The Strength of Baffin Read online

  Her hand shook as she wrung the fabric of her skirts helplessly. “Well, what are we to do in the meanwhile? Christ, he’s bleeding!”

  “It’s best we not remove the dagger till the physician arrives,” Tethran said, grimacing down at his friend. “We don’t know what it might be lodged in.”

  “Bloody…fuck!” Sinclair reared up off the bed, fist swinging. “I am going to kill--Jesus!”

  Tethran trapped him down by the shoulders. “ ‘Fraid to say that you’re in no position at all to kill anyone. Least of all Jesus. Lay back.”

  Just then Mrs. Smythe stormed into the room with a thin pitcher in hand. “I’ve got something for the pain.”

  Sinclair writhed up again but this time Mr. Smythe rushed in to help subdue him. “You’d better”--a gasp--“not p-pour any of that foul ab-b-bomination down my th-throat.”

  Jolin released a shaky breath. “It’ll help much, Sinclair.”

  “And help to shut him up too,” added Mrs. Smythe tartly.

  Sinclair growled but winced and collapsed against the sheets again. “Where in b-bloody hell is the doctor? Somebody get this damn knife out of me before I lose my damn mind!”

  “Already lost it, I think.” Tethran beckoned to Mrs. Smythe who rushed over quite enthusiastically, already pouring some of her medicinal into a tiny metal cup. “You’re going to drink this, Sinclair, so help me God.”

  “If you…if you come near me with that…that thing, I will kill you LeMark. Slowly.”

  “Yes, well, you don’t scare anybody in this pathetic state so you’d do well to--”

  Sinclair grunted, face reddening. “Pathetic? I’m got a damn r-rusty blade wedged in my ch-chest and you think I’m pathetic? You fugly bastard!”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Jolin threw up her hands and grabbed the cup from Mrs. Smythe, tipping it to Sinclair’s tightly clamped mouth. “Drink, Sinclair; or else when we do find Josephine, I’ll tell her just what a wussy you really are.”

  The man’s mouth widened slightly with shock and Jolin took the abrupt breach to pour the liquid in, causing Sinclair to sputter like a petulant child who just been given a dram of aloe medicinal for constipation. He coughed, gagged a little and then levelled a frosty glare at her.

  “I hate you so very much at the moment, Miss Crymble,” he muttered, grimacing distastefully.

  “And you’re not very likeable when you are injured either, I’m afraid.”

  Jolin stepped back, noticing the quick look of admiration Tethran gave her and ducked her head, face scorching with heat. The man could so easily muddle her mind and turn her thoughts into mush. Heaven help her, Sinclair was wounded. She should not be thinking about Tethran LeMark’s tender lovemaking. The sound of heavy running footsteps then echoed from down the hall and through the open door, causing everyone to turn.

  Mrs. Smythe rushed towards it and Sinclair groaned, “If that’s L-lucifer’s army, tell them I’m not ready yet.”

  “Oh, thank God! It’s Mr. Dunley,” Mrs. Crymble cried.

  A lanky man with a bald head and white beard stumbled inside, clothes looking as if he had just thrown them on without taking much care, and a crooked looking pair of thick spectacles resting on a thin nose bridge. In his right hand was a leather bag that didn’t look better than his current impression. Jolin thought the man wanted just as much care as his profession provided.

  Mr. Dunley paused a second to catch his breath, a petite maid almost slamming into his back from the abrupt stop. “Mr. Smythe…” He sucked in a deep breath. “Mr. Smythe’s been stabbed, I hear!”

  Mr. Smythe, who’d been reclining against a bedpost directly behind Tethran, now stepped into view and Jolin thought the doctor had almost swooned. Yes, swooned. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe the man’s response as he planted the back of one thin hand over his forehead and appeared to be stumbling to the floor, before he shot upright again. The sight would have been comical had not it been for Sinclair’s serious situation.

  “Come, come, Dunley!” Mr. Smythe snapped. “This man is in need of your attention and you know I can’t have anyone dying in my tavern.”

  Mr. Dunley’s eyes pinched behind the ugly spectacles before he rushed forward, gaze now steadied professionally on Sinclair.

  “Whatever you do,” wheezed Sinclair. “Do not force any more of that poison down my throat.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I smell laudanum.” He nodded at Mrs. Smythe, who inclined her head proudly, and rummaged through his bag. “But I’ve got something stronger. For the time being, someone get this man a gag. I confess I don’t know much about stitching up a severed tongue.”

  * * *

  She pressed another cool rag against Sinclair’s forehead, releasing a relieved sigh as his body relaxed again. It was a couple hours past sunset, and his fever had just broken. The physician, Mr. Dunley, had worked fast and carefully to remove the dagger, afterwards reassuring them that no vital organ had been damaged by the blade. The doctor had recommended rest, and had left behind a vial of medicine for the pain and to ensure that no bacteria would set in. Rubbing her tired eyes, Jolin cleansed her hands in the wash basin and kneaded a crick from her neck.

  Tethran stood at the window, gazing out at the lamp-lit street. He’d been standing there for the past hour or so and she’d not worked up the courage to approach him just yet. She supposed he’d needed some silent reprieve as well, knowing that his friend was so badly injured. It also served to put a damper on their plans for the following night to retrieve Josephine from the castle.

  Swallowing, she glanced at Sinclair’s still form, save for the steady rising and falling of his bandaged chest. He would heal well as long as they managed to keep him resting and reposed in bed. When she looked up again, Tethran was watching her, gaze soft in the low lamplight.

  “He’ll be alright,” he said. “Sinclair’s never been the type to succumb to injury.” He moved forward and dropped himself in the chair right next to her. “You know, several years ago he’d almost lost an arm.”

  Jolin raised a brow. “What happened?”

  He gripped a handful of her skirts and pulled, chuckling when she fell on his lap. “He took it upon himself to kill this thief who was terrorizing the serf stalls in Duit. Turns out the thief was a lot more skilled with a shiv than he’d expected.”

  An horrified shiver stole up her spine and his arms tightened around her. “You both lead such dangerous lives.” You have no idea how much that worries me. “Then what?”

  “The tip of the flimsy blade had broken off in his arm. The nearest thing to a physician we could find was a green surgery apprentice, not much older than we were, who’d been too terrified to pluck it out.” Tethran chuckled. “It was either dig around in Sinclair’s flesh or hack the entire limb off. The lad wanted to hack it off.”

  Jolin grimaced but giggled at the amused tone he used to relay the tale. “I’m guessing you’re the one who removed the blade?”

  “God, no!” He shifted, sliding her even further up his thighs until her bottom was nestled firmly against his groin. “At the time, I hadn’t yet mastered the art of tempering my stomach at the sight of blood.”

  Jolin twisted to look at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement, and laughed. “You once had a flustered stomach at the sight of blood?”

  Tethran nodded and entwined her hands in his. The gesture was comforting and sweet, making up for the many unspoken words she saw reflected in his eyes. This strong, hard man had just confessed he’d had a soft nature. Had. She wondered-- His gaze shot up to hers then, hot and intense. “I was a lad then. But as a man--” His manhood hardened beneath her derrière as if to emphasize the point. “--there are very few things that fluster me.”

  Jolin swallowed, the connotation behind his words all too clear. “I’m only interested in one of those things.”

  His deep chuckle vibrated through her, sending a flush of heat to her lower belly. “I thought you mig
ht.”

  Jolin smiled, her eyes fluttering shut as his fingers unravelled her tight chignon and massaged their way through the thick tresses. “That feels good.”

  “I know.” His lips pressed fervently against the side of her neck. “I know you’re thinking about what I do for a living…”

  The sudden change of subject made her eyes fly back open but she didn’t move. His touch was far too comforting, and she was decidedly too tired to resist. “I am.”

  “I’m retired.”

  Retired. The soft-spoken word sent an explosion of joy through her being but she was too shocked to muster up a coherent response. Instead, she just stared at him, mouth agape, as he grinned at her. This man, this beautiful man. Jolin felt him press her hand to his mouth, holding it there for several lingering seconds. Her throat worked but she still could not manage a word.

  “Have you suddenly gone speechless, Miss Crymble?”

  “I… R-retired?”

  Tethran nodded.

  “You’ve just decided?”

  “Truth be told, I’d decided weeks ago. But now…” He canted his head, pressing her closer. So close, their lips were probably an hair’s breadth apart. “Now, I feel more encouraged.”

  Her heart swelled in her chest, near to bursting and she flattened her palms gently against the sides of his face, plastering her mouth to his in a hot and passionate kiss. When they broke apart some moments later, she knew her voice was wobbly with emotion. “Is that a proposition, Mr. LeMark?”

  His eyes burned with desire and something else much softer, more endearing. “I don’t have luxury to offer but I’ve a modest cottage secured near the outskirts of the country near a stream.”

  Tears stung the inside of her eyelids and Jolin pressed her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. “A cottage near a stream sounds just about perfect to me.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Stay here, Jo. I’m just going to fetch some bread. Try not to move, okay? Stay right there…..’

  ‘Josephine? Jo? It’s not time now to play hide-and-go-seek. Where are yo-- Josephine! Josephine!’

  “Josephine. Josephine…”

  His thoughts, the memories came crashing down on him like a splash of ice cold water, rousing him suddenly from his slumber. Eyes flying wide open, Sinclair squinted through the dim lamplight and made to reach up but was immediately restrained by an explosion of pain through his chest. Gasping, he angled his head to peer down at the thick bandages bounding his wound. Damnation. He’d hoped it had all been a dream. That it had been some sick nightmare meant to scare him from re-entering the alderman’s castle. But fate could not have chosen a more unfavourable course for him. Curse fate! And curse the man who’d caused this unforgivable injury to his person. He would have his revenge as soon as he got out of this blasted bed.

  He summoned strength, albeit a feeble attempt it only proved to be. His limbs felt like marmalade, his mouth tasted bitter, his throat like sandpaper. Drawing in a well-needed breath, his tried to move his right arm only to fail miserably. And it was not due to a lack of trying. To his utter shock, his wrist appeared to have been shackled to a bedpost, effectively chaining him to the bed. Who in the devil…?

  “Fuck you, LeMark!” he roared, slamming his head back down against the pillows. A murmur came from the left of him and he looked over to see Miss Crymble slouched in a chair, sleeping. An idea struck him immediately. Perhaps, she would release him so he could get on his way. Josephine was waiting and he could not tarry further. He cleared his throat. “Miss Crymble? Miss Crymble!”

  The woman stirred and bolted upright, grimacing as a hand shot to her temple. “Must you shout so? My head feels as if it’s splitting.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Since last evening. You slept through an entire day, I’m afraid.”

  “Miss Crymble.” Sinclair shifted, the chain jangling noisily. “You must help me out of this shackle. I need to go find Josephine!”

  She gazed at him a couple seconds before sighing and shaking her hand. “I can’t do that. You must rest. It’s the only safe way to your speedy recovery.”

  A pulse ticked in the side of his forehead. “What do you mean, you can’t do it? All you need is something thin and pointed. Come, come, Miss Crymble. I haven’t all night at all.”

  The woman stood, her arms crossed and expression solemn. Did she really mean to refuse assisting him? And where in the blood hell was LeMark? Surely, he hadn’t gone and--

  Sinclair’s eyes widened and he groaned. “Don’t tell me he went off by himself…”

  Miss Crymble nodded and perched herself against the edge of the bed, her eyes glossy with a sheen of tears. But she said nothing. Not for another minute or so, at least. When she finally opened her mouth, she was choking back a sob. “I could not have stopped him, Sinclair. He was intent on fetching your sister no matter what. He left a few hours ago with Madame Rafira.”

  “God’s blood! By no doubt, LeMark is a fighter, but still he could be killed!”

  She nodded swiftly, her teeth working nervously against the fingernails of her left hand. “We must hope, Sinclair. He’ll retrieve her and they’ll both be safe.”

  “I couldn’t live with myself if--”

  “You could not have helped it,” she snapped. “You are injured unless you’ve not yet realized. He will be back. With your sister. I am sure of it.”

  Sinclair swallowed, the pain in his chest burning with the same level indignation he was currently feeling, but she was right. What help could he have possibly offered to LeMark or Josephine in such a state? But that was not his main concern. How would he be able to live with himself if his friend was captured…or worse? He probably would forever lose his chance to get back his sister. And what would he be able to do then?

  Glancing at Miss Crymble’s troubled face, he shuddered, took a deep breath and did what he had not done in a very, very long time. He closed his eyes and prayed LeMark would not fail.

  * * *

  “Viktor de Gesch will have my head if he realizes what you are up to!”

  Tethran scowled at the madame’s hiss though it had been no more than a whisper. But surrounded as they were by guards in the alderman’s main entrance, it would not serve either of them any good were they to be overheard. Tightening his grip on her wrist, he cast her a sharp glare when she made to protest but looked away once she wisely swallowed whatever retort had been forming on her tongue. Two guards then stepped forward, guiding them down a corridor and towards solid double doors.

  “Stay here,” commanded one of the guards as they entered the large room. The walls were expertly furnished with red tapestries which bore gold weaving patterns. Four upholstered settles were arranged neatly before a blazing fireplace, and large burning lamps were strategically placed on wall-holders all around the room. The chamber, all in all, was expensively done, speaking much of the alderman’s lavish lifestyle or perhaps it was all for show. Tethran frowned. Rescuing Josephine was his mission and then he would return to Jolin. A smile touched his lips. His Jolin.

  “They’ve gone to fetch the alderman,” Madame Rafira said, wrenching her hand free. “But please try to speak softly. The other guard is likely just behind the door.”

  He glanced briefly at the door and then looked over the woman before him. Madame Rafira was probably not a summer past thirty, and he could see why the alderman had chosen her as his main mistress. The madame was beautiful in a way that not many could refuse. But there was still something odd about her that Tethran could not yet place his finger on.

  “How long have you been the alderman’s mistress?”

  The woman’s eyes widened just slightly, then narrowed with undisguised frostiness. “Near eight years. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Eight years almost seemed like a lifetime. “You’re right. It is not my business and I won’t judge you for your choice of profession. We all have our demons. I’m
only wondering how well you know the layout of the castle.”

  Her eyes shrunk quizzically as she peered hard at him. “And why exactly does that concern you?”

  “It’s necessary if I am to locate the woman I told about earlier in the carriage. What I’d failed to mention was that she is not here by her own free will.”

  Madame Rafira released a blistering curse and gave an about-face. “What the hell have you gotten me into?”

  Tethran sighed. “Don’t worry. Whatever information you give will remain between us.”

  “Right.” She scoffed and angled a furious finger at his chest. “I’ve learned through my thirty-two years on this earth--and through living in this godforsaken city--that the best confessions are often made when a man’s neck is propped for the bloody guillotine!”