The Harlot (6 page)

Jessie watched what he did, and then her teeth bit into her lower lip, her eyes darkening once more as she observed his actions. Her breasts lifted and lowered more quickly, and he knew she was already growing ready for coupling.

“You are undoubtedly suitable for the task,” he eventually replied. “With practice.”

MISTER RAMSAY WENT OUT ONTO THE LANDING
to call for service, and after he returned, Mistress Muir appeared at the door. He ordered food for one.

Jessie observed the exchange with curiosity. Wasn't he going to feed her? She was not overly concerned, for she'd had a good meal that morning and her mind was still on what she considered the unfinished business of earlier. While she had been over his lap, the heavy bough of his erection pressing against her had made her dizzy with lust.

Jessie was surprised he had not used her to satisfy his own needs, those that were so readily obvious. The bulge in his breeches barely subsided for several long minutes afterward, and not until he set about studying papers he pulled from his trunk. Why did he resist?

When he'd had her across his lap, she'd been willing him to turn her so that she was splayed and ready to be probed with that sturdy length. The hiding he had given her only seemed to arouse them both to a state of frenzy. Yet now his whole
attention was given over to the papers from his trunk. Were they so important, and what else had he in there?

When he caught sight of her eyeing the trunk, he got up and shut the lid. “Tidy yourself up,” he instructed, with a frown.

That interested her. He did not want her to see what was inside his precious chest. Languidly, she laced the bodice of her borrowed dress while she speculated about what he might have in there. Patience had never been within Jessie's grasp for any length of time, but she attempted to sit by quietly, waiting for him to resume instructions. She was sure that when he continued to order her about, as seemed to be his wont, things would move forward to a mutually satisfying result.

However, when the alewife brought a plate of pigeon pie and a mug of ale on a tray, Mister Ramsay gestured at Jessie, indicating it was for her. The look of the baked pigeon and pastry lid made her appetite grow. There was easily enough for two, and she would enjoy feeding it to him. But he was busying himself, as if preparing to leave. He had strapped a sheathed dagger to his belt and was now putting on his frock coat and hat. Confused, she stood by the table, picking at the pastry crust with her fingers.

“You are not hungry, sire?” she asked as she lifted a morsel to her mouth.

He did not look at her when he made his reply. “I have business to attend to this afternoon. Take the food and go to your room.”

He gestured at the small room in which she had slept. She thought it rather odd, but the food was now her main concern. It was by far the best meal she had tasted recently. She lifted the plate and carried it with her.

Gregor followed her to the door. “I will be back by sunset. Behave yourself while I am gone.”

With that he closed the door.

Jessie stared at it. Did he truly expect her to stay in here while he was away? She chuckled to herself, then sat on the edge of the narrow cot and picked up the fork. As soon as he was gone, she could explore her surroundings.

It was then that she heard the key turn.

He had locked her in.

Jessie stared in horror, then thrust aside her plate. “Open the door!”

Darting over, she pounded on it with her fist.

“Hush. I do not want you wandering about in case you are seen.”

Angered, she stomped her foot. “You cannot keep me locked in here like an animal.”

The only response was the sound of his boots fading into the distance.

Apparently he did not trust her.

It did not matter. No lock would hold her, not unless she wanted it to. She had informed him of that in Dundee, but he honestly had not believed it. Jessie shook her head, amused by that, and returned to the cot and the meal.

Most people feared her when they got any sort of hint she may know witchcraft. Not Mister Ramsay, and he'd seen a whole inn shouting for the bailie to condemn her. He had traveled, and there was a worldliness about him that attracted her. It was no excuse for him to lock her up, however.

Her thoughts wandered back to that night in Dundee, and for the first time she addressed how close she had come to her end. Since she had cured Eliza the winter before, it seemed that the women around her had secretly feared her. Jessie had tried to help someone, which meant her outing and condemnation were only a matter of time—all because she had healed with her witchcraft.

Jessie's mother had warned her and her siblings that people would fear them, because those who did not understand the craft thought it evil. It was beyond their grasp to offer tolerance. Her current protector was above that. Mister Ramsay did not seem at all threatened by the possibility of magic, and there was great comfort in that for Jessie.

For a few days she need only do as he asked, and she would be safe and well fed. Not to mention pleasured. Her cunny was warm and heavy still, and her bottom tingled most satisfyingly. That made her smile. Mister Ramsay was an intriguing man, and the way he had pushed her and bent her to his will was most arousing. It was not what she was used to, and despite her annoyance at being locked up, she found herself anticipating his return.

When she had finished the meal she wiped her mouth and rubbed her hands together. First, she would remain quiet and rest awhile in order to ensure that he had gone from the place. Then she would use the time to find out what he kept in that precious trunk of his.

 

Gregor urged his mount to a fierce gallop, grateful for the wind in his face and the distance from his new cohort. He sought freedom—freedom from the pressing need to plunge into the wench's sweet softness and do nothing but enjoy her.

Not only was she the most delicious honey pot he'd ever wanted to ease his cock into, but she seemed determined to make him lose his mind. The fresh air eventually pacified his lust, at least for the time being. With distance between them he was able to conclude that her performance had all but turned him into a demented fool. He was more certain than ever that he had to keep some detachment from her in order to be able to think straight.

The horse was making short work of the distance. Freshened by the canter, Gregor slowed his mount to a more sensible pace. He was able to move a lot quicker without the burden he'd had the previous day. Jessie had turned their escape from Dundee into one of the slowest journeys he had ever completed, what with her arguing and recriminations. Then, when they finally reached Saint Andrews, she had stared aghast at the horse, and when Gregor hauled her up behind him, she'd clung to him like a limpet. With a disturbed bleat, she'd locked one arm around his waist and the other over his shoulder.

Once they were on their way, he'd glanced over his shoulder as he urged the horse to a trot. “Is it necessary to cling to me quite so tightly?” he had asked. “I can scarcely move the reins.”

She grumbled beneath her breath.

“Apparently it is.” It amused him, though, because she had been surly toward him when they traveled by foot, her arms folded across her chest, the occasional angry stare thrown in his direction. Once up on the horse it seemed she could not get close enough to him.

Her body had been warm, and her breath huffed against the back of his neck, instantly kindling his carnal interest. Occasionally she had whimpered, and he assumed it was the horse she was afraid of. Her grip did not loosen, and after they had been traveling awhile she'd requested to walk beside the horse to ease her cramped limbs. It was an excuse. He knew it was.

Gregor smiled as he remembered. Just when he thought she was as tough as an old boot, she'd showed fear and fatigue. Today all of that was forgotten as she returned to her former mischievous self. One thing he was certain of was that he would never forget Miss Jessie Taskill. Even though he had known her only a day and a half, he was sure of it.

As he neared the landscape he knew so well his thoughts became more subdued. The ground beneath the horse's hooves was good land, fertile. The hills rolled away from him toward the sea. On the horizon, he saw a boat. The sea here was teeming with herring, the catch that kept the folk along the coast in coin.

The sight of the boat also made him think of his ship, the
Libertas.
It wasn't the first ship he'd signed up on, but he had spent nine years aboard the
Libertas,
a trade vessel under the command of a Scottish-born captain. The crew was a mix of Scots and Dutch, united by their long-held mutual dislike of the English, who sought to rule the trade routes.

Some called the crew of the
Libertas
brigands, for they allied themselves with no one. But they were more inclined to think themselves free traders. Then, three years ago, their old captain was taken down by gout that had been wrongly treated by a surgeon in Tangier. When the rot set in he'd lain on his deathbed and called for his two most trusted men to take charge, Gregor and his fellow shipmate, Roderick Cameron. The captain had no son or heir that he knew of, and had signed it over to them in good faith. Together they had taken over the running of the vessel, with the captain's blessing. To this day they shared the duties and the captainship.

Gregor and Roderick had treated the
Libertas
crew well, paying them better than they had been before, and maintaining their loyalty. That had enabled them to make their fortune in contraband trade. They carried dangerous and valuable cargo from places others feared to venture.

It was a good life, a life he thrived upon, and Gregor had split with Roderick and the
Libertas
only to avenge his father. His partner had set sail for North Africa, where the goods they shipped could be sold all over Europe. More trade would be picked up along the way.

In six months time he would reset the compass for Dundee. Gregor and Roderick had agreed that they would make contact when the ship returned, and all being well, Gregor would rejoin the
Libertas
when his business was attended to. If he was not yet ready, he would send word.

For the first time in many years he was back in Fife, for as long as it would take.

When he mounted the hill that overlooked the village of Craigduff, he drew his mount to a halt to gaze down at the place of his childhood. The cottages clustered around the small harbor were as familiar as the back of his hand. This was the village where his mother had been born, the place where he himself had attended classes in the mornings and church on Sundays. The place where 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.