The Harlot (11 page)

Breathing in his scent from the pillows, she put her hand under her skirts and between her thighs and commenced rubbing herself vigorously. Her cunny was slippery with her juices, her bud swollen and protruding—and mightily sensitive to the touch. She thrust her hips against the bed, her mind full of the images she had just seen. Then Mister Ramsay himself stepped into her imaginings, and he was telling her off for her escape, slapping her arse as he had done the day before.

“Oh, oh, oh.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and stuck her bottom out, imagining she was over his knee again and he not only slapped her sensitive rump, he dipped his hand in between and rubbed at her folds roughly, maddening her. He was chastising her for watching the lewd behavior of the men next door, but beneath her lap she could feel the hard length of his cock, and she imagined him lifting her, spreading her and thrusting into her grateful cunny.

When she peaked moments later, she lay still until she recovered and then rolled onto her back and laughed aloud.
“And there was meself thinking I was to have another tedious afternoon of solitude.”

The day had brought much entertainment, and now the sun was lowering in the sky. Mister Ramsay—Gregor—would return soon. She smiled and caught her lower lip between her teeth, anticipating his presence. Although she balked at being held captive, there was pleasure to be found, with a good purse at the end. Perhaps her situation was not so bad, after all, and she rose onto one elbow to look at the window.

The sun was setting on the rolling Fife hills, and she watched it, wondering again where Mister Ramsay was and where he had been. The mood between them had been most enticing that morning, before he had announced he was taking his leave. She would make it so again.

Many of the whores she knew dreamed of having a sponsor like this. A protector of sorts. Someone who kept them as his own woman. It was not something Jessie had ever craved, because she knew it was dangerous territory for someone with her wild nature and her gift for the craft. Her mother had told her and Maisie that often enough. To grow attached to one man could only make things more difficult for them.

Yet when Gregor had turned her away after supper and made her go to her own room, she'd felt a sense of longing that spelled trouble. Especially after the time they had spent preparing, in which he'd aroused her to the point of madness in the name of seducing some unknown enemy. Under normal circumstances she would relish a room of her own. Because he was there, beyond it, the servant's room made her feel lonely and deprived. He had resisted her, for a while. It bothered her immensely that she did not understand why. Especially as she'd put so much effort into breaking down his resistance. Was there another woman in his heart? With careful thought and preparation, she decided that she would find out. That
very evening. By fair means or foul, she would discover if it was to another woman he went.

With that vow bolstering her mood she tidied his bed, returned to her quarters, relocked the door by means of magic, then sat down to wait.

GREGOR DID NOT SUFFER THE RECRIMINATIONS
and vitriol of the day before when he returned that evening. In fact, Jessie seemed delighted to see him. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and she embraced him—which took him quite by surprise—eyeing his stuffed bundle as she did so. Curious, he wondered how she had occupied herself while he was gone. Once again he had the feeling she had not stayed in her room, but there was no evidence that she had forced the lock, and he had the key.

Then it occurred to him that she might be more settled because of what had passed between them that morning. If that was the case, he had a difficult choice to make—keep her satisfied, happy and loyal, or at arm's length for the sake of his sanity. Gregor gave a wry smile as he thought it over.

That morning there had been little choice. It had only been a matter of time before he'd buckled and broke with the tutoring to relieve them both of their lusty burden. He had done his utmost to use the situation to his advantage, but there was no denying it had to be done—regardless of the equally
pressing need for a lesson in good manners. As soon as he'd sat her at the table, naked, he had pictured her in a much more carnally advantageous pose. Working off his stiff rod while she was facedown over that table with her arse in the air was an inevitable event.

Now that he was back the table served as a reminder of that most pleasurable session, as did she. He gave her the packages he'd brought her in order to distract himself. “I have hired a seamstress in Saint Andrews. You will soon have new clothing. In the meantime, a handkerchief and shawl by the same seamstress. On my journey back here I also located some decent hide shoes.”

Her eyes lit at the mention of the shoes, and when he put them in her hand, she stared at them in wonder. He'd noticed that her own were worn paper-thin.

“That is why you…” She put her splayed hand to her foot, as he had done to measure the length of it that morning.

He'd thought she hadn't noticed. He nodded.

Eagerly, she took the shawl from him and rubbed the soft woolen garment against her face. As he'd thought when he selected it, it matched her eyes. The cotton kerchief was equally welcomed, although it was with some regret he watched her cover her bosom as she wrapped it around her neck and shoved the tails into the front of her dress. With the shawl around her shoulders, she danced back and forth.

“I am decent,” she declared, with laugher in her voice.

Gregor had expected her to be delighted. In his experience women usually were when they received gifts. But there was a kind of awe about Jessie that surprised him. She had nothing, he realized.

It was many years since he had been that way himself, but he could still recall the night he had arrived at Dundee harbor, with just the clothes on his back. What he did have was the
determination to find work and an ability to work hard. His drive had been fueled by bitterness and anger. It was lucky anyone took a risk on signing him up at all, but he'd found the captain of a frigate whose crew was a few men short. Hard labor was what he'd needed to work off some of his anger and grief, and he'd learned quickly, soon rising through the ranks when he showed a talent for navigation and gauging the winds. His father, Hugh, had taught him how to read the weather as they worked the land together, and his skills quickly adapted and grew.

Eventually he'd become master of his own destiny and accrued wealth. But he saw part of his young self reflected in Jessie's expression, the grateful awe he had felt when he'd received his first earnings and was able to send money back to Craigduff so that his father's grave would have a stone put upon it.

Reaching into his pocket, Gregor handed her the final item. It was a comb, crafted from a fine-grained piece of wood. Jessie took the offering somewhat cautiously, examining the paper it was wrapped in.

“Open it,” he urged.

She did so, and gasped when she saw it. “Oh, it is beautiful.”

To him it was a plain, serviceable item, but Jessie was delighted by it and immediately put it to use, combing it through the tails of her thick, wavy hair, chuckling to herself as her locks grew longer and straightened under the ministrations of the tool.

She honestly had nothing, he reflected once again. She'd mentioned that her purse was kept by her pimp. What was she saving for? He recalled some mention of traveling north. Did she have a child lodged somewhere? Whores invariably did, but he had seen no signs of childbirth upon her.

When she saw him watching, she blushed and pushed the comb into the pocket on her borrowed dress. “Thank you.”

She rubbed her hands on her shawl as if pleased, but he noticed that she looked a little concerned.

“What troubles you? You do not like the shawl?”

She seemed to consider her words carefully before she responded. “Will you take the cost of the clothing and the comb from the wage you promised me?”

Gregor frowned. It hadn't occurred to him that she would think that. “No.”

Relief flooded her expression.

She was worried about the money. It was important to her.
Of course it was,
he surmised, with no small amount of self-mockery.
Otherwise she'd be long gone by now.

“Will you take me down to the inn this evening, now that I am decent?”

Gregor immediately shook his head. “It is too much of a risk. Travelers from Dundee might pass by here.”

“I can disguise myself with the shawl.” She reached for his arm, imploring him. “I shall go mad locked up in here.”

Once again she was taking liberties with him. He felt a nerve in his cheek begin to twitch. “What?” He threw her a warning glance. “You told me you could break free from a cell without my help, and now you are complaining about being locked up here?”

She pouted, but she seemed amused by his remark.

Gregor sighed. “You always want to court danger,” he said on a more serious note.

“That is not so. I want to be safe, really I do. But I get terribly restless being in here for so long.” Her glance was pleading. “Just for a few minutes.”

“Liberties, Jessie, you are taking liberties.”

A hopeful smile lit her face. “I promise I will not ask about
it anymore, and I will be good and quiet when you…lock me up in my room.”

That was made to make him feel guilty, he knew.
Damn woman.

“I want you to know that I am doing this against my better judgment, and only to avoid seeing you in a mope.”

Their arrival in the tavern shortly thereafter did little to convince Gregor he had not made a mistake. Jessie had covered her head with the shawl and walked close beside him, but several men who stood by the ale counter turned in their direction, as if the mere scent of a woman had alerted them to her presence. He touched Jessie around the waist, indicating she was his. It did not stop them from leering. Gregor's humor darkened.

Beyond them, the serving girl, Morag, walked behind the ale counter with a massive jug in her hands. She craned her neck to see what the commotion was about. When she noted it was him and that he had brought his cousin with him, she grinned.

“Sit there,” he muttered over his shoulder, and nodded at a rickety table in a dark corner. He ushered Jessie to it and then gestured for Morag to bring ale.

“Good evening, Mister Ramsay, Miss Jessie,” Morag said when she delivered the ale.

Jessie grasped the girl's hand. “Feel the fine stuff of this shawl,” she said, and offered Morag the trailing hem of it.

Gregor frowned as they whispered together about the garment, and wished he had not bought the damned thing. When Morag bent over the table to study the weave with Jessie, he saw that one of the farmhands at the counter had stepped into the middle of the room to get a better look, staring at the women with a foolish grin on his face.

“Jessie,” he warned under his breath.

She immediately stopped speaking and adopted a suitably chastised expression. Morag quickly assessed the mood and left. Still the men loomed, making Gregor wish he had kept her upstairs.

Jessie looked at him expectantly.

“We have work to do.” In an attempt to ignore the rabble and their interest in Jessie, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper he had brought with him, together with a stub of charcoal. On one side were the notes he had made after his visit with Robert. Gregor turned it over and began to draw the outline of Balfour Hall. When Jessie saw what he was doing, she leaned forward on her elbows to observe. Marking the entrance with a cross, he named it, and then placed an arrow to show the servant's entrance, and named that by writing above it.

Jessie's face fell and she put her hand over the words he had just written. She shook her head. There was frustration in her eyes.

She cannot read.
“I am sorry, I did not know.”

She shrugged and her eyelids lowered, but he could tell it mattered to her.

“You had no opportunity for schooling?” If so, it was shameful, for she had a sharp mind.

She shook her head. “Although there is a jest there, for part of my childhood was spent living with a teacher's family.”

Puzzled, he waited for more of an explanation, but it was not forthcoming. He was about to suggest she put part of her earnings toward learning, for it would be a good investment, but he thought better of it. Once again he wondered what she was saving her coin for.

“No matter, there is always a way.” Many seafaring men could not read or write and knew very little of such things.
He picked up his stub of charcoal again and drew a carriage at the front entrance, and a woman with an apron at the rear.

Jessie nodded when she saw what he had done, and her expression brightened. They were in tune again, and he went to add some details to the map.

“Excuse me, sire,” a voice interrupted.

Glancing up, he saw a well-dressed man. Gregor quickly rolled up the parchment and tucked it into his pocket.

“I feel sure I know you,” said the intruder, “but I cannot place your name.”

The man was fair-haired and possibly five or six years older than himself.

Gregor's blood ran cold. “No, I do not think we have ever met.”

For some reason Jessie seemed amused as she looked from one to the other of them. That did not help Gregor's mood. He gave a dismissive shake of his head toward the man.

“Grant is the name, James Grant. I'm a collector of taxes for the crown. Perhaps that is how we know each other.”

There was indeed something familiar about the man, and his name echoed through Gregor's mind. Cursing silently, he knew they should have stayed hidden. It was important that Ivor Wallace did not hear of his return. Again, Gregor shook his head. “I think not. I am a traveler and new to this part of Scotland.”

The man looked confused. “In that case, forgive me.”

It was his frown and the way he ducked his head that pinned it for Gregor. He did know him from somewhere. Was it Craigduff, perhaps? That was not good. Perhaps Jessie was not the only one who should remain in hiding.

“We never should have come down,” Gregor muttered as he watched the man retreat.

“He is our neighbor,” Jessie offered conspiratorially, as if imparting knowledge of great importance.

Gregor frowned. That was all he needed, a neighbor at the inn who hailed from Craigduff. Someone who might remember exactly who he was and tell others that he had returned. He didn't want Wallace to be forewarned when he took action.
And how in God's name did Jessie know that if she had remained locked up in her room all afternoon?

“How do you know that he is our neighbor?”

Her eyes rounded and then she blinked. “Morag told me there was a man by the name of Mister Grant staying in the rooms here.”

Gregor grew increasingly unsettled by the turn of events, and she was not helping. He should be hastening this along in order to get it done before news of his presence got about. Instead he was dallying with the woman he had hired to work for him. “Come, it is not safe here.”

“No,” she bleated forlornly. “No one has even looked at me, covered up as I am.”

She was wrong. Every man in the inn was staring. They were practically lathering at the mouth for want of a closer look. He glared at her. “It is not only you who does not wish to be identified.”

“Oh.”

When he saw her expression alter, he nodded. Now she understood.

“Shift yourself and be quick about it. I have a bottle of port upstairs. We can talk privately.” He checked that the papers were secure in his pocket and then swallowed the rest of his ale. The sooner they were back upstairs the better.

Jessie did not relish the suddenness of their departure, however. She looked woebegone when he rose to his feet, as if he had just informed her a close friend had passed on. He grasped
her wrist and indicated in no uncertain terms that they must leave.

When he had her halfway up the stairs, she grumbled bitterly to his back, “I had barely sat myself down when you dragged me back up here.”

“And I should never have taken you down there in the first place,” he retorted over his shoulder.

She was dawdling, clinging to the banister as if she did not want to mount the staircase.

He frowned and gestured her on. “Neither of us needs to be identified.”

Once they reached his quarters, he ushered her inside and locked the door. She took the shawl from her head and cast it aside before putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

The frustrations of the day had already taken their toll, and his patience had worn thin. He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “How did you know that gentleman was our neighbor?”

Immediately she turned her face away. “I told you. Morag mentioned his name.”

“You are lying to me.”

She folded her arms across her chest.