our way,” Glenna said eventually. “We should leave these parts. You told us that you grew up without censure, with total acceptance, in the Highlands.”

That was hard for her, he knew, for she had been born here in the Lowlands.

“Lennox, I am only angry with you because I feel the clouds rolling in.” She met his gaze then looked away, wiping her hands on her apron.

Lennox took note, for she was gifted with some level of foresight, or at least foreboding. Unease built in Lennox. The people who made up his coven were growing restless. He’d tried to make it different, to free them of the fear of persecution suffered by hundreds before. The country was on the cusp of change, he felt it, but he was still haunted by the ghosts of those who had died for their beliefs, for their power to heal and create magic.

“You’re a strong master,” Glenna continued, “and you’ve guided us well, but we came together as a coven because we saw wisdom in your words. If we do not find acceptance, we leave. I hoped...but I don’t believe full acceptance is possible. We should go north and soon, before the worst happens.”

Ailsa squeezed his arm. “How pleasant it would be, to roam free and gather herbs without looking back over my shoulder, fearing I will soon feel the hangman’s noose around my neck.”

Lennox sighed and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, drawing her in against him. Obligation weighed him down. Obligation to the past, the present and the future. “Hush now. You will see the Highlands soon, I promise.” After I have found my sisters.

Ailsa’s head lifted, the troubled look in her expression vanishing.

That was pleasing. He slapped her on the rump. “Away up and warm my bed, wench.”

Ailsa beamed then trailed her fingers down his arm invitingly before she followed his instruction. He gave a wry smile. At least he was able to keep one of his coven happy, if only in matters of a basic nature.

Once she’d gone, he turned back to Glenna and Lachlan. “When there is no hope of finding my sisters, then we’ll be gone. I would understand if you wish to be on your way ahead of me. Something holds me to this place. It is the simple wish that I will be reunited with my kin here.”

“Aye, we understand that.” Glenna’s expression softened. “And we have bound ourselves to you. You are our guide in these difficult times. We trust you to make the right decision should they come after one of our own.”

Lachie, who rarely offered his opinion, nodded. “We only comment on your actions when we have concerns.” He worried at his jaw with his good hand, as he did when he was unsure whether to speak out or not. “Sometimes you are a mite hotheaded.”

“It is a family trait, and it is the reason I fear for my sisters, both pure born witches.”