The Strength of Baffin Read online

  Tethran nodded, anticipating and love blooming in his chest. “Thank you, sir.”

  “One more thing.” Mr. Crymble pinned him with a ruthless stare. “Heir or not, I will strangle you if you don’t keep her happy for the rest of her life.”

  “There’s no if about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Tethran eased the man aside and slid pass.

  “She switched rooms!” the older man called out. “It’s two doors down from the previous one.”

  Tethran moved as fast as his legs could carry him, his breathing ragged by the time he’d reached the correct door. Funny that he’d been running all the way from the castle only to draw up short, hand hovering hesitantly above the knob. Get it together, man! She’s waiting for you.

  Bracing himself, he finally turned the knob only to find that the door had been locked. He tried again. Definitely locked. He knocked. Thrice.

  “It’s only been ten minutes, Father!” came Jolin’s muffled voice. Muffled…or was she still crying?

  He pounded on the door.

  Not even a squeak.

  Bloody stubborn woman. “Open the door, Jolin!”

  He heard something crash, then a scuffle. A second later, he heard a bolt fly and the door swung open so quickly, he always fell across the threshold. Tethran swallowed. Jolin’s eyes were wide with shock, red-rimmed and puffy from her weeping. But she was beautiful. So…damn beautiful. He stepped inside, slammed the door behind him and grabbed her into his arms, burying his nose within the sweet tresses of her hair.

  “God, how I’ve missed you!”

  “Tethran?”

  Her voice came in nothing short of a squeak and it was then that he realized he might have been crushing her in all his eagerness. He loosened his hold and dove right in, ravishing her perfect lips and breathing in her unique scent. Only Jolin would ever be able to satisfy him so. To make him want to move mountains and soar with the wind. When he finally came up for air, they were both breathing hard. Her eyes were twinkling with awe and joy, and his body only hardened all the more at the raw emotion he witnessed within them. Not able to resist he kissed her once again, running his tongue lingeringly over her bottom lip. He felt her sigh against his mouth, her body melting into his. Christ Jesus, he loved this woman.

  “You smell…” Her nose wrinkled. “You smell…horrible.”

  Tethran threw his head back and laughed. His Jolin. “I wouldn’t wish the confines of that gaol on my worst enemy.” His thoughts diverted to Viktor de Gesch briefly. Or maybe I would.

  “I-I’ve been so worried about you. Father thought I was losing my mind. And maybe I was.” Her palms ran over his chest as if searching for injury. “Are you certain you’re alright?”

  “I’m perfect. You’re perfect.” He leaned into kiss her again but she placed a finger against his lips. Tethran frowned.

  “Come. Let’s sit.” She dragged him by the arm and pushed him down on the chair. “Are you truly the male heir to the throne of Baffin? Good heavens, and you’re bleeding.”

  “It’s only a scratch.” He gripped her skirts, lifted them and dragged her so that she straddled his lap. “And yes, it’s all true. The alderman is my father and my mother is alive. It’s a long story and I’ll tell you about it later. But right now, I need you, Jolin. Badly. I love you so much my heart can’t take it. Say you’ll marry me.”

  Her eyes gleamed with fresh tears. One slender hand came up to caress his left jaw. “I still would like to see that cottage by the stream.”

  He tugged her closer, breasts pressed hard against chest. “Woman, I’ll give you the damn moon and the stars if you want those too.”

  Jolin’s giggle was like a breath of fresh air. Like water to a dying man. “Yes. I’ll marry you.” She pressed a fervent kiss to his lips. “I love you too with every breath I breathe, Tethran LeMark.” She smiled and cocked a brow. “Or is it ‘His Lordship, Tethran de Gesch’ now?”

  He brushed a thumb over her right breast, heat surging through his veins as the nipple puckered beneath the fabric of her bodice. “No.” He leaned in to press his tongue against the sweet column of her neck, slipping one hand beneath her skirts until he found her wet folds. Jolin’s throaty moan flooded his ears. “Never. For you, my sweet Jolin, I’ll always and forever be Tethran LeMark.”

  EPILOGUE

  Castle Iqa. One year later…

  Lady Isabel Gauzere (as she much preferred to be called these days), lifted her skirts and strode down the corridor of the west wing, beaming with pleasure as the servants added the final hangings of silk tapestries to the walls of the newly renovated chambers. It was high time these halls were rid of Viktor de Gesch’s gloomy touch and replaced with something that bore a sense of…peace. And happiness. Mostly, happiness. She wasn’t quite sure about the peace.

  Just then little Catherine shot down the corridor, nearly barrelling into her. Her mother, Lady Dalila, came charging after her, followed by a quite besotted Captain Carlisle. Isabel grinned behind her hand. Carlisle and Lady Dalila did seem to make a handsome pair. If only the woman would accept the man’s proposal already. How many times had he asked? Ten? She supposed Dalila was still healing from the toils of a horrendous marriage and Isabel understood the need perfectly. She herself knew, first hand, the pain of being shackled to a man like Viktor de Gesch. But that did not mean she would allow him to steal her happiness. Not then. And certainly not now from his grave. Viktor de Gesch had not lasted a week in the dungeon, much to everyone’s relief.

  “I’m so sorry, Isabel,” Dalila said, failing miserable to stifle a laugh. “We were merely…passing through.”

  Isabel caught Carlisle’s eye and noticed a faint flush cross his cheekbones. Was he blushing? “When are you two finally going to get married? It’s high time another wedding took place in this castle.”

  “I love weddings!” Catherine giggled, twirled, and ran off again.

  Dalila’s face blushed crimson and her devoted suitor gawked.

  “Oh, don’t look so shocked. Everyone is looking forward to it.” Isabel shook her head and stepped around them. “So young and so indecisive.”

  She left the gaping couple and headed straight for the north wing where she knew she would find her son. She found him in the library, perched against a desk and scanning a leaf of parchment. Her daughter-in-law, quite pregnant and beautifully so, was reclined on a settee, reading a book. Isabel paused in the open doorway a while, admiring the scene. The castle did bear a sense of happiness these days, indeed. Smiling, she moved forward just as her son glanced up.

  “Mother.” He set the parchment aside, smiled and lowered his head for a kiss on the cheek. “How are you?”

  “Renovations on the west wing is complete. Thank God.”

  Jolin chuckled. “Tethran has plans on moving Sinclair there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Plans on moving me where?” Just then Sinclair appeared in the doorway, arms akimbo.

  “To the west wing, I hear,” Isabel replied, gliding over to her daughter-in-law. She patted her gently on the rounded belly and chuckled when she felt movement. Jolin giggled.

  “You’d have to run me through first, I’m afraid,” Sinclair said in a rather perfunctory tone.

  “My god! No more talk of ‘running through’,” Isabel scolded. “My dear grandson is listening.”

  “A grandson, you say?” Tethran eyed her with a lingering smile on his face. “Just when my wife and I had been looking forward to having a girl.”

  “It is a boy. I am certain.”

  “Well then. A boy, it is,” Sinclair drawled. “I’ve learned not to argue with your mother. It makes absolutely no sense.”

  Jolin grinned. “A boy wouldn’t be all that bad. Father said the same thing just last evening.”

  “Amazing. Even my wife has deserted me!”

  Sinclair clapped him on the shoulder. “Give it up, old man. Your mother has supernatural abilities that neither of us would wish to know about. How long di
d you say she’d been in that gaol again? Sixteen years? I think she might be a witch.”

  Isabel scowled. “I am still in the room, you know.”

  Sinclair grinned. “Good luck. I’m off to see this painting my sister’s tutor has been raving about. It appears Josephine’s become quite the artist. See you all at dinner.”

  “Ah, Sinclair, I believe you’re headed to the Red Room,” Isabel beamed. “Do walk with me. I should like to see this painting as well. I hear Josephine’s tutor is also quite the beauty.”

  Sinclair stuttered. “Lady Isabel, I am not--”

  “Come, come now. Time’s a-wasting.” And she breezed out of the library, clutching to the arm of a flushed and stuttering Sinclair.

  Inside the library, Tethran turned his ever adoring gaze on his wife. Sharing the settee, he propped her feet into his lap and removed her shoes, massaging her swollen toes.

  “Mmm,” she sighed. “You have such miracle-working hands.”

  “These, my sweet wife, are hands of countless abilities. They are known to work many…wonders.” Said hands slid high beneath her skirts. “As you well know.”

  Jolin gasped. “Tethran!”

  He chuckled, his wicked gaze boring straight through her, fierce with unbridled passion and love. Yes! Sweet, unconditional and fully requited love! He stroke her belly, eyes never leaving hers. “Are you happy, my sweet Jolin?”

  She smiled, sighing as she allowed her eyes to flutter closed, his fingers caressing her rounded belly. It most definitely would be a boy. She could feel it.

  “Just happy? No, not quite. But euphoric…and incandescently content? Most definitely.”

  END.

  Thank you for reading!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patrice Hannah is a born-and-raised Jamaican who enjoys the simple things in life. While she absolutely adores children, she's also secretly terrified of babies and plots a hasty retreat whenever she is asked to hold a new-born. Her favourite way to pass time is grabbing a lengthy romance novel (preferably historical), while munching on ginger biscuits beneath the shade of a massive mango tree in her front yard.

  She wrote her first romance story when she was 11 years old, won a series of short story competitions and an island wide essay contest at age 9.

  She currently resides in rural eastern Jamaica, just a walk away from the beach, where people are friendly and actually tell you "Good Morning" in the streets.

  You May Contact Patrice through any of the following media:

  facebook.com/PatriceHannahWriter

  Instagram: @hannah_patricewriter

  Email: [email protected]

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