The Harlot (17 page)

GREGOR HAD RIDDEN AHEAD OF HER FOR THE
entire journey back to the Drover's Inn, and he made it obvious he did not want to converse with her. In their quarters once more, he sat in surly silence, his eyes on the window, his thoughts far away.

Jessie guessed at his emotions. If she had to return to the place of her mother's death, she, too, would be crippled by the experience. What she did not understand was why he had turned on her, as if it was her fault. They had grown to understand each other, or so she thought, and yet he had scowled at her and turned away when she'd reached out to him. That stung. She tried to keep her feelings inside and make allowances for his reaction, retiring to the servant's room until later.

When supper arrived, however, he pushed the plate away and ordered her back to her room.

“Gregor, please.” She rose to her feet.

To no avail. That night he told her to sleep in her own bed.

The following morning she found him seated as he had been the night before. Slumped, but not sleeping.

After another full day of silence, where he did nowt but glower into the distance with a bottle of port in one hand and a glass in the other, she began to doubt his sanity.

He was fixed on his task, and he had put a distance between them. That made it easier for him. Did it make it easier for her? No! His encouragement might. Instead, he had become cold and silent. She would do anything for him. Foolishly, she had grown to care what he thought of her, and now he acted as if this had been nothing but a business arrangement. She had been warned that danger lay in affection for a man—and yet she had left herself open to this one.

Foolish, yes. A man such as he could never truly care for a woman like her, a whore. For a day or more she had betrayed herself, allowing herself to believe that they shared each other, if only for a few days. Soon she would be gone from his life, and that made her greedy for the time they had left, resentful of his withdrawal.

The hours passed and the sun set. By then she was nursing her own raw temper. Hurt by his silence, she considered how sorry he would be if he knew he had underestimated her and that she'd been inside his precious trunk and had breached the locks on his doors. If he had only listened to the folk in Dundee, he might be afraid she could procure another protector at will and walk away from him and his quest for revenge.

She put on her new hide shoes and combed her hair. Then she presented herself to him. “If you will not speak with me and continue to prepare me for the task ahead, I will go downstairs and entertain myself there.”

His eyes blazed and for a moment she thought he might
forbid her—that he would snatch her back into his arms and hold her to him.

“Do as you wish.” He stood up, turned his back on her and walked away.

Astonished, she stared across the room at him. Her statement was intended to force him to address her, to wake him from his trance. However, he no longer seemed to care where she went.

Crestfallen, Jessie watched as he poured water into the dish on the washstand and then pulled his shirt over his head. The sight of his naked torso only made her more annoyed, because she ached for his embrace.
Fooled myself.
He cared nothing for her. She was just a convenient whore he kept to do his bidding, knowing she was under the continued threat of condemnation and death, a woman who he thought should be grateful for protection and for the crumbs of affection he threw her. And what about the afternoons? she silently raged. When he went who knew where? To another woman, his real woman, perhaps. Someone he would never ask to do the sordid task of seducing an enemy in return for a full purse.

Infuriated, Jessie turned on her heel and stomped out of the rooms before he could stop her, racing down the rickety stairs and into the crowded inn.

 

Gregor stared down into the basin of water, then cupped his hands and filled them. The splash of cool drops barely registered. He cupped his hands again and doused the back of his neck. Then he dipped his head into the bowl, wetting his hair. He flicked it back, ran his fingers through the wet strands, then pressed his hand to his forehead. Several long moments passed, and then he realized that Jessie had gone.

Frowning, he looked around.

He walked to the sitting room, rubbing his jaw, and vaguely
realized his beard was unruly. The door to the landing was ajar. He recalled her badgering him. He scarcely remembered what she'd said, because he had been deep in thought.

Picturing her face, he knew that she'd been upset.

It was wrong to blame her for the visit to Strathbahn, but he could not help himself, his temper was so bad. It was her fault they had gone, and her fault that he had begun to feel things more deeply again.

He'd also had the uneasy feeling that the claims about her practicing witchcraft might have some credence. There was that odd thing about her riding after she had seemed so unwilling, and then she'd said she could easily make too much housework for the servants to manage, and she truly believed it. Would it happen? Soon enough they would know.

What he could not forgive himself for was that he was concerned for the welfare of a whore. He had lost sight of his target, because of a woman he knew nothing about. Now he was almost willing to believe the claims about her, and that set loose another round of doubt. Hours had gone by in these rooms when he did not even think of his goal, because he wanted to claim her and bask in her glow instead. Was this the result of witchcraft? The unfamiliar doubts and feelings nagged at him until he grew grumpy and frustrated, and he'd snapped at her whenever she came near.

Here in these three small rooms he'd managed to lose his sense of purpose. He had to hold on to his focus to fulfill his goal, to live again. He owed it to his father.

Even so, the thought that she was down there, where the men leered at her and she could quickly find another sponsor, began to bite into him, and it was not a pleasant sensation. Over the last day he'd become numb. Not anymore. Anger shot through him, turning to ice in his veins.

The longer he stared at the open door and heard the sounds
of laughter and cheering rising from the tavern below, the more tension and possessive anger built inside him.

She was a whore, but until he ended it she was
his
whore.

 

The clamor of voices and the smell of ale and bodies was a familiar experience to Jessie. She pressed into the crowd, even though she did not want to be here at all. She would not satisfy Gregor by returning to his side, however. Perhaps some time alone would wake him from that trance of his and they could move forward again.

The inn was heaving with drunken farmers and she overheard talk of the market in Saint Andrews. It was just as Morag had described. As Jessie made her way to the counter, where the alewife was busily working, she saw that Mister Grant was once more in residence, presumably after a long day of tax collecting. Several of the farmers reached out to grab at her, but she easily danced free of their grasping hands. Pausing alongside the excise man, she leaned forward to speak to the alewife.

When Mister Grant turned to look at her, she smiled his way.

The man's cheeks colored. Then, when he noticed that Mistress Muir had appeared, he gestured at the jug of ale she carried. “A glass for the miss here…” he paused, blushed again “…and another for myself.”

“Thank you, sire.” Jessie stepped closer, glad of the conversation. It would keep her from running back to Gregor.

“Consider it an apology.” Her neighbor inclined his head, most gentlemanly. “My friend treated you quite poorly that day on the landing. He had no idea that you were lodging here, and feared you were a thief.”

“That is perfectly understandable, under the circumstances.” As she spoke to him, her mind flitted back to the
more intimate moments she had witnessed, and she picked up the tankard that was set out for her to hide her secret smile. “I am guessing it is market day in Saint Andrews,” she remarked conversationally after she had wiped the ale froth from her lip.

They conversed rather awkwardly for some time, and Jessie was chuckling at one of his remarks when her laughter faded away because she felt a shiver run up her spine.

So bad was the feeling that she feared it was the bailie or some other soul from Dundee who had come for her. But when she glanced over Mister Grant's shoulder, she saw that it was Gregor who filled the doorway beyond. Jessie's heart beat faster when she saw the wild glint in his eyes, and a dire feeling came over her.

He had come for her, which should have pleased her. But the look on his face was thunderous. That he was in even worse humor finding her here conversing with the excise man was quite obvious. How long had he been watching? She recalled that she had touched Mister Grant upon the arm once or twice. Well, it shouldn't matter. Gregor was training her for another man, after all. Nevertheless, Jessie had a feeling of dread when she met his black stare.

His hair was wet and clung to his skin, as did his shirt. The dark circles of his nipples were visible through the fine linen. He had washed himself, but hurriedly. The dark shadow of beard on his jaw made him look wilder still.

He was staring at her with the other man, and there was such fury in his expression that she was stunned. Covering the floor in a few strides, he claimed her. With his hand at the back of her neck, he pushed her toward the doorway. Once beyond it, he snatched her hand and took the rickety wooden stairs two at a time, dragging her behind him.

“Gregor, no.” Her arm was being wrenched from her shoul
der and her feet stumbled on the steps. She bashed her elbow on the banister, and as she twisted in his grip, she looked back down and grew dizzy. Her free hand snatched at the grubby stairs, but that only made her topple, and she landed heavily, scraping her elbow.

He paused, then grabbed her by her sleeve, hauling her up the final few stairs without further ado. The possessive nature of his approach astonished her—and in some perverse way also delighted her. He was brimming with dark, unruly masculine power and that made her want him all the more.

Once inside their quarters he set her loose, then slammed the door so that it rattled on its hinges. Jessie staggered free. He stared at her, eyes flickering.

“You are filthy,” he muttered, examining her arm, where her sleeve was torn and dirt from the stairway smeared her skin.

What would he do with her? If he locked her in that miser able room with its sad little cot, she would feel wretched. But he didn't take her there. He grabbed her elbow and took her into his bedchamber.

“You attempt to ruin my careful preparations,” he muttered, as he stood her by the washstand where he had been earlier.

“No. I wanted conversation, that was all. My spirit is wretched to the core, locked up as I am within these walls.”

His lips pressed together tightly in response to that. Without hesitation he began to undress her, tearing at the laces of her bodice.

She heard the fabric rip. “Gregor, you are tearing it.”

On he went. Once he'd loosened the laces he wrenched the fabric off her shoulders, forcing her to step out of the gown as it dropped to the floor. Kicking the garment aside, he set to work on her stays.

“I have put my faith in you and you betrayed it,” he growled at her.

“I've done nowt wrong.”

“I salvaged you and brought you here, giving you food and clothing and the promise of a good reward, and how do you repay me?”

Confused, Jessie tried to work out his intentions. Then she saw it. When he had her down to her shift, he pushed her closer to the washstand.

“Take it off.”

“No.”

He reached out and tore the garment, ripping it down the front with his bare hands. Astonished, she cried aloud, “My shift!”

“You should have done as I said.” He lifted a cloth, dipped it in the water and then scrubbed her arm, holding on to her with his free hand.

However, he did not stop at her arm, determined, it seemed, to humiliate her. The water was cold. Furious, she struggled against him as he scrubbed her, glaring at his handsome face, hating him for this.

“Mister Grant did not want me and you are a fool to think so,” she seethed. “He did not even touch me.”

Disbelief flashed in Gregor's eyes.

“It is the truth.”

A rueful smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“A casual gesture, nothing more,” she spat.

“While you are with me, you are mine and you do as I instruct. You agreed to this at the outset, and yet you dare to dispute me.” He shook his head. “Your wayward actions are threatening to destroy our agreement.”

On he went, turning her to face away from him as he
scrubbed her back and buttocks until her skin was raw and tingling, and the brusque treatment he doled out had became entwined with her desire for him.

“I have invested time in you, Jessie.” He delivered a sound slap to her buttocks.

Pain flashed through her, her flesh heightened to sensation from the scrubbing as it was. Tossing back her head, she glared at him over her shoulder. “Throw me back in the gutter if that is all you think I am worth. I have pledged to you that my word is good.”

“While you are with me you will follow my instructions. If I discover you dallying with that cursed fop again our agreement will be annulled.”

How wildly handsome and possessive he looked. Jessie could not help herself; she laughed in his face. “You're a fool. He was not interested in me. If you opened your eyes you would see that he prefers a man in his bed and would no doubt rather it was you he sat with down there instead of me.”

Confusion altered Gregor's expression and he paused.

Jessie, however, did not. The ability to hold her tongue had completely gone. “And tell me this while you are doling out the punishment here—why weren't you upset with Morag? You do not want to see me with another man, but you wanted to see me with her.”