The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

ONE

Dundee, 1715

THE FIRST THING THAT GREGOR RAMSAY noticed about the harlot was her delectable buttocks. It was hard to avoid the sight, revealed as it was while she engaged in a ferocious catfight with another wench on the sawdust-strewn floor of a squalid Dundee inn. It was not, however, the sight of her attractive rump that made him consider her the ideal accomplice for his task. That notion came later on in the course of events, but the vision certainly caught his attention, forbidding him to walk away.

Gregor had sought only a swift draft of ale, to begin with.

The noise that emerged from the inn indicated trouble was afoot, and he almost turned away. But when he caught sight of that view—that perfectly rounded womanly cushion with its enticing cleft—he pressed on through the raucous crowd.

“Stand clear,” someone shouted, as the two women rolled across the floor, intent on tearing viscously at one another, skirts flying, bodices torn, breasts all but completely bared to the onlookers.

Coins were being passed to a man who stood on the far side, the crowd laying wagers on which woman would win. Meanwhile, on both sides of the challenge, insults were flying. The wench with the attractive arse seemed to relish the fight, taunting her opponent.

“Scrawny hoor,” she accused, tossing back her unruly black hair. “A man likes a woman he can hold on to.” She slapped her hip and chortled.

The redhead hissed. She was much less to Gregor’s liking.

His attention kept roaming back to the raven-haired woman, who was determined to get her opponent on her back and keep her there. Once she had done that, she pinned the redhead down with the weight of her body, legs kicking. Then she rested her knees either side of the redhead’s thighs, bent over her opponent and bit her shoulder. As she did, her skirt and petticoats flew up again. The sight of her bared thighs and bottom—as well as her plump mound and dewy cleft—brought another cheer from the onlookers. It was indeed an enticing sight, and it made Gregor wonder what it might be like to plow her furrow, to ease his cock into that alluring niche. One glance at the men gathered around the scene assured him that he was not alone in that thought. They gaped and lathered at the view.

“What is the quarrel about?” Gregor inquired of a nearby patron, a toothless man in a dirty shirt and torn breeches.

“Eliza,” he said, nodding at the redhead, “accused Jessie—” he pointed at the raven-haired woman “—of luring a customer from her. Jessie, oh, she’s a wild one.” He lowered his voice. “They call her the Harlot of Dundee.” He gave a significant nod and paused before he continued with his explanation. “She said she would fight Eliza for the man’s custom.”

“The Harlot of Dundee,” Gregor repeated. “And what has she done to deserve such a grand title?”

The man chortled. “’Tis on account of her spirit. She’s not one for just lying there and collecting the coin, if you understand my meaning.”

A spirited wench. How intriguing. Perhaps it was luck that had brought him to this particular establishment? Here by the harbor the inns were full to heaving, and he could easily have gone elsewhere. His trip to Dundee had been necessary in order to see off his ship, the Libertas, without him. A strange task and one he had not done before. The nature of the venture ahead and the absence of his familiar world made him tense, and ale was needed before he crossed the Tay back into Fife.

Now he was glad he had paused, for the spectacle was most entertaining. The Harlot was fierce in her attack, with apparently no regard to her appearance. Straddling her victim’s thighs, she locked one hand around her opponent’s bared nipple, and with the other she poked and tickled her puss through her skirts, prodding at her between her thighs. Gesturing with her hand as if it were a cock, she moved her hips back and forth, a lewd reference to fucking the woman who she had on her back. She was shameless. Gregor’s attention was already loosely harnessed, and it was then that an idea began to form at the back of his mind. A whore with a winning smile might be a pretty lure in his game. His enemy never could resist a shapely lass, and was rumored to have bedded half the local lassies. Perhaps when the whore’s tussle was over, he would approach her with a proposition.

The crowd roared their approval, and the woman on her back turned vicious, scrabbling with clawlike hands at her opponent. The Harlot dipped and swayed, avoiding the redhead’s attack rather adeptly.

“Who is taking coins?” Gregor put his hand into his pocket as if readying to place a wager. He was curious as to who held the power here. Life had taught him that was the key to any situation. In his opinion, the darker-haired woman, Jessie—the Harlot, as he now knew her to be called—would win.

“Ranald Sweeney holds the purse.” The patron gestured across the crowded room as he slurred his reply.

Ranald Sweeney was a weasel-faced man who

did not inspire Gregor’s trust. He had a dirty grin on his face and a palm full of coins. While he was watching the two women, he exchanged comments with a man beside him. Gregor scanned them both quickly. The pimp was dirty and smug. The other man, who he assumed to be the one whose custom the women were fighting over, wore a heavy powdered wig. His coat was embroidered silk and his necktie made of the finest cotton. Despite his ostentatious garb, he seemed quite at ease in the wharf-side inn—a wealthy man who liked to step alongside the gutter when the urge took him. If he were in the same position, Gregor reflected, he would be less obvious about his wealth. Some men were not as circumspect, and reveled in such displays.

Gregor made his way through the rabble toward the counter, where his presence barely distracted the landlord from the show. “Ale,” he requested, and pushed a coin across the wooden counter.

Without taking his eyes off the scrabbling women, the landlord nodded and sloshed ale from a jug into a tankard.

It was a rough brew and Gregor coughed out the gritty residue in his mouth after he had slaked his thirst. A squeal issued behind him and a body butted up against his side. Shoving the tankard back across the counter, he turned and stared into the eyes of the woman who had careered his way. It was Jessie, the raven-haired woman who had caught his eye.

“Pardon me, sire.” She looked him up and down, and planted her hands on hips. Her eyes flickered with interest.

Gregor nodded at her. Her hair looked as if it had never known a comb, and even though she was in need of a good scrub, he couldn’t help noticing that her lips were eminently kissable. Behind her, her opponent loomed. Judging by the expression on the redhead’s face she was in a fury. Gregor nodded again at Jessie. “Your opponent approaches.”

Jessie stepped aside.

The other woman landed against him, having missed her target. He gave her a moment to steady herself and then turned her around and urged her back into the fray with a shove. Jessie laughed heartily and batted her eyelashes at him most enticingly before she resumed the fight.