It was the Reverend Slater who ousted a Carbrey witch before I came to the place, and I wager he relished the moment of her death, the rope that tightened around her neck and stole her last breath, and the smell of her burning corpse. I hate him for it. Every time I see him I want to curse him. I detest his beady eyes and his attempt to make me repent and be holy. Is it not enough that we have to sit in his cold, miserable church and appear pious, to avert attention from our secret craft? Every Sunday we do it, filing past the Rowan trees that he has had planted to ward us off. He watches, hoping to out us, and we smile and nod as we pass the trees by. I should laugh at his feeble efforts, yet it vexes me for I resent that sacrifice we make. Then Slater makes it worse still, for once a week he includes me in his visits.
I do not offer him a seat, but he takes one, warily holding his cassock in around him as though he will catch the pox if it were to touch anything. He even resents that he has to purchase candles for his church from me, and secretly travels along the coast for them.
“You would come to me freely if there was anything that you needed, Annabel, wouldn’t you?”
What is it that he is getting at? “Of course, Reverend.” I wonder if his eyesight is sharp enough to see the hazel and willow twigs I have hanging from the rafters, or the pouch of lodestones, ingredients for use in my enchantments. It does not worry me, for I could easily explain them away.
“I know you did not have such a good start in life, in Glasgee.” He looks me up and down as if he can see the dirt from the gutter still clinging to the hem of my skirt. “You have a good chance here, you must make the most of it and keep yourself on the right path.”
“I treasure my second chance, Reverend Slater. Never doubt that.” I smile, probably a mite too smugly.
“You might consider dressing with more humility. Your attire is—” he pauses and mops his brow as he stares at my bosom “—wanton.”
He wants me to wear a high collar and hide myself away, like a good spinster of his parish. ’Twill never happen.
“Shall I make you a dandelion brew,” I say, “to aid your gout?”
His bald head jerks up, his beady eyes on me. “My gout? How do you know of it?”
“Women talk about such things,” I say, lifting my shoulders. “Perhaps it was your housekeeper.”
I see Ewan’s tall figure pass the window and I brush my floury hands on my apron before I straighten my hair.
Ewan doesn’t knock. The Reverend Slater looks at him suspiciously when he walks into the kitchen unannounced.
“Ah, greetings sire,” I say to Ewan. “I expect you have come for your rent.” I am Ewan’s tenant, but it is not coins he is after.
Ewan is tall and dark, and today he wears his long coat open over a fine waistcoat. His hair is neatly tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck. “Reverend,” Ewan says, nodding in the preacher’s direction. He stands by as if he has chores to undertake elsewhere, and the Reverend is keeping him from his rounds.
The Reverend climbs to his feet. “I’ll be on my way. Thank you for the offer of the brew, Annabel. Another time, perhaps.” He looks glad of the excuse to leave without imbibing any such brew, and he’s rightly concerned, for if he had continued to preach at me I expect it might have given him a bad pain in his gut.
Ewan and I stare at each other as the minister slopes off, and when we hear the sound of door closing, Ewan smiles my way at last. “Keeping company with the minister now, Annabel? I can hardly leave you alone for a moment.”
I put my hands on my hips, toss my hair back. “It was lucky for him that you arrived. I was sorely tempted to poison the ole’ weasel for what he did to the woman they call Agnes.”
Ewan’s expression darkened. “That was long before you got here. You should not carry a grudge for her. We have our own people to watch over now. Besides, I have better things to do with my time than fr
et over the minister.”
The look I see in his eyes tells me exactly what he has come for. Running my fingers along the top of my gown, over the bosom that the Reverend wanted me to hide, I watch Ewan as I reply. “What, even while the Reverend still walks along the lane?” I nod toward the shadow that is slowly passing by the window.
Ewan is beside me in a stride. Roughly he grabs my arms and turns me to face the table where I have been kneading the dough. Bending me over it forcibly, he lifts my skirts and petticoats and his hand seeks my bare cunny.
“Even as he walks away, even as he might return, I will invade your body. I will think of his sermon about denying the flesh while I claim every part of your wicked body for my own, Annabel McGraw.”
He runs his fingers up and down my slit. When his finger slips readily inside me he groans lustfully, and I feel his body stiffen at my back.
My face and hands are pressed against the table, my breasts squashed inside my tightly-laced gown. My hair is heavily coated with flour, but I am glad of it. “Take me Ewan, take me now, possess me.”
I wriggle against his hand, eager to do as he suggests. He pushes another finger inside my entrance, testing me. I clutch at it, pushing back, inviting him in. A moment later he is there, squeezing his long, hard member into me, measure by measure. I swallow it up, wanting it all, wanting to ride it to slake my lust.
Latching my fingers over the edge of the table, I laugh when I hear it creak under the strain as Ewan rams his rod into me repeatedly, defying the pious old man who was here but a moment earlier. My feet lift from the floor and I squeal with delight.
Even while he rides me, he slaps my bottom until I yelp and leap at his touch, my bottom aflame. Then he explores me farther, inserting his thumb into my rear end and turning it.
“What if he were to see you now?” I cry out over my shoulder, laughing gleefully. “What would he think?”
He thrusts hard and then pulls out, directing his member instead to my rear end, pushing the slick head into my bottom, invading me in that tight, forbidden place.