The Strength of Baffin

  The Strength of Baffin

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  EPILOGUE

  THE STRENGTH OF BAFFIN

  A Romance Novel

  Copyright © 2017 by Patrice Hannah

  Cover design by Lavendere

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems--except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews--without permission in writing from its publisher and author.

  The characters, places and events portrayed in this books are wholly fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2017 by Patrice Hannah

  To K M. McDonald,

  For being, in all the parts that matter, my very own LeMark.

  Thank you for encouraging me to continue writing. Your strength and character has left the sweetest of scars on my heart.

  PRAISE FOR PATRICE HANNAH’S

  Coins & Daggers

  “Well written story that kept me interested from the beginning. I have read many historical novels and this story had some unique character interactions and plots. It is refreshing to read a book about 2 people who have challenges but are not completely broken. I also appreciated that the main characters did not fall in love at first sight, but their individual charm and personal strengths drew them together. I highly recommend this book!” -Michele B.

  “Out of all the Historical Romance novels I've read, this is one of my favorites. It has everything you'd want in a romance novel with just enough love and mystery to keep you invested in the characters and their stories. A great read.” -Briar R.

  “One of the BEST books that i have read in quite a while! I loved everything about it!” Nanette Rae B.

  “What an absolute treasure this was. Although a few spelling mistakes it didn't deter from a great story line and loveable characters. I was amazed to find out Patrice is only 20. This author will go far I predict. Now I just request another with Edwin as the main man!” -Kirstie

  Author’s Note

  Hello Reader,

  The idea of this story came to me one afternoon while staring blankly up at my uninteresting ceiling, having exhausted two novels already for the day. One could say I was bored, and maybe just a bit…uninspired. I had been struggling for nearly a year with my writing but through that dull dreary phase, something had struck me anew. Inspiration, some would call it. But I say it was just a spark of hope. It was my salvation. And the more I scratched pen against paper, the more I thought I could not stop.

  When I completed this book, I was relieved but a little sad that it had come to an end. If you properly study a map of North America, you will find that there is, in fact, such a place as Baffin. But I assure you that the context I have chosen is purely fantastical and not at all similar to the actual place. Nevertheless, I do hope you’ll enjoy the read. Take a leap of faith into Tethran and Jolin’s story. I tried my best to convey it properly.

  Lastly, I must thank my dear young sister, Janelle, for acting out some of the dialogues with me. Your childhood exuberance is most comforting. And although you did not say much when I questioned you about what to write next whenever I started a new chapter, your silence spoke volumes.

  Yours,

  Patrice.

  PROLOGUE

  Castle Iqa, Iqa City, Baffin

  Viktor de Gesch watched with pleasure as his guards marched briskly through the lowered gates of the citadel, the once polished surfaces of their sable armour glistening with melting frost. Within the grip of his Captain was a traitor he desperately wanted to murder. Standing on the balcony of his private chambers, Viktor tightened the belt of his coat though the wicked excitement now coursing through his veins warmed him against the biting cold of the night. Nothing would bring him greater satisfaction than to inhale the bitter scent of Mikal Warwick’s blood on his blade.

  He moved closer to the concrete balustrades as the men came to a stop just below in the centre of the courtyard. Captain Carlisle raised his helmet and nodded. Viktor chuckled and made a swift exit back through his chambers and down the winding stone staircase. It was the night of all nights. He would get his sweet revenge.

  “Get me my wife!” he barked to a serf man as he reached the foyer. “To the Holding Room. Drag her if you have to!”

  * * * * *

  The Lady de Gesch lifted the bulk of her skirts as she walked briskly down the long corridor, her demeanour ever so calm despite the rampant pounding of her heart due to the dire situation she had most recently found herself in. Well, not most recently seeing that she was being summoned by the alderman to speak her piece on a crime she was being accused of committing over twelve years ago. A crime she was most guilty of if truth be told, and one with which she suffered herself no regrets.

  “Malady Isabel, this way.”

  Isabel stopped in her tracks, shaking her head free of the memories she had accumulated of the castle over the past thirteen years. They would serve her no purpose after the events of this night. Life had become far too easy there as lady of the castle; so much that she had allowed herself to become distracted. She had become complacent and far too comfortable and now she was about to make the hardest decision of her life. Turning down the branching hallway which the serf man had indicated, she held her head high as she passed by some of her husband’s most trusted men, their faces dutifully rigid yet eyes sympathetic as they noticed her. They knew. But of course, they did. Everyone in Baffin probably knew what she had done by now. Isabel was only pleased that they did not condemn her for it. The private reproof she could take from her husband but never the open ridicule from her people. And for that she was grateful.

  The wide wooden door at the end of the dimly lit hall came into view and a breath suddenly caught in her throat. It was then that she realized she had not prepared any form of deposition to defend herself from the claims laid against her. And she was most certain that breaking down into a teary fit and begging for mercy would not work either. The alderman was a vile creature born from the deepest bowels of hell; he was not partial to feminine bawling.

  “Just a minute, I beg you…” She squeezed the hand of the serf and closed her eyes for a moment. All was at stake here. She had better figure out a plan fast. Either way, Isabel was not entirely sure she would live to see the morrow. Not now that the alderman had discovered her deceit.

  Sending up a silent prayer to the heavens, she allowed the serf to shove the door open, and a gush of heat combined with the harsh scent of hard-brewed liquor, flooded out. Swallowing, Isabel stepped inside, stilling the fright that lingered in her veins as the door slammed shut behind her. So, no one was permitted to enter with her, were they? Another strike from the alderman’s fury, she supposed. Remaining rooted in her position, Isabel tried her best not to take in the gloomy ugliness of the room. It had always been her least favourite place in the entire castle. The locus of the alderman’s most heinous crimes and where he passed the most outrageous sentences. The political hell-hole of Baffin, if you may. And Isabel had never laid a foot inside the room until this day.

  “Approach me.” The deep voice rumbled from across the wide room and she finally lifted her face to regard him. With the posture required of her status, Isabel crossed the dark stone floor until she was at the foot of the short staircase leading up to the high chair. His throne.

  “You summoned me, my lord?” She performed a graceful curtsey though her heart pained her to do so.

  “You know full well why you are here,” he responded crisply.

  Isabel could t
hink of many scalding words to toss at the beast just now but decided that it would be far wiser to bite her tongue and remain silent. The alderman was a tall man, eyes the colour of the dark sky with a countenance that could only be described as beautiful. The irony was so strong she could almost taste it.

  “I do not pretend to be ignorant, my lord. But I must ask a question, if I may.”

  Said eyes flickered over her as they always had from the very first time they’d met. Eyes that never hid what he wanted. Eyes that chilled to the bone. “Speak.”

  Swatting a lock of chestnut hair that had suddenly grown damp at her temple, she angled her chin with as much valour as she could afford. “Do you mean to banish me to the deserts so the birds of the sky may feast on my flesh?”

  The room fell silent before the clunk of heavy boots hit the floor. The alderman rose to his feet so quickly she instantly regretted the retort. Swallowing down the terror broiling in her veins, she remained still as he advanced on her, refusing to be daunted.

  “You think you know me, don't you Bel?”

  Bel. Oh, how her stomach turned at the moniker. “I would never presume such a thing, my lord.”

  A large roughened palm cupped her left jaw and Isabel turned her face away as the alderman’s large figure towered over her. Her soul shook ferociously when a thick thumb began to caress her bottom lip.

  “Look me in the eye, Isabel de Gesch, and tell me where he is.”

  Never. “I don't know.”

  The thumb moved gently across the line of her jaw and down to the base of her throat. The gentleness… Isabel was accustomed to this. But it was the gentleness that terrified her the most.

  “I don't believe you.”

  “I…I speak the truth.”

  The alderman barked out a harsh laugh that rocked her being. He was crazy and she was even crazier to think she could ever outwit the devil. “Oh, Isabel. You never cease to amuse me. Amusement is good for the soul, did you know? It almost makes me...happy.”

  You possess no soul. Isabel swallowed. “Your happiness is my duty, my lord.”

  “Good.” He ran his other hand through the dark tresses of her hair and over her scalp softly. “That's very good. But do you know what would make me even happier?”

  She clenched her jaws tight and refused to blink lest her tears betray her. “No, my lord.”

  He grinned. “My son, Isabel. My son. All these years, I have a son and you kept him from me.” He caressed her cheek one more time before she found herself being spun fiercely and held tightly by the throat. “You made a mockery of me, having me believe that the boy had died at birth. Do not toy with me now, woman. Tell me where my heir is or I'll break your damn neck!”

  Isabel gasped, clawing at her husband’s murderous hand. Her husband. Oh, there were days when she wished that both men were not the same. He would kill her this time, she was sure of it but if dying meant she would succeed at keeping her son out of his clutches, then so be it.

  “No!” She screamed coarsely as the strain on her neck intensified. “Never. Kill me if you must. But you'll never see him. Never!”

  The alderman’s roar echoed in her ears as she gasped for dear life. “You would deprive me of my own flesh and blood? The seed of my own loins?”

  Isabel wheezed, tears now flooding down her face. “You will not spoil him with your wickedness, Viktor! I'll n-not allow it.”

  A terrifying second passed and his hand fell from her throat. Isabel gagged and gasped, almost stumbling to her knees. Her heart was aching, her body and soul weak because she knew he would not allow her to live. Not after this. Another few seconds went and she straightened, hand at her burning throat, and witnessed the disbelief in his eyes. Was he shocked that she possessed no qualms about dying? Did he finally realize that her love for her son outweighed her fear of him?

  “So be it,” came the soft response. Too soft a response. “Carlisle!”

  Isabel shook as the walls echoed with his command, her eyes wandering frantically around the dimly lit room. The doors opened suddenly and in came her husband’s captain, dragging the body of a man that appeared to be…dead. She froze as she noticed the long silvery-blonde hair…the thick brown leather vest with the engraved markings of an eagle. A vest she had made with her very own hands. Feeling as though her heart had now sunk to the ground, her watery eyes widened on her husband. Oh no. Not my dear friend!

  “V-Viktor? What…what have you done?”

  Her husband spun around almost instantly, hand flying with so much force that she was knocked to the ground. “You were never so concerned about me, wife. I sent your lover exactly where he was meant to be. And now that he’s dead, what other choice do you have but to tell me exactly what I need to know? Unless you’d like to spend eternity with the bastard!”

  “No.” Isabel’s voice came only in a pained whimper, her face stinging and the warmth of fresh blood trickling over her top lip. Her mind was too numb to even fathom what was going on. “No… Kill me now, Viktor. Kill me. Please…”

  So, when Viktor’s hand swept through the air again before her eyes, she knew the time had come. His fist the side of her head hard, the pain biting and shocking. Her heart could not register what had taken place but her mind knew. She just hoped that death would come quickly.

  But Isabel was content. Viktor de Gesch would never see her son.

  ONE

  Duit Village. Sixteen years later…

  The scars engraved on Tethran LeMark’s face was enough to appall grown men, least of all a pudgy barmaid who had now unceremoniously tossed a cup of whiskey at him and bulleted off towards the opposite side of the room as if she had just witnessed a rotting worm-infested corpse. Ignoring the scrutinizing eyes that had been trained on him since the moment he stepped inside the stuffy bar house, he downed the hard liquor in one swift swallow, wincing just barely as the burning liquid coursed down his throat. He’d never been a man to care about the opinion of others, and it would seem rather outlandish if he were to start now. Shoving the cup across the small wooden table, Tethran leaned back in his chair and met the gaze of his prospective employer. Prospective was a strong word since he had all but retired from his metier six months prior, having full intention of setting up residence in a small cottage near the eastern outskirts of Baffin. Somewhere far from gawking eyes and unwanted company. Furthermore, there was a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him to decline this offer. No matter how sweet the pay-out would prove to be. He watched half-annoyed as the older man dipped a long finger into his own drink, stirring idly. It was really a shame to toy with good whiskey.

  “Not much fun with the ladies, are you, lad?”

  Tethran folded his arms. He had a strong dislike for small talk. “Tell me what the job is; then I’ll decide just how much it will cost you, yes?”

  “Right.” Clearing his throat, he finally took a sip of the golden-brown liquid and clasped clean graceful hands on the solid surface of the old table. Tethran wondered who exactly he was dealing with. There was not a soul, man or woman, in Duit who had hands that clean. “Firstly, I requested you because I was advised you’d accept.”

  “I never take a job before I know the details.”

  “But you are good at what you do, aren’t you?”

  Eyes narrowed, Tethran sat upright. He should get up and walk right out of the bar house. He should forget about this man, whoever he is, and focus on a well-deserved retirement. He should but… “And what exactly do you think I’m good at?”

  It was the damn challenge. He could never walk away from it and judging by the looks of the man, Tethran supposed the job would be an easy one. Wealthy men who looked as fragile as a toothpick never got entangled with the bloodthirsty hooligans he was accustomed to. So, he was satisfied when the older man slumped in his chair, supposedly giving up whatever pointless act he was trying to pull off.

  “I need your assistance with dealing with a matter. A nuisance, really. It has been a rather deat
hly itch in my arse over the past year. I need you to get rid of it. Quickly.”

  “It?” Tethran raised a brow. He studied the man for a minute. From the tightly clipped back blonde hair, deep grey eyes and hawkish nose to the white silk shirt and black leather overcoat. This man oozed money. Money Tethran could certainly live without as he’d accumulated enough over the years to support himself comfortably. But men of vast wealth didn’t need a man like him to get rid of an it. “I pride myself in being a very blunt man, so why don’t we just cut to the chase? Who do you want me to kill?”

  A muscle ticked near the other man’s left eye and he sat forward, glancing around them cautiously even though they were perfectly closeted from eavesdropping ears. He glanced at his drink blankly and then shook his head, raising his gaze once more. “His name is Ruel Crymble. He lives over in Dumbar, I believe. A trifling solicitor and a damn snitch, if you ask me. The bastard is trying to destroy my business. I need you to cut his tongue out and bring it to me. Afterwards, that is…”