The Harlot (3 page)

“No. You agreed to the terms in exchange for your freedom, so will hear me out and come along quietly.” He jerked his head in the direction of the tollbooth. “I, for one, do not want to join you in the cells for my part in your escape. You'd do well to follow my lead and hasten away from this place.”

It occurred to him that she was too much trouble to bother with and he'd be wise to cut his losses and let her go. However, something about holding the wench while she glared and struggled made him harden. Perhaps it was because of the exceedingly good job she had done pleasuring him moments before.

She delivered another blow to his lower ribs.

Gregor grimaced. Perhaps their earlier tryst was also the reason that he dredged enough patience to hold her and protect her from discovery, instead of letting her run free as she so obviously wanted to. Whatever the cause, he was enjoying lewd thoughts about her writhing that way beneath him on a bed. That was far too much of a distraction while they were in danger of being discovered. The truth was he did not want to
let her go. “You have your freedom,” he reminded her, “and that is because I risked my own neck to salvage you. Now pay your debt.”

The comment forced her to cease her physical attack, but she pouted and glared at him still. “I did not need your help. I was about to leave the tollbooth of my own accord.”

This time he laughed aloud.

The wench's eyes narrowed. “Believe it, sire. Did you not hear what they said about me at the inn?”

“Aye, witchcraft. Clever trickery, more like.”

She peered at him, and never before had Gregor felt scrutiny like it. Nevertheless, his comment seemed to settle her somewhat, so he continued.

“Come now, you do not expect me to believe that. You are a canny woman and that is what drew me to you, but do not attempt to use any of your fancy illusions on me. I have traveled the world, seeing places you have not even heard of. There are clever folk everywhere who claim a special gift known only to them—although I would be interested to know how you did it. You can tell me over a mug of ale when we reach my lodgings.”

She considered him carefully, as if seeing him in a new light, and she seemed pleased by his response, as if accepting the fact he was not one to be fooled. “In that case I am grateful for your assistance, but you have already received a good reward for your efforts.”

Gregor's frustration was building. He was beginning to wonder if he had made an error. The wench should be in his debt. “And you will have a good reward, a full purse for a few days of your time, a better wage than you could make any other way, by far.”

She looked him up and down as if considering the offer.

“Come now, you owe me at least a few minutes to listen to my proposal.”

She shook her head, then glanced uneasily toward the activity in the lane beyond. “I do not tie myself to one man. Danger lies there.”

Her remark made him curious, for it was something he'd never heard a woman offer as an opinion, but he had to think of the task in hand. “You will not be tied to one man. That is not the kind of task I have in mind.”

Their encounter had been so much more pleasant when it involved carnal gratification rather than conversation. That was not his purpose in pursuing her, however, difficult though it was to keep that in mind. Moments after she had brought him off he was ready to mount her again, and the image of doing just that kept pushing to the forefront of his thoughts. He huffed a laugh.

“I am listening,” she said. “Tell me what it is I would have to do.”

Gregor kept an eye on the street beyond, as did she. “I need someone to get close to an old enemy, to bed him and to listen to him in order to discover information for me. Someone who is not known to that enemy.”

She cocked her head, as if considering his words. Her pretty mouth lifted. She wasn't averse to the proposition, indicating she truly was a woman who relished her sensual nature. That assured him that she was a good choice.

“The task would need preparation. I will have to educate you in his ways, his desires and his whereabouts. I would purchase you some clothes and ready you, and then perhaps require a few days for the task itself. You would be on your way with a full purse soon enough.”

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.” Gregor's mouth twitched. He was
eager for them to be safely across the Tay. “You wish to feel the weight of my purse?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I can see how heavy it is.”

She had also weighed it when it was tied at his belt; he was aware of that. He would have to keep an eye on her or she would pick over his goods and be gone. “The offer is not tempting?”

She glanced away to the north and he saw a fleeting look in her eye that made him wonder what her plans had been before she was thrown in the cell.

“It is tempting.” After a moment, she nodded. “Give me a few coins on account, for the pleasure I afforded you this night. Then I will know that your word is good.” Mischief glittered in her eyes.

Gregor shook his head, but opened his purse, hefting it in his palm to impress upon her its worth. Then, delving into the deepest part of the pouch, he pulled out two shillings. Her eyes rounded.

After she took the payment and dropped it down the front of her bodice, she spat on her palm and offered it to him as a man might. Gregor shook her hand, gave her a slight bow and gestured along the path to get her moving.

At first she kept up with him, willingly.

Then they reached the kirk.

“Stop here a moment.” He still had to return the borrowed cassock. Glancing over the wall, he saw that no one had missed it. He clambered over the barrier and looked back at her. “Don't even consider running off. Not unless you want to go back to the tollbooth.”

In four strides he crossed the vegetable garden, which was laden with crops, it being the height of summer, and then arranged the garment over the tree branch where he had found
it and the hat hung out to air. Luck had been on his side when he'd sought the kirk earlier that night, for he hadn't had to blackmail the housekeeper for a loan, as he had planned. As he returned the garments he left a few coins in a pocket, for the collection plate. Ducking down, he lifted his bundle from where he had left it, between the roots of the tree. When he got back to the wall he found his new cohort peering over the stacked stones with great curiosity.

“So this is where you got your costume.”

“It is. Can you think of a better place?”

She shrugged and then eyed the bundle he had retrieved.

“Stand clear,” he instructed. She moved away as he mounted the wall, but once he was on it she closed in again, stepping between his dangling legs. Settling her breasts against his thighs, she jiggled them, and then reached behind him to give his bundle a grope.

“As much as I am enjoying your attentions,” he commented, nodding down at where her breasts pressed upon his cock, “we have little time to waste. We must raise the ferryman. Once we cross the Tay we can travel faster. My mount is stabled outside the city walls at Saint Andrews.”

Still she stood there between his thighs, and seemed not to be listening. Apparently he was going to have to remind them both of their goal. He had hired her to lure his enemy and aid his downfall, not to dally with Gregor himself. He nodded at his bundle, pulling it from her grasp. “Let me save you some time. You will find nothing there worth stealing, my dear. Just a bunch of papers and a wizened apple.”

She jerked away as if annoyed.

“Some of your customers may be fools,” he commented as he dropped to the ground, “but I am not, and you would do well to remember that fact.” He grabbed her by the arm. “Come, let us leave before word of your escape is put about.”

When he began to march her off, she pulled away, standing her ground. “Wait. Where is it that we are going?”

“Fife.” He would give no more specific location than that, not until he knew he could trust her.

“Fife?” Her eyes rounded again.

“You'll be hidden away from witch hunters and resting safely within a day,” he informed her, thinking it would put her mind at rest and hush her mouth. “I have lodgings some ten miles beyond Saint Andrews.” It was there that he had taken rooms at an isolated staging post on the way to Craigduff, the village where he had grown up. He had made himself comfortable partway between his enemy and the gateway to his life in the outside world, the harbor at Dundee, where his vessel, the
Libertas,
would come back to collect him in six months' time.

“Ten miles beyond Saint Andrews,” Jessie repeated, frowning.

Perhaps she could not quite fathom that distance. He assumed she had never been out of Dundee, or if she had traveled about, knew little of assessing the distance covered. “We will be there by sundown tomorrow.”

She would be safe and out of public view, and he could prepare her for her task. For a moment he pictured her on the bed there and had to remind himself that she was not a distraction for his own pleasure, but a lure for his enemy. Gregor had no doubt he would have to remind himself often.

Still she stood her ground. “I thought perhaps we were Highlands bound, or at least heading to the north, when you took this road. Is that not the case?”

“No. It was only to return the borrowed garments.” He felt that might reassure her, but the news did not seem to please her, either.

“I only agreed because we were headed in this direction.”
She had her hands on her hips now and once more looked as if she thought she had been duped.

“Jessica Taskill, you would do well to remember you owe me a rather large favor. I am at the mercy of the gallows now, too, since I have put myself at risk to rescue you.”

She glared at him, her mouth an angry pout.

Gregor's patience had worn thin. “Consider this. You have no other option. You cannot go back to Dundee, not if you want to see another sunrise.”

Cursing aloud, she glared at him as if
he
had put her in this mess. “I will have to go back when this is done, for my savings are there. Everything I have earned this past year.”

“You will not need your savings after you undertake this task for me.”

“'Tis my money,” she shouted angrily. She appeared to want to vent her ire on him.

Gregor's last thread of patience snapped. “To hell with you.”

He shook his head and turned his back on her, striding off. If she wanted to risk remaining here, that was her choice.

Within moments she was hastening behind him.

He resisted comment, though the urge to do so was fierce.

“They torture and kill witches in Fife,” she grumbled, as much to herself as to him as she walked alongside him.

“Then you must stop pretending that you practice witchcraft.”

Her head lifted and she peered at him in the gloom. “And there was me thinking it was one of my ‘fancy tricks' you wanted me to play on this man who has upset you so.”

Gregor grasped her by the upper arm and hurried her on, annoyed at the inferred curiosity about his private business. He was paying her to do as he said, not speculate over his
motives. She was canny indeed. Given her curiosity, could he honestly hope to keep her at arm's length while preparing her for the task ahead?
Perhaps, if I resist her charms and keep her solely for my enemy.

Apparently his task grew more complicated by the moment. He'd possessed her. With any other woman that would have been enough, but it would take some will on his part to resist this shapely wench if she were there for the taking. “Your
fancy tricks
led me to believe you might have a bit of sense in your head,” he muttered, “but I am beginning to doubt it. It was your bare arse that made me think you were worth having, and nothing more, and don't you forget that.”

“My arse?” She wrenched free of his grip.

Her face bore such an affronted expression that the tension he carried broke and Gregor laughed aloud. “Yes, your arse, the one that you were exposing to the whole of the inn while you tussled in the dirt. What, did you not know that your rear end was on display to the entire gathering?”

Obviously she had not, for the news silenced her.

Gregor gave her a sharp slap on the behind in order to keep her moving along, and to drive his point home.

Her mouth opened and she looked astonished, but she said nothing. Instead she rubbed her bottom and stared at him ruefully.

Finally. She seemed bereft of words.

Gregor stored away that fact. A sharp slap on the rear end might be needed from time to time with this one, if he was to keep her in line for the duration of their time together.

Now why did that seem to signal even more trouble?

IT WAS THE SOUND OF CONVERSATION THAT
woke Jessie. When she looked about the place she found herself in she did not recognize it. Sitting bolt upright, she rubbed her face. The light that edged in through the thin curtains at the window made her blink, and she peered around the room with curiosity. She barely remembered arriving here the night before, but she did remember the arduous journey, and that her rescuer had forced her to climb up behind him on a horse—a horse!

She had been so high from the ground she felt quite ill, and had to cling to his back whimpering, with her eyes tightly shut. He, of course, found that greatly amusing, which only increased her annoyance about being obliged to stay with him. So distressful had the journey been that she was greatly fatigued by the time they finally reached their destination.

The room was sparsely furnished. She'd been sleeping in a narrow cot, in her shift. Her torn dress, petticoat and stays lay on the floor, together with her shoes, where she recalled depositing them after he'd ushered her into the room. The
cot had a serviceable blanket and was reasonably comfortable. In the opposite corner of the room stood a pail, covered over with a piece of wood. Nearby, a bowl and cloth and a jug of water stood on a wooden washstand. It was more appealing than the cell she had last rested in, as well as the hovel she lodged in with six other women in Dundee.

Sitting up on the cot, she poked open the curtains and peered through the window. Green hills rolled away from the building, a sweeping view. Instantly she felt the age-old desire to be out there, to smell the wild grass and walk barefoot over the ground. And this was Fife, a fertile region that could just be seen from the highest part of Dundee. Often she had gazed across the Tay and wondered about it. It looked pretty enough, but she had been put off venturing here even when she thought she should leave Dundee, because dreadful stories came from the villages of Fife—tales about the torture and hanging of those who practiced the craft. The very thought brought back painful memories for Jessie, memories of her mother.

Forcing her attention back to the present, she saw that the door to the adjoining room was slightly ajar. She got up, used the pail to relieve herself and then peered into the jug suspiciously. Two mint leaves floated on top of the water. She picked them out, then lifted the jug in both hands and drank deeply. Doing so was risky, for it might hold disease, but she was always thirsty in the summer and there had been little sustenance while they traveled the day before. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she set the jug down.

She was about to go to the door when she remembered the coins she had asked her new sponsor for in Dundee. It was important to hide them, and quickly. Inside her stays she had stitched a pocket where she dropped her earnings, and she removed the coins and sought a hiding place for them
in the room. She wedged the two shillings in between the floorboards and then stood on them, embedding them there. Tugging a few stray threads from the hem of her shift, she covered the coins over. Satisfied they were safe, she crept closer to the door and listened.

“You did not say you would be keeping company.” It was a woman who spoke.

“A change in circumstances.”

Jessie recognized the man's voice, for it was the one who had come to the tollbooth for her. She did not yet know his name.

“You do not need to concern yourself,” he added, “I will pay you well.”

Jessie could not withhold her curiosity. She tugged her torn shift across her bare breast, knotting it and tucking the bunched fabric into her armpit before she opened the door and peeped out. Her rescuer was seated at a table in a much larger room, a private parlor of what was clearly substantial living quarters. It housed a table and chairs, and a winged armchair by the fire that flickered in the hearth. There was a good stack of peat nearby. Through a doorway directly opposite she saw another room, a bedchamber. A large, comfortable-looking bed stood on the far side, with heavy, half-drawn curtains around it. Next to it, Jessie noticed a trunk with a hefty lock and key. At present the lid was open, and when she craned her neck she spied clothing and papers heaped inside.

The woman her rescuer was conversing with stood by with a tray of food in her hands, the contents of which drew Jessie's attention. She had not eaten in two days.

“As I pointed out when I first took rooms here,” he continued, “I wish to keep my business private. That still stands, and it is of the utmost importance.”

Jessie noticed how handsome he looked, with his hair wet
and his shirt open, revealing a broad expanse of chest. His face was clean-shaven.

“My word is good, Mister Ramsay,” the woman responded.

So Ramsay was his name, Jessie noted, and then yawned loudly, announcing her presence as she stepped into the larger room.

“Ah, Jessie.” Mister Ramsay looked amused at her arrival and her skewed garment.

The woman glanced Jessie's way with a frown. She was a mature matron who wore a drab brown dress and an apron. Her head was swathed in a cap.

“This is the alewife here at the Drover's Inn, Mistress Muir. Jessie is…my cousin, and she will be residing with me for the next few days, at least. She is my ward.”

Jessie listened to his explanation, mightily amused by her elevated status. As the cousin of a man with a good purse, she would be well treated here. Perhaps this would not be such a tedious task, after all.

The alewife looked Jessie over and then set her tray on the table. She made ready to leave, as if pacified by his explanation.

“Oh,” Mister Ramsay added, “could you arrange for more hot water to be brought? My cousin had a long and tiring journey.”

Water?
Jessie shuddered.

The alewife shot her a dubious glance and then nodded and took her leave.

“What if I do not want hot water?” Jessie quizzed, once the woman was gone. Rebellion often stirred her blood and that trait had been roused by the situation she found herself in.

“You'll have it and be grateful.”

“The water might carry disease.” The smell of the food had reached her and she wandered over to the table.

“It might. You'll have to take your chances with the water, much as I took my chances with you.” A wry smile passed over his face. “One thing I am sure of is that I would like a closer look at the woman I have bought, and for that we need to be rid of at least several layers of dirt.”

Jessie pouted. Then she noticed the plate of bannocks on the tray and it made her mouth water with anticipation. There was broth, too.

“Sit,” he instructed. “Eat.”

She pulled out the second chair at the table and took a bannock. It was still warm and she ate hungrily, then pulled the bowl of broth closer, snatching up the spoon. It was tasty, and there were good-size shreds of mutton in it. Her belly responded gratefully, rumbling loudly.

Mister Ramsay watched her eat for a moment. He was most likely amused by her uncouth ways. Perhaps he thought her a simpleton who needed to be pitied and cared for. He had mentioned tutoring. That annoyed Jessie. She did not need tutoring on the subject of how to seduce a man. However, she supposed that if he was willing to pay her keep for the duration she would simply have to set him right in good time.

He turned his attention to the bunch of papers he held. Jessie took the opportunity to study him from under her lashes. His heavy frown made his stern looks seem even darker and more threatening than before, and the scar that ran from cheekbone to mouth was stark in the morning light. It had been an ugly wound. Where had he gained it? she wondered. And how fared the man who had given it to him?

She did not know her sponsor well yet, but she was willing to bet the other man had paid. Perhaps even with his life. “I
am much elevated, sire,” she commented, as she finished the meal, “finding myself your cousin now.”

“Would you rather I told her you are a whore, one currently being hunted down under a charge of witchcraft?” The glance he afforded her was slight, and disapproving. “I'm sure she would have welcomed you with open arms, had I told her your true circumstances.”

Jessie shrugged. The comment annoyed her, but only because he had so obviously not welcomed her conversation. The rest was only the truth, and Jessie never shied from that.

“Taking a whore into your quarters is not so unusual, believe me.” She gave a dry laugh. “Not unless the innkeeper is particularly pious and can afford to select her customers based on their morals, which, judging by the circumstances, she cannot.”

“It was for my protection as much as yours. My business must remain private.” He set his papers down on the table. His tone was surly, and he raked her over with a look that suggested he wasn't altogether happy about her presence, or the sound of her voice.

That annoyed her immensely, especially since he had forced her to come here. She pushed the bowl away and glowered at him. “How long have I committed myself to? I am not happy about being plucked from Dundee.”

The longer she left her earnings with Ranald, the more grounds he had for keeping them. She knew him too well. He would deny all knowledge of them if she did not get back soon.

Mister Ramsay blinked at her knowingly. “You were about to be tried as a witch. In case you did not realize, that means certain death.”

Jessie winced at his choice of words, swallowing down the memories as fast as she could.

“You had little alternative but to leave.”

She bit her lip, but he waited for her response, eyebrows lifted expectantly.

“I would have left there, yes,” she blurted, “once I had collected my belongings. You did not give me that opportunity.”

“Why would I? You might have been caught, and I did not rescue you for that.” His eyes narrowed. “Most women would be grateful that I had come for them, under the circumstances.”

This was a man who did not expect to be questioned and denied. Jessie's skin grew unaccountably hot, so intense was his stare. Raw lust shone in those eyes of his, but there was resentment there, too, as if he regretted bringing her here. The fact that she felt both emotions did not help.

“That may well be,” she snapped, “but it does not overrule the fact that you tricked me into forging a pact with you, when I knew so little of what I had agreed to.”

She pushed back her chair, but once she got to her feet he slapped his hand around her wrist, pinning it to the table, tethering her there. His grip was merciless, and he put his full strength into it, as if to acquaint her with the seriousness of his intentions.

She glared at him. His mood, which had been restless at best and irritable at worst, had changed again. There was thunder in those eyes.

“You are a hellish, belligerent woman, but you made a good point—you agreed to the pact. So spare me your complaining.”

The subject was not open to negotiation. He was used to being obeyed. She attempted to pull free, but he held her tight, and his expression was both mercenary and forbidding.

There was no choice but to tell him the nature of her
concern. “If I do not return to Dundee, Ranald, my master, will keep hold of my earnings.” She hated to reveal her situation, but she had to. “I do not intend to lose what I have worked hard for this past year….” She took a deep breath. “I cannot afford to.”

“I will equal the amount, in addition to your fee.” His tone had leveled, but still he held her, with his hand and his gaze.

Jessie swallowed. She felt oddly adrift, even though she was so firmly pinioned by him. Once again lust shone in his eyes, and it made her wish he would kick the table aside, pin her over it and take her. Her blood raced and her breathing hitched. That look he gave her was so devouring, so all-encompassing, that it made her cunny ache with need for the thrust of him there.

Before she had a chance to respond there was a knock at the door and two servants—a thin lad who gaped at them most blatantly, and a buxom young woman with an apron, who sidled them a glance as she passed—carried a large pail into the room Jessie had awoken in. When they had deposited the container the young woman paused to curtsy before she left again. “I will bring more hot water.”

She smiled as she took in Jessie's position—latched to the table in her undergarments by her supposed cousin and guardian—then shot off behind the lad. A moment later the pair could be heard in a fit of giggles outside the door.

It must have been obvious the roles were a sham.

Mister Ramsay freed Jessie's hand.

The laughter outside the door faded away, and soon the servant girl returned with a second, smaller pail of steaming water. Mister Ramsay ignored the activity. Instead, he looked at Jessie with undisguised appraisal. It was then that she realized the thin stuff of her shift was all but transparent as she
stood in the light from the window, and he was peering at her as if assessing her potential to bed his enemy.

He truly wanted to use her to bring down another man, something she had never before encountered. The situation offered her some level of security. Nevertheless, she balked at it. And something about the way he looked at her made her wonder if he had doubts about her ability to seduce this other man. The gall! She clearly had much to clarify for him.

She took a deep, steadying breath and lifted her chin, eager to conclude their earlier discussion. “I accept your promise of a second purse, sire. I do not enter into a pact lightly and I assure you I am good for the task you have named.”

Amusement kindled in those unfathomable eyes of his, making him look roguish and wild. Her curiosity about what he was thinking grew, and she also wondered what might have happened had they not been interrupted by the servants.

The lad had not returned, but the serving girl lingered. She had her sleeves rolled up and a linen cloth hung over one arm, as if she planned to assist. Jessie felt unaccountably awkward.