The Jezebel (Taskill Witches 3)

Maisie pressed back against the boards behind her and held her precious bundle to her chest, for the ship’s movement on the water took her by surprise. She peered over at the odd hatch in the floor he had indicated, and wondered what he meant by ‘below deck.’ Was his cabin down there?

Reference to his cabin alerted her to the fact that he intended to accept the offer of her virginity. Perhaps there was nowhere else to house her, if they did not usually take passengers. Either way, her virginity was something she had to be rid of, and the sooner the better. If she were returned to her master, he would claim it, and then she would never be free of him. It had to be a man of her choosing—a man who knew nothing of her secret nature and could not gain from it, unless she deemed it possible. Nevertheless, the impending event made her nervous. She tried to control her emotions. It was important that the coupling was done the right way, that she be the one who gained from the undertaking and became empowered by it, for it would take her abilities into a higher realm. If she was to escape and to survive, she would need every ounce of her potential power to do so.

A bleating cry, like that of a child, made her jump and pulled her back from her thoughts. When she turned her head to seek out the source, she saw two young goats tethered nearby, their hooves planted widely on the boards for balance.

Startled, she watched as men emerged from another hatch at the far end of the ship, scrambling out and darting about the deck. She pressed farther back into the shadows. At first it seemed chaotic, but she soon realized they were all set upon a particular task. Three of the men ran toward the tall wooden poles that rose high above the ship, and began to clamber up them, their legs and arms wrapped around the masts as they inched rapidly upward. Maisie stared, fascinated, as they untied the sails. The great swathes of material unfurled, dropping down with almost majestic grace. The sound of the sailors’ shouts was all but lost in the flapping of the canvas.

She caught the captain’s voice from beyond. He was somewhere above and behind her, and she struggled to remember what little she knew of ships. The vessel’s wheel must be there. She strained to hear the content of the bellowed instructions.

“Make haste!” It was his voice.

“The tide is barely on the turn, Captain,” a man replied.

“There’s no wind,” another added. “It is not a good time to sail.”

“We must away,” the captain replied. “I was followed, I’m sure of it. I saw a man lurking and watching as we came aboard ship.”

Maisie’s right hand went to the silver clasp on her cloak and she clutched it for comfort. Followed. The captain thought it was him that was being followed, because of the goods he carried. But what if he was wrong and it was she who was being pursued? She pressed her eyes tightly shut and hoped that the captain was wrong and that no one had seen them depart.

Another shout from above made her look up. The men who had undone the sails were busy clambering down, but one of them signaled to the captain and then shook his head. The sails fell flat. They needed wind to fill them.

Maisie heard the captain grumbling. She felt a sense of danger as the vessel floated close to the dock, barely tipping in the turn of the tide. That had to change.

This would not do. She pulled her hood low over her face, concealing it in case anyone noticed as she whispered a spell to encourage the wind to fill the sails and aid them in their escape. An echo of her magic, when she drew on it, often shone in her eyes, the depth and color reflecting the emotional nature of her quest. However, in the gloom of this overcast night, she might not draw the attention of the men around her. It was worth the risk.

Inhaling deeply, Maisie readied herself. With one hand still clutching her bundle to her, she drew her free hand over her heart and then opened her fingers to the sky, whispering an enchantment. Breathing deeply, she pictured the clouds shifting faster, willed the air to swirl in around them and push them out to sea.

“Captain!” A startled voice rang out.

The ship lurched, and Maisie gasped in alarm at the sudden, vigorous motion, pressing into the corner where she was hidden, and clutching the wall. When she glanced up she saw the sails flap, then bow out, filled with a steady gust of wind. Relieved, she smiled, thanking her lineage for her gift.

A cheer rang out behind her.

“You have the luck of the devil on your side tonight, Captain,” the same voice commented, with a disbelieving tone.

Maisie’s smile faded.

The luck of the devil. That’s what they thought it was.

It was crucial they didn’t discover she had aided them by magic, for they would think her one of the devil’s own. Just as the villagers had thought her mother evil when they’d stoned her, forced her to the gallows then burned her corpse.

Maisie shivered as the memory ran ice through her veins, reminding her of the pain, as well as the constant danger of discovery. She was alone now, no longer protected by her keeper. It was the way it had to be. She could not regret leaving, but danger abounded for a woman like her.

CHAPTER THREE

The captain’s quarters were surprisingly comfortable for the cabin had the look of a small parlor. The only difference was that the room also contained a bed, a wood-framed affair secured to the wall and the floor by solid carved plinths. The walls were lined with shelves and cabinets filled with goods. There was also a large table that took up a good quarter of the space, maps and tools set out upon it. Maisie noticed that the maps were anchored with weights. Would the roll of the ship increase when they were farther out at sea? It was already rather dramatic and had set her belly in a quandary. She took a deep

, steadying breath, sensing she would soon find out whether she liked it or not.

“Make yourself comfortable,” the captain said, and cast off his hat. “You’ll be accommodated here for the journey.”

Maisie got her first good look at his face, illuminated by the glow of a glass-covered lantern fixed on a shelf at his side. Thick red-brown hair fell over his forehead. He was a robust seafaring man, largely built, with an attractive mouth, stubbled jaw and brown eyes. He would not be considered handsome, Maisie decided, not by the young ladies of London, but there was a rugged quality to his features that drew her attention. It made her think of her birthplace, the Highlands. Perhaps because he was a Scot, and she had not been in close quarters with a gentleman from her homeland since she was a child. It stirred her in a way she had never thought it might.

When she nodded at him, he studied her with a brazen stare, his gaze raking over her appreciatively. “What is your name?”

“Margaret,” she answered, cautiously. The less he knew the better.

“Margaret, eh? And what do they call you? Meg? Maggie?”