The Harlot (18 page)

“That was different.” His frown deepened.

“It was no different. I could just as likely find favor with Morag and decide to run away with her.”

That appeared to rile him even more, for he grabbed her to him and his lips were tightly compressed as he looked down into her eyes. “You will run away with no one.”

“I will if I choose to. You are not my keeper.” Even as she said it, she wished he were. That had been the problem when she left the room, and it was still her problem now. “It is no
worse than the fact that you want me to seduce your enemy,” she snapped. “Aye,” she added, when she saw him jerk back. “Think on that, Gregor.”

Fury lit his eyes. “That is vastly different. I am preparing you for a task, a job you are being paid for.”

“Yes, a task I am being paid for. It is what I do, Gregor. I am a whore.” Her eyes smarted. The emotions that she had kept deeply buried were unraveling. “You will never scrub that fact away.”

He glared at her.

She shook her head. “You are willing to pay me to be such, but you cannot stand the notion that I might toy with another man out of choice. What sense is there in that?”

The cloth in his hand fell to the floor. “You wanted that…that fop?”

No, I wanted you, you fool.
Mired in vexation, Jessie found that her true and deeper emotions—the ones she would not reveal to him—were barely in check.

“What if I did,” she spat, and then turned her face away from him, hating that she cared what he thought of her, hating that she knew he was blinding himself to the truth. They both were. She was a whore, and he would try to forget that while it suited him—while he wanted her to warm his bed. It was what men did with whores. He was no different. In fact, he was worse, because he chose to blot out what he was training her for, as well.

An ominous silence surrounded them.

She tried desperately not to shiver, but she couldn't help it.

Gregor moved to her back.

Jessie kept her gaze averted.

“Turn around.”

She did so. He pulled off his shirt and rubbed her dry, his
lips tightly compressed. Fury poured from him still, but his verbal admonishments seemed to be shelved for the moment. The small amount of heat that he rubbed into her bones made her shiver all the more. He wrapped her in the linen, lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bed.

As he did, she noticed how fast he breathed, and felt the barely restrained tension in him. His naked chest was hot to the touch, luring her. At her center, her body flamed for him. It made her want to kiss his feet, to beg for him to hold her as he had before.

“This must be done,” he informed her, then dropped her onto the bed.

“Gregor—”

He put his hand over her mouth, silencing her.

Jessie swallowed.

Looming over her, stripped to the waist, he gazed at her, his eyes glittering darkly in the faint light from the candle that flickered nearby.

Her cunny turned molten.

Pulling the shirt from beneath her, he twisted it tightly in his hands, turning it to rope.

Jessie watched, her heart racing.

He captured and held her wrists in one hand, then wrapped the twisted material around them and tied her hands to the wooden plinth at the head of the bed.

Breathlessly, she followed his movements.

Opening his breeches, he took his cock in his hand.

Reacting, she rolled away, jerking against the restraint.

“Do not defy me!” He snatched her back, forcing her to lie flat. Climbing onto the bed, he shoved her legs apart with his knee.

Roughly, he splayed her thighs and directed his erection to
her opening. With a fumble and a bitter curse, he found his way and thrust inside.

The sudden fullness captured her senses and strung out her emotions. “Gregor,” she cried out, unable to help herself. “'Twas you I wanted.”

A warning flashed in his eyes. Her confession had angered him, and once again he put his hand over her mouth. He did not want her words, his expression warned her that he did not trust them.

I will show you, Gregor,
she silently vowed, locking her gaze to his.
You will trust me. I will make you.

She stared up at him, willingly him to know her.

His eyes narrowed and his hand tightened as he rode her fast, hard and with no mercy.

The pressure of his palm over her mouth, controlling her, made her all the wilder for him. She thrashed and arched, her body cleaving to his, the restraint heightening her need and emphasizing the exquisite pleasure of every movement he made, every touch, every thrust and grind, inside and out. To be so thoroughly undone, so unmercifully taken and used by him, made her dizzy with pleasure.

Never before could she have enjoyed such servitude, but in this moment she was lost to all it afforded her—the thrust at her center, the weight of him over her and his hand silencing her mouth. The way he rode her was like a man driven, as if the need to lose his seed inside her made him ferocious, every muscle in his body tight as rope as he loomed over her.

Cursing aloud, he lifted up on his arms, his body pivoting against hers as he neared his release. But still he rode on. He bellowed and tossed his hair back, his movements direct and swift as he lifted her legs from around his hips and draped them over his shoulders, bowing her body against the mattress,
pressing deeper still within the swollen, sensitive channel of her cunny.

Jessie moaned, for each time he thrust deep against her center carried her into ecstasy. Her body clenched in release and hot juices dampened her thighs. Still he worked her, until she felt blissfully ragged with use, waves of ecstasy washing over her repeatedly. Then he shot his load, and he did it deep inside her.

Panting, he hung his head down over her and his hair brushed her face. Her cunny clenched once more, and he pulled free, turning away.

He sat on the edge of the bed, silent and unmoving.

Jessie stared at his back. It was so finely muscled, so damp with sweat from his exertions. Aching to reach out and soothe him, she whimpered and jerked her hands within their restraints, her legs stirring against the mattress.

He turned and stared down at her.

The faltering stub of candle barely lit the side of his face, and she ached to see him more clearly, hoping that when she did his mood would be more forgiving and mellow.

It was not.

Once he untied her, he walked away. After her breathing had settled and she felt her legs might hold her upright, she followed him to the fireside. She stood next to his chair, absorbing a little comfort from the flames, longing for him to hold her as he had before, when she had woken from her nightmares. “I am sorry that I left your side,” she whispered.

He reached for her hand, drew it to his lips and kissed the back of it.

Lifting her head, she looked at him.

He did not meet her gaze.

Frustration simmered on inside her. She had expected him to claim her, mount her and ride her roughly and possessively.
What she had not expected was for him to treat her as if she had been sullied, as if she was some precious thing that had been touched by another, and that stirred a deep ache in her chest. Yet still he was withdrawn from her.

He was staring into the fire, and his face seemed more harshly chiseled than ever, gaunt almost. His eyes looked haunted, and that struck her oddly, making her crave him. She dropped to her knees at his side and laced her hands around his neck, clinging to him.

“I'm not immune to your tricks, Jessie,” he murmured. “I doubt any man could claim such a thing. You know that already. From the moment we met you have known that.” There was reprimand in his tone, and disappointment.

He did care. He was possessive of her. But this mood of his was not good. It was as if he was done with her. Her chest ached. Her goal had been to make him react. She'd wanted to feel his attention focused on her before it was too late. She had taken a risk to have him claim her, and he surely had done so, but this was making her hurt. He had put even more distance between them. Her heart sank. She had stirred up bad feelings in him. She could see it in his eyes. That haunted look spoke of pain and betrayal.

“Forgive me for my foolishness,” she whispered, and dropped a kiss on his cheek, close to the corner of his mouth. She paused, hoping he would turn his mouth to hers, but he did not.

The flames from the fire reflected in his eyes as he stared blindly at it. “I am your employer. I should have kept it that way. That would have served us both better.”

Wretched to the core, Jessie swallowed hard. She had imagined more between them because they had shared so much of their history, but he regretted what had happened. Regretted
that they had shared his bed and whispered across the pillow as they grew closer.

Still she wanted to reach out for him with all her heart and soul—reach out as the woman he had put his faith in, even if he did not care for her in any other way. “Yes, you are my employer, and I will not let you down, I promise.”

He glanced at her then, but it was brief. “Be ready to leave for Balfour Hall in the morning.”

Lowering her head, she nodded and turned away.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING GREGOR REMAINED
subdued, but he began to speak with her about matters at Balfour Hall as they breakfasted. He repeated the plans they had forged over the past week, reminding her she was to listen for any talk of sales or business. Jessie quickly showed him that she remembered, and that she was thinking about her task.

By midmorning he seemed satisfied. When he went about putting on his boots and coat, she realized they were done, and went to her room to prepare.

When she emerged, he turned and stared at her. “Are you ready?”

It was the first time he had inquired after her. Jessie met his gaze and forced herself to nod. She didn't trust herself to say more.

As they descended the stairs together, she stepped close behind him gratefully. Out in the stable yard Gregor reached out to squeeze her upper arm. “I know you dislike horses, so I requested a pony and cart for us so that you do not have to ride.”

Jessie pressed her lips together. It was not horses she disliked, but heights. He did not wish to understand her, but it was touching that he had made an effort. Was it guilt that drove him to it? Guilt after the way he had treated her the day before? Or was it simply that he was trying to win back her loyalty?

Staring up at his handsome face, she longed to see his frown soften. That haunted look she saw in his eyes from time to time was something she now understood. His pain over what had happened to his father had made him harsh and bitter, and his need for justice ruled him. There was no denying that he could be affectionate when he wanted her service, but underneath it all he was fixed on his revenge. She was just a weapon to be used in his task.

It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't make her melancholy, but it did. She had come to care for him, and that was a mistake. She pulled free of his hand, tied her shawl at her bosom and then put her bundle on the cart. It contained only the spare day dress and the comb he had given her.

At first the journey made her ill. The cart jolted and swayed. It was far worse than being on a horse, she decided. It took all her will and a little magic to quell the urge to beg him to halt and let her climb down.

Then she noticed how well Gregor handled the pony, how masterful he was as he directed its path with his hands on the reins. His brows were drawn low, his mouth set determinedly as he concentrated on his task. She could not help wondering if this was how he might look at the helm of his ship. The notion made her wistful. She would never know. She would never even have been part of his life had he not needed her for his revenge. It was a strange pact they'd made, but she didn't regret it, not even after the bad feeling that had passed
between them the day before. She shouldn't have taunted him, not when he was distressed.

The sidelong glances she took lingered. He was a fine man, and it pained her deeply to think of how wounded he must have been as a young lad, finding his father that way. How good it would be to remove that shadow from his eyes. Would his quest for revenge bring him the relief he sought? She hoped so. Ivor Wallace was a despicable man to have ruined his neighbor that way. The more she thought on it, the more she vowed to bring Gregor peace on the matter.

Once they entered the forest, Gregor secured the pony and cart and they went on by foot. The walk passed in silence and it was only when they got to the brow of the hill overlooking Balfour Hall that he paused and spoke to her.

“I will come back tomorrow, at midnight. Meet me in the grounds where the flower beds flank the path.”

“I'll be there.” The reason was obvious. He wanted to know of her progress. Nevertheless, Jessie's spirits lifted.
Fool. I must rid myself of this attachment to him.

Sleeping with his enemy would no doubt take care of that, she thought with no small amount of self-mockery.

It was with determination that she turned away from him and walked down the hill toward Balfour Hall. She knew he watched, for she felt his eyes on her, but would not allow herself to look back. Instead she thought only of the task ahead. Her goal was now twofold. For herself, the purse and her journey north. For Gregor, the retribution he needed to lift the dark cloud that hovered over him and made him so ill-tempered. She wanted to ease his troubled soul.

It would be most uplifting to see him in a better humor before they said goodbye to one another. The ache that rose in her chest when she thought about saying goodbye forever was quickly pushed down, lest she get upset.

Jessie went over the immediate plan as she closed on the house. She knew where the servants' entrance was, but she was to go to the main entrance, as if she had no knowledge of the grounds. Skirting the gardens, she crossed to the lane that ran up to Balfour Hall from a nearby village, and joined it.

The mansion looked more imposing when approached from this direction. The gray stone and gaunt windows seemed ominous. Peering up at the attic rooms, where the servants' quarters would be located, she swallowed down the thought of the stairs, and willed herself to be strong.
I will win my way in.

Five wide marble steps led up to the main door, which was large and topped by a stained-glass window. She took a deep breath and dropped the heavy knocker against the door. Smoothing down the simple dove-gray dress that Gregor had bought for her to wear on this occasion, she adopted a demure, humble expression, and when the door handle rattled she gave a hopeful smile, eager to be held in favorable account from the outset.

It took some time before the door swung fully open. From beyond it, she could hear raised voices and instructions being issued. By the looks of it there was turmoil in the house. That was a good sign.

“We are buying nothing,” the woman who stood there said. Her sleeves were rolled up and she had a heavy frown on her face. She wiped her hands on her apron, and appeared to be both grumpy and out of breath.

Jessie assumed her to be the housekeeper. “I am not selling anything, mistress. I am visiting my cousin in these parts and I heard that you might wish to engage the services of a good worker.”

Craning her neck, Jessie peered into the grand hallway
beyond. Never before had she been inside a place built with such vast coin. She reminded herself that the master of the house had gained this coin through wrongdoing, but still it was an impressive sight. As she glanced into the entrance hall a serving girl staggered down the staircase, a teetering pile of linens in her arms. As she reached the bottom of the staircase she missed her footing and dropped the stack.

Apparently Jessie's spells were still functioning. She was pleased. It had been quite the challenge, and to see them working so well made her proud. It was because of her involvement with the man she had grown to care about. Her passion for Gregor was making her magical abilities blossom. If necessary, she could use her magic again. It would be a risk, but that would hasten things along, and the reward would be to see him unburdened.

“We only take servants from the village,” the woman at the door responded. “It is the rule of the house, set out by the mistress.” She looked Jessie up and down. “Mistress Wallace prefers to hire those that she knows, people who can be trusted.”

“I could begin now, Mistress…?”

Jessie silently chanted a spell, willing the housekeeper to let her pass over the threshold.

The woman continued to look dubious for a moment longer, then relinquished. “My name is Mistress Gilroy.”

“I could begin now, Mistress Gilroy.” She smiled and curtsied and made herself appear bright and amenable. “It seems as if you could do with the help.” She nodded her head at the serving girl beyond, who was now on her hands and knees, scrabbling for the linens strewn across the hall floor. From somewhere beyond, shouting erupted, and a large wolfhound scampered across the hallway and up the stairs, a young lad at his heels.

The housekeeper looked at the chaos within and back at Jessie with a frown. “Come in. The mistress has one of her headaches, but I will ask if she'll take a look at you. Lord knows we could do with an extra pair of hands.”

Perhaps fate was lending a hand, for if the mistress had a headache it might be something Jessie could cure with a brew made from the lavender tops in the garden. She followed the housekeeper into the hall. It was a grand space with a neatly flagged floor. The dark, polished wood panels on the walls made her want to reach out and touch them. Colored light from the stained-glass window above the entrance filled the space. Gregor had told her this was where guests would arrive for parties and such, and it was most impressive. High up on the walls were numerous paintings, portraits of people, many them with scowling expressions.

“Wait here,” Mistress Gilroy instructed. She went into a parlor beyond, but left the door ajar. Jessie waited until the serving girl had picked up her load and scurried off, and then stepped closer to the door so that she might see inside the room.

Mistress Gilroy stood before a winged armchair, where a lady dressed entirely in black was sitting. A moment later the housekeeper came back to the door and gestured at her. “Come in. The mistress will see you.”

Jessie hastened over and stepped into the parlor. It was a lavishly furnished room with images of birds and trees painted on the walls. She had never seen the likes. Comfortable chairs with well-stuffed seats and fancy side tables filled the place to capacity. To her immediate right as she entered was a tall cabinet with different-colored woods on the front, like a picture—the prettiest thing she had ever seen. Close to the fire, which was lit despite the fact that the room was unbearably warm,
the mistress sat in her armchair, a delicate lace handkerchief clutched to her cheek.

As Jessie was led in, the woman of the house closed the large book on her lap. Jessie noticed that it bore a gold cross on the front cover, and she recognized it as a Bible. Ivor Wallace's wife wore black, looked unhappy and read the Bible.

“Good morning, ma'am.” Jessie curtsied.

The mistress did not smile, nor did her frown fade. “Have you experience of working in a house this large?”

“Not so large, ma'am, but I am a good worker.”

“It is not my usual way of conducting affairs, but I will give you a trial for one week. If you impress me, we will talk terms of employment. Is that understood?”

Jessie curtsied again. “Aye, ma'am, it is. I appreciate the opportunity.” She was about to add that Mistress would not regret giving her this chance, but she thought she probably would, so she did not say any more.

Mistress Wallace and the housekeeper then discussed which jobs might be assigned to Jessie during her trial. As they did, Jessie became aware that someone was watching. She turned slightly and looked back toward the door out of the corner of her eye. A man was out there, observing.

Was it he, Ivor Wallace, Gregor's enemy?

When Mistress Wallace dismissed them and the housekeeper led her back into the hall, the man stepped out of the shadows and grasped Jessie around the upper arm with one hand. Her heart missed a beat. Tall and mean-looking, he was too young to be the master of the house, and was dressed in the garb of a servant. His bold stare bored into her relentlessly.

“Mistress Gilroy,” he barked, holding Jessie as if she was an unruly child he had caught running about. “Who is this?”

His uppity manner led her to believe that he was perhaps the master's servant, because he held sway over the housekeeper.

“Jessie is on trial for a week. She will be helping out belowstairs. This is Cormac. He calls himself a valet, but none of us is quite sure what it is he does.” There was sarcasm in her voice as she made the introduction for Jessie's benefit.

Cormac scowled at her, and released Jessie.

Instinctively, she backed away, staying close to the housekeeper. Cormac was a bad lot, and the way he looked at her made her uneasy. He continued to watch them as the housekeeper led her away. Jessie had a bad feeling about him, but she reminded herself that he was unimportant. It was only a matter of time until she would access the master of the house and begin her true work.