The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

he had buried both his parents.

Resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle, he studied the sight for some time, then looked away to his right, toward his old homestead. Strathbahn was fertile farmland, two dozen good fields set in a sheltered valley. His jaw tightened. Eleven years ago he’d left the place, and the need for justice was still strong in him. It never faded, as he often hoped and prayed it would.

So much was the same, yet this was a different Scotland than the one he had left, he knew. More importantly, he was a different man. He’d left as an angry young man because his family had been destroyed by one man, Ivor Wallace. Now, on his return, Gregor was older, wiser, with knowledge, experience and wealth at his fingertips. And he was a man who would not be stopped in his quest to redress the injustices of the past. Now was the time.

He urged his horse on.

When he finally rode into Craigduff, he did so warily. He wore his hat pulled low to hide his eyes, and a loose neckerchief obscured the lower part of his face. With caution, he looked about the place as he guided the horse down the steep, cobbled incline of the main street.

A trio of barefoot children bolted past him, their mother fast on their tail, her skirts lifted as she chased them up the hill. At first glance, little had changed. The stone cottages lined the street on either side, and he saw that the curtains were still the same in the windows at Margaret Mackie’s place. His mother’s cousin, who had nursed him as a babe, was still alive? He would visit with her soon, once he’d achieved his goal. She had to be a good age, and the sight of her familiar wooden door made the memories run.

He turned away, and on the far cliff he saw the kirk, the building stark and gray against the green hillside. Up there he’d attended Sunday school, and he’d seen his father’s coffin lowered into the ground, next to the spot where his mother’s coffin had been since Gregor was a bairn.

The lane he was on led down to the harbor, where the gulls cried and dipped in the sky. As the bay opened in front of him, the scent of the sea assailed his senses. Beyond the shale-covered beach he saw the rough rocks and crags that jutted out into the waves, the wild, beautiful terrain from which the village of Craigduff had taken its name. Those rocks were treacherous to the fisherman who didn’t study the weather.

Gregor had docked in strange and wondrous harbors and ports the world over, and every one had made him reflect on this place, the one he had left behind. It felt oddly dreamlike being here now.

He was much relieved to see the blacksmith’s. It stood three doors up from the waterside inn where the fishermen went after selling their haul. There were two boats pulled up on the shale now, the morning catch long gone.

Dismounting, Gregor secured his horse and entered the blacksmith shop. Would his old friend, Robert Fraser, still be here in Craigduff? As he sought him out, the smell of the forge stirred memories. He and Robert had run amok here as bairns, under the watchful eye of Robert’s father, the blacksmith. When they got too unruly, he would send Gregor home to Strathbahn.

Gregor expected to find Robert’s father standing there at the forge, but it was Robert himself he discovered. Even with his back to him, Gregor instinctively knew him. Working at the forge the way his father had, he wore a leather apron, and his breeches bore smut marks and burns here and there. He had taken over his father’s role running the smithy, and he had a young lad of his own by his side.

“Robert?”

The blacksmith straightened and set his hammer down by the forge. Ruffling his thick, ash-colored hair, he turned toward the potential customer. Gregor quickly took in his old friend’s appearance, and found him broader in the shoulder, more powerful in the muscles and somewhat timeworn in the face—much as he was. They had both turned thirty this past winter. They were no longer callow youths.

Gregor removed his hat.

It took a moment before recognition lit Robert’s expression. Then he blinked and peered more closely, as if he could not believe it. “Good Lord, Gregor. Is it truly you?”

“Robert, old friend, it is.”

A broad, welcoming smile lit up that familiar face. Gregor felt raw emotion assail him. Gruffly, he embraced the man he had played with as a child and bonded with as a youth.

“I would rather keep my presence here unspoken.” He glanced over his shoulder, wary of causing tongues to wag on the subject of a stranger in the village.

Robert nodded, stared at him for a moment longer and then reached out to shake his hand.

“So you are the hammer man now?” Gregor asked.

“That I am.” Clapping him on the back, Robert beamed. “Come inside.” Turning to the boy, he added, “Tell your mother to bring ale.”

“The lad is yours?” The similarity in looks attested that he was, but Gregor could scarcely fathom it.

“Aye, the eldest of three. I am married these nine years past. A lassie from Saint Andrews caught my eye and my da gave us his blessing in exchange for my work here.”

Robert had wanted to leave the village, to travel and find his fortune in foreign lands, much to his father’s disapproval, but his old man had found a way to keep him there. Gregor was the one who had wanted to stay and work the land of his ancestors, but had been unable to. Life had reversed the fortunes they’d sought as youths.

“He got your agreement while your eye was fixed else where?”

“That he did, but it was no bad thing. I am happy here, after all.” Smoke curled up from the forge behind him, and Gregor nodded.

Robert led him into the storage room where the tools were locked at night. Gregor took in the familiar scents and sights. They had spent many an hour in here. Robert pulled two worn wooden stools from beneath a counter, and they sat down together.

“You have gained a scar.”

“I have. Never fear, the man who gave it me has two.”