The Harlot (26 page)

Much to his surprise, however, she paused and then turned off the path, heading directly for him. She lifted her stick from the ground and poked his shoulder.

“Gregor Ramsay, is that you?” The woman peered at him in the gloom, and then broke into a toothless grin. “Well, I never. I thought it was you the moment I saw you by your parents' grave.”

Bemused, Gregor stood up.

The old woman pushed back her shawl from her forehead and shook her head at him. “You do not remember me. I am your mother's cousin, Margaret Mackie.”

Gregor was not sure which startled him more, that someone here remembered him or the fact that her face, although aged, was so familiar that he was swept back through the years. “I do remember you, Cousin Margaret. I was merely surprised that you spotted me here on this dark night.”

She gave a gravelly laugh. “I did at first wonder if a demon was loose in the graveyard when I saw you there.”

The laughing made her cough, and he realized how frail she was. He crossed to her side and put a steadying hand beneath her elbow.

She lifted her stick again and pointed toward the village. “Walk me home, lad, and while you do you can tell me where in God's name you've been hiding yourself these past years.”

Gregor had not been called “lad” for many years, and it made him smile. He wasn't altogether willing to head into the village in case anyone else recognized him, but he owed her this and more. Margaret had had a hand in his upbringing, in the early days after his mother's death. Besides, it would keep his mind off the interminable waiting until he could meet Jessie at the appointed hour.

Once she was moving Margaret seemed stronger, and her wit was every bit as sharp and forthright as he recalled.

“Have you a wife and children?” she demanded.

“No.”

“Well, you'd better be thinking about it soon. 'Tis fine and dandy for a man to wait around before making his choice, but it is not fair on the bairns if he is too old to work to support them, after bringing them into this sorry world.”

Margaret's concerns were so far removed from his own that her comments perplexed him. Gregor felt as if he'd been shunted back twenty years, when he had often accompanied her along this path to her home and she would attempt to fill his mind with womanly notions that he'd never encountered before.

“I worried about you to begin with, especially after you torched the house. I knew you weren't faring too badly,” she continued, “because the stonemason spoke widely about the good sum you sent for his handiwork.”

It hadn't occurred to Gregor that anyone would miss him. Apparently both Robert and Margaret had. He'd not done right by them, disappearing like that and sending no word, and he felt regret over his actions. “Those were my first wages aboard ship. I signed up to serve at sea, after the funeral.”

“Aha, so the sea took you.” They had reached the main street and she gestured at the houses as they passed, pointing out who was dead and who had wed and had bairns. She obviously felt he should be brought up-to-date on such things. At the door to her cottage she ushered him in and told him to sit at the table, announcing she had freshly baked bread, ham and a wee dram of the good stuff.

Gregor glanced back, toward Balfour Hall.

It was still too early, so he went inside.

The gloomy interior of Margaret Mackie's cottage was just as he remembered it, uncannily so. A fire burned in the grate, shedding enough light to see that her low wooden chair was in the same position, to one side of the fire, where she would be able to see the window from her seat. Next to it was the wooden stool he'd sat on as a young lad when he visited.

Margaret made him take the chair, while she continued informing him about everyone in the village. All the while Gregor yearned to be on his way to Balfour Hall—to Jessie.

Eventually the old woman sat on the stool, and studied him quietly. “You have a scar.”

With a wry smile, he nodded. “I do.”

“You've not come home to stay, have you, lad?”

“I think not, Cousin Margaret. I have a worthwhile life as a mariner.”

“Why did you come back now?”

Lord, she was an inquisitive type. But now that she had started on him, he recalled that about her.

What could he say? “It was time for me to see the place
again and stare it in the face.” It was partly the truth, and he realized that now because Jessie had forced him to it. He regretted the way he had treated her afterward.

“After Da's death I fled. I thought I had to leave or I would continue to see that image of him…hanging there, every day of my life. As it turned out, the memory of it traveled with me.”

“There's no escaping something like that.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both of them remembering Hugh Ramsay and his untimely death.

“Now, Gregor, before you take your leave and disappear once more, there is something I need to say. Your mother would never forgive me if I did not take this opportunity to tell you something that she wished you to know when you reached the age of twenty-one.”

Gregor glanced at the door yet again, eager to be on his way to Jessie. What nonsense was this that Margaret had to tell him? No doubt some sentimental message that his mother had left on her deathbed, something his father would have frowned upon. “Were you with her when she died?” he asked, humoring her.

“Aye, but I'd known this since before you were born.”

Her cryptic comments barely distracted him from his need to get up to Balfour Hall and ensure that Jessie was safe. This was not what he'd expected to transpire this night, and he was beginning to grow impatient. Yet he knew that he owed his relative this time. Even so, he felt sure that any messages from his mother would be embellished by the romantic reflections of a weary spinster over the intervening years.

She reached for his hand and held it tightly. “This will come as a dreadful shock to you, but I believe that I am the only living person who knows this, so I must tell you now while I have the chance. Hugh Ramsay was a good man, and he
brought you up well, but it was not him who was responsible for you coming into this world.”

Her words made no sense. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Gregor, Hugh Ramsay was not your father.”

Gregor shook his head dismissively. “Surely you are mistaken?”

She seemed put out and even insulted by that remark. “No, I am not. Don't forget that your mother and I lived together as sisters, before she was wed. When she fell pregnant, it was meself she turned to.”

Margaret reached for her flask of whisky and poured another dram into the mug he held in his hand. “Your real father…well, he was off in Edinburgh plotting against the English by the time she found out. It would be weeks, even months before he returned.”

She shook her head and the look in her eyes was distant, as if she had traveled back to that moment. “It was a dreadful time for your mother, God rest her soul. She didn't sleep or eat, fretting over it. I feared she would lose the child.” Awkwardly, Margaret glanced his way, returning from her memories. “Hugh Ramsay had been attempting to court her for a long while.”

Gregor's mind raced as he tried to come to terms with the news. He wanted to deny it, but at the same time he remembered how people would joke about the fact he stood a good head higher than his father by the time he was fourteen. They were close—no son could wish to be closer to his father—but physically they were very different. Hugh had told him to ignore it, and he had. Gregor had always assumed his characteristics were inherited from his mother's line.

“A young woman with a child has no other option, Gregor. She married Hugh, and she and I vowed that we would be the only ones who ever knew any different.”

“Da did not know?”

“I think he may have guessed, but he was a good man.” His cousin rested her hand on Gregor's arm. “He brought you up as his own.” She considered him quietly for a long moment. “Sadly for him, your real father still wanted your mother, and he was a jealous man…a cruel man.”

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue.

Gregor's blood ran cold as he began to see it.

“He made your father's life hell for claiming the girl he wanted. Even after your mother passed away, the hatred lived on. He wouldn't rest until he had taken everything your father had worked for.”

Gregor's heart thumped wildly against the wall of his chest. His mouth had gone dry and he could scarcely swallow. It was Ivor Wallace who had taken everything they owned—Ivor Wallace who had poisoned the cattle and then tricked his da into signing the land away. She couldn't mean it.

“Hugh Ramsay was a proud man. He couldn't live with the fact that he'd lost it all and you had no inheritance. So he took his own life.”

Gregor gripped the arms of the chair. “I am not Ivor Wallace's son.”

Margaret met his angry stare with sad resignation in her eyes. He knew this woman well, and he knew that she would not lie to him about something as important as this. Unable to meet her gaze a moment longer, and sickened by what he had heard, he rested his forehead in his hands. “It cannot be. That man is immoral, greedy and cruel beyond redemption.”

“Aye, and made bitter by his need for revenge.”

Revenge.

Pain knifed through Gregor.

His eyes flickered shut and he pressed his fingers to his eyelids. He felt as if Margaret Mackie had held a mirror up
to him. There in the reflection he saw it, and he was scalded by the truth. Revenge begets revenge. If Ivor Wallace had destroyed his father for the reasons Margaret gave, he was now carrying that same vindictive streak. His thoughts churned, and for a while Margaret's words went unheard. Eventually she fell silent, leaving him to his sorry thoughts.

Eleven years he had let the quest for revenge rule his life. He'd ignored his only kin in Margaret here, and his old friends, because he could think only of his enemy. He'd sent sweet Jessie in there, knowing how dangerous it could be for her, so fixed was he on retribution.

Jessie.

The thought of her became a single shining beacon in the chaos of his denial and despair, something worth fighting for in a life of ruined beliefs and broken dreams. He had to get her out of there. He had to make her safe.

Lifting his head, he quizzed Margaret. “Does he know that I may be his son?”

“No one told him.” She eyed him cautiously. “Although he may have guessed there was a chance you were his. You came along very quickly after your mother wed.”

That possibility did not make him feel any better. Gregor rose to his feet. “I want nothing to do with him.”

“That does not surprise me. I have had many a year to think about this. I've little respect for Ivor Wallace, less each year as I have watched him become embittered and riddled with avarice. But I will say this…sometimes when a man loses the woman he loves, his reason is lost, too.”

When a man loses the woman he loves…

Gregor rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment, silently vowing that he would make sure she was kept comfortable and not wanting for anything, and then he was on his way.

Outside the cottage, he cursed when he saw how far the moon had moved in the sky. It was late. The evening had escaped him as he sat there while history unfolded.

Jessie would think he was not coming.

She would go back into the house.

Gregor ran. He ran as fast as he could. Back through the graveyard he went, and across the fields beyond.

Finally, Balfour Hall loomed on the horizon.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do was set foot inside that house, knowing he was the blood relative of his most reviled enemy. But he had to, because Jessie was there.

JESSIE PRESSED AGAINST THE WALL WHERE SHE
could see the stables. To her left, the gardens and the hill that led up to the shadowy woods beyond were both within her sight. At first all was still, and the night was not too cold. Then the wind lifted and she wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders and huddled against the building.

Time passed. Clouds wisped across the moon, making it more difficult for her to judge how late it was. Her eyes began to ache from peering into the gloom, looking for him.
Where are you, Gregor?
It was a long while before she admitted to herself that Gregor had not come at the appointed time. Then she forced herself to consider that he might not be coming at all.

A tight knot of concern formed in Jessie's chest. Once again she scanned the gardens and the woods beyond for signs of movement. She saw nothing. She darted toward the outhouses and the stable itself, and checked inside. He was nowhere to be seen.

Fear for his safety was her first reaction. Perhaps he had
been waylaid by a brigand, or maybe he had fallen from his horse in the forest. Or he might have had ill thoughts about her because of her craft. The last two nights she had not been able to stop herself from exposing the radiance of her magic when they coupled. It had been a revelation to him, and she was afraid he might turn his back on her after all.

As she stood by the stables, watching and waiting, she saw a flare of candlelight through one of the windows in the main house. Then another. They moved in quick succession, as if being carried. All had been quiet when she'd emerged from the hall. Now there was movement inside, at least two people. She could not risk waiting here in case someone saw her from inside the house and decided to question her. If Gregor came down from the forest now she hoped he would see the light and stay away.

Darting back toward the servants' entrance, she crept inside. To her dismay she saw that the kitchen door was open, and in the hall beyond, several candles had been lit. She'd barely stepped inside when she was grabbed and shoved along and out into the hallway.

It was Cormac at her back, she knew, but why was he pushing her out into the light? On the previous occasion he had lingered in the gloom with her.

As soon as she arrived in the hall she realized why. Another man awaited them there. He had his back to them, facing the sideboard, where he was busy pouring wine into a glass.

“Here she is,” Cormac said, “the new serving girl, skulking about, up to no good by the looks of her.”

Jessie tried to bolt, and her beloved blue shawl dropped to the floor, but Cormac had a tight grip on the back of her dress. Even though she twisted and turned she could not break free. He held her at her arm's length as if displaying her for the other man. Who was it, if not the master of the house?

“Well, well, if it isn't the Harlot of Dundee.”

Jessie's head snapped around and she stared in disbelief at the man who had spoken. It was not Master Wallace. It was a much younger man.

His cruel gray eyes raked over her and his full lips curled in delight, as if he was relishing the sight of the woman being held out to him. His face looked familiar, but for a moment she could not place him. Then she realized who he was. The last time she'd seen him he'd worn a wig and a heavily embroidered coat. Tonight his head was bare and his hair tied with a ribbon. His shirt was loose and hanging down over his breeches. The boots were just as she remembered, ostentatious. It was the man whose custom Eliza and herself were competing for on that final, fateful night in Dundee. This man had encouraged them to squabble over him, and Ranald Sweeney was all too willing to agree, knowing he would make money on the bets.

This was bad, worse even than if Cormac or the master of the house had come after her, because this man knew who and what she was. Jessie's skin flashed hot and cold as she realized the dangerous nature of her situation.

Cormac spoke. “You know the wench, Master Forbes?”

Forbes.
This was Ivor Wallace's son, whom there had been much whispering about throughout the household. He'd been due to return, but she had taken little notice, because her mind was occupied elsewhere.

Cormac grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged on it, forcing her head back and her chin up. Pain shot through her neck. It was twisted badly, causing her to cry out. Her gaze darted this way and that as she tried to seek out the best route for her escape. She'd fled before with nowt but the clothes on her back when confronted with men who would rather
force themselves on her and beat her than pay for what she offered.

Cormac peered at her as if he should know her, too, because his master did. “She's not from the village.”

“No, she's not from the village.” Forbes stepped closer and surveyed her as he did so. When his gaze shifted to her chest, he licked his lips.

“It seems I cannot turn my back on this place for a moment,” he commented to Cormac, “what with the old man selling land behind my back. And as if that is not enough of a concern, I find he has brought a homeless slut under our roof.”

There was disapproval in his tone, but Jessie could see he was secretly delighted. If the rumors she had heard were true and he was trying to take his father's place, he could use this against the master of the house.

He swigged heavily from the glass in his hand, draining it. By the looks of him and Cormac, they had shared plenty of spirits already. Forbes's petulant mouth was made even uglier once damp and stained by the wine.

“The Harlot of Dundee. Jessie Taskill is her name.” He gestured at her with the glass before setting it down. “They are looking for you. They discovered you crossed the Tay. Word passes from mouth to mouth along the coast. It won't be long until it is the hangman's hand you feel.”

There was loud thudding in Jessie's ears as images from her past shot through her mind. Her emotions were already unsteady because Gregor had not appeared, and they were fast coming unraveled.

Cormac's grip on her hair had not loosened and he peered at her again. “Who is she?”

“A dirty whore, and that's not all.” Forbes sneered, but she sensed he was enjoying the situation, which did nothing to reassure her. “She has been charged with witchcraft. She was
in the tollbooth awaiting the hangman, but somehow she escaped.”

“Witchcraft?” Cormac let go of her and stepped toward his master, with whom he seemed on good terms.

Jessie edged away, her hands seeking the wall behind her. Again her gaze flitted to the doorway to the kitchens. Cormac blocked her path. That there were two of them would make it more difficult. She could use an enchantment, but what if they discovered she was working for Gregor? She did not want him to be associated with witchcraft.

“I've already made the acquaintance of our newest servant in Dundee,” Master Forbes was saying to Cormac. He grinned her way. “I feel we must revisit our last encounter and bring it to its unfulfilled conclusion.”

Jessie's breath was locked in her chest. She shook her head at him.

“I sponsored your actions that night in order to bed you, my dear. You owe me the rest of that performance, and more.” He rubbed his hand over the turgid bulge in his breeches and then glanced at Cormac. “Take her into the dining hall and strip her.”

No. I do not want this.
At one time she would have flirted with such a suggestion, if only to keep a customer like him happy—anything to keep a violent streak in check. Not now. Not anymore.

Just as it had earlier that day with his father, her repugnance multiplied.
This is because I have tied myself to one man. This is because I have fallen in love with Gregor.
She did not want to be sullied by another, because she could not risk seeing disappointment in his eyes, the way she had that night when he had found her conversing with Mister Grant.

Cormac hesitated. “If she practices witchcraft, does she summon demons and the like?”

Jessie acted fast. She turned to him and hissed.

Cormac leaped away from her, walking backward with his hand raised as if to defend himself, his eyes wide.

Master Forbes chortled loudly, and then gestured at Jessie. “Get on with it, strip her.”

Cormac stood his ground. “But…”

“She is only trying to scare you, man.” He spat the words at his servant. Then he looked at her. “Eliza told me that you were good for a few herbs and such, but that you had no real power.”

Jessie's chin lifted. Perhaps the scales were tipping in her direction. Eliza had never seen what she could really do, and now, after her magic had been nurtured and fed by physical, spiritual and emotional love, her talent was much more immense. The thought gave her strength. “And you chose to believe that,” she responded, “when it is obvious that I had the power to escape the bailie before the night was out?”

Momentary doubt flickered in his eyes, and then his mouth tightened and he strode over to her. Grabbing her dress at the bodice, he shook her to and fro while he delivered a slap to her face with his free hand. “Insolent bitch.”

The sting was nothing compared to the revulsion she felt when he began to drag her across the hallway. She struggled to escape, but he was a heavy, large man and he was determined to have her.

Cormac had gathered himself and reached for two candles, lifting them aloft as the small procession headed to the dining hall. There, Master Forbes pushed Jessie down on the long, polished mahogany table, holding her with one hand against her throat, the weight of his body crushing her thighs and hips.

She kicked and punched at him, but that only seemed to make him more keen.

“Cormac, quickly, hold her arms,” Master Forbes instructed.

Magic was the only way. Even if it meant she was ousted. Being stoned to death, or even hanged, would be preferable to submitting to this brute.

Cormac set the candlesticks on the mantel, where their reflection in the mirror lit the room more brightly. Jessie squirmed and wriggled, looking for a way to escape, preparing to use an enchantment. At the far end of the room, a door stood open. She remembered passing through it as she went about her chores. It led into the library, where there was another door. She was in a state, and as she tried to whisper her trusted Gaelic protection enchantment, the words tangled.

Cormac had joined his master and grabbed her arms, pulling them over her head and holding them with his weight.

Forbes's grip tightened on her throat. With his other hand he ripped open her bodice, tearing the fabric to expose her breasts.

She screamed.

“Bitch.” He forced her head to one side on the table and covered her mouth with his hand.

She struggled, attempting to bite him, but he was already pushing up her skirts. A sensible whore would get it over with, and she had done, in the past. Not this time. Instead she could only think of Gregor. Gregor would not want this. She was ready to leave and be gone from this house with its burden of guilt and cruelty. Her eyelids dropped. She whispered the words in her mind.

A moment later Cormac stumbled backward, and her arms were freed. She delivered a blow to the side of Forbes's head and then scrambled away from him.

He staggered, but still he blocked her path.

Instinctively, she turned and clambered onto the table on
her hands and knees. Her skirts were hampering her. The table was some ten strides long, but she would have to stand. Inhaling a deep breath, she got her feet under her then stood up. As she did, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

So high up.

The realization sent her into a dizzy spin. She was right back there, back on the pillar outside the church, and she could hear the crowd baying for her mother's death, hurling stones at her collapsed body on the ground while they called her evil.

Maisie was too far away to reach, and Lennox had been thrown into the back of a cart, bound at wrists and ankles because he had cursed them so mightily that they were afraid of the lad and called him a demon.

“Lift your head and look at your mother,” a harsh voice had instructed her.

But Jessie could not look at what they were doing to her mother. She had already seen enough of them, for they were pious souls turned into vicious animals.

“She's afraid!” It was Cormac.

The two men were closer still. She swayed. Cormac was pointing, his leering face split into a horrid grin. Beyond him, Forbes had lifted a poker from the fireplace and was walking toward her with it.

Cormac snatched at her ankle.

Master Forbes closed on her with the poker.

Cormac jerked her ankle, lifting her foot from the table.

The whole room began to spin.

Her belly heaved, and darkness descended.