Jolin stilled. “My husband?”
“Why, yes.” Mrs. Smythe took her gently by the shoulders and directed her to the tub. “He seemed rather anxious, madam. But I suppose all husbands who are smitten with their wives tend to behave that way,” she added with a giggle. “I--er…if you wouldn’t mind me asking, pray tell, what happened to your husband’s face?”
Her heart froze in her chest, her pulse skittering. What had happened, indeed? Jolin forced a smile and shook her head sadly. “A disastrous fire, I must say. Our…our house had been set ablaze one night a few years ago. He’d braved through the flames just to save me, Mrs. Smythe. A brave and honourable man he is, my husband.”
Mrs. Smythe all but swooned. “Ah, scars and bruises can all be overlooked for a man as honourable as that, madam. And a fine specimen of a man, he is. Oh! Those broad shoulders and muscular arms… What a lucky woman you are.”
Jolin fought back a scowl. If Mrs. Smythe wasn’t a married woman, Jolin would have felt more uneasy about her words. Something akin to jealously kindled in her stomach and she doused it swiftly. She’d never felt possessive towards a man before, least of all a man like LeMark. But she did have to agree with the woman. Any breathing female who looked at the man--really looked at him--could hardly ignore that he had a body that could not be rivalled. His face might be ruined, by some hazard she suddenly found herself determined to find out about, but LeMark certainly was attractive in all other areas of his body. Wide shoulders and strong buff arms that could easily snap a bone yet somehow offered a sense of protection and warmth. Warmth she’d felt before. His broad chest sat above a hard midsection and then dipped to lean narrow hips. His thighs were powerful in his trousers, barely leaving anything to a woman’s wild imagination. The always noticeable bulge at his fly spoke volumes of his size…his masculinity. His virility. His--
Jolin blinked hard, feeling a damp warmth pooling high between her thighs. What was wrong with her? She should not be thinking of LeMark in such a way and God help her, she was surely going to hell for such wicked ruminations. A man like him wouldn’t desire a woman like her, anyway. Men like him and Sinclair preferred their women bold and experienced…and certainly more voluptuous.
Dragging in a well-needed breath, she stripped out of her dress, removed her chemise and slid inside the tub, the warm water gliding soothingly over her skin. Perhaps a bath was what she needed to clear her head.
“Do you mind helping me with my hair before you go, Mrs. Smythe? I’m afraid it might need a good washing as well. We’d been on the road for quite some time, you see.”
“Of course, my dear. Let me just…”
Mrs. Smythe reached for the soap, dipped it in the water and formed a thick lather in her hands before massaging it into her hair. Jolin sighed and leaned back against the edge of the tub.
“You have lovely hair, madam,” Miss Smythe continued, her fingers combing through Jolin’s thick tresses and brushing over her scalp. “Oh, since I was a girl I always wished I’d had brown or black hair instead of this godforsaken straw nest! My husband, Mr. Smythe, tells me it’s quite becoming but I know he’s merely being kind and is only worried about not having his mouth fed if he should say otherwise.”
Jolin chuckled, her eyes closed. “Feeble creatures, aren’t they? Men?”
Mrs. Smythe gasped on a giggle, patting her conspiratorially on the shoulder. “Oh, we only allow them to think otherwise, miss. For what is a man without his pride, mm?”
ELEVEN
Two days later, Tethran sat inside the pub at the tavern, his fourth glass of whiskey sitting idly on the wooden table before him. The room was not as crowded as it had been on the previous evenings. Tonight, it was relatively scanty, only a dozen or so patrons scattered throughout. Scanning the room once more, he breathed a sigh of relief. No one was staring at him as if he was the devil himself come to unmask their secrets. It was a welcomed change. Perhaps the people of Iqa City had seen enough, and maybe even worse than enough, to not be bothered by a face of unsightly scars. Yes, it was a welcomed change, indeed.
He was raising the glass to his mouth when he saw Sinclair striding towards him, the tails of his black coat swishing out and around his legs. One man lifted his head and then returned to his meal. Tethran swallowed half of his drink and shifted as his friend took the seat opposite him.
“I found out where McCall resides,” Sinclair said. “Turns out he’s one of the alderman’s junior captains.”
Tethran grunted, knowing full well what that meant. Things could not get any more shitty. “How are we going to get to the man if he’s protected within the alderman’s walls?”
“I don’t know.” Sinclair sighed, his face contorting. “Goddamn it!” He slammed his fist hard against the table.
He’d never seen his friend like this. So…defeated and Tethran couldn’t stomach it at all. Finishing his drink in one final gulp, he shoved the glass aside and leaned forward. “What’s the best way of getting inside the castle, undetected and for more than a hour at a time? Last I knew, only the alderman’s army, and his gentry is allowed.”
His friend glanced up, away and then frowned, as if considering something. “What about maids? A place like that couldn’t possibly run out of maids.”
Tethran’s eyebrows rose…and then lowered in a frown. Maids? “Well, I don’t know about you but I’m not all that keen on wearing a frock.”
Sinclair scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d look goddamn awful in a dress, the brick wall that you are.”
“Not that you’d look much better,” he grinned. “All right. Tell me what your plan is then?”
The man shifted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Well, I was thinking we could use Miss--”
“No!” Tethran snapped, swiping his hand threw the air with fierce finality. What the hell was Sinclair thinking? “Are you crazy?”
“Do you have a better plan?”
“The woman’s already under the impression that I actually intend on allowing her to wander off in search of her father. You expect me to just toss her to the wolves? God knows what happens behind those damn walls!”
“We know exactly what happens! My bloody sister is being held there against her will, you fool! Look--” Sinclair drew in a breath. “There’s another idea. I’d asked around with some doxies and they said the alderman is having some private party at the castle for his men in two nights. They were invited.”
Tethran’s temper flared. “Surely this plan of yours doesn’t involve Miss Crymble pretending to be prostitute.”
“Well…er, yes but--”
“Out of the question. No. Absolutely not.” He flicked open the top button of his shirt, suddenly feeling too hot. There was no way in hell he’d go along with Sinclair’s plan. Miss Crymble was far too proper for such a degrading position, no matter that it would only be a sham. No. He could not even entertain the idea. “I would plant my fist in your mouth if I didn’t think it would make you any stupider.”
Sinclair growled. “Damn it, just listen. We would be there to protect her. We would be there posing as the doxies’ protectors.”
“Protectors?” He leaned back, arms crossed. “And wouldn’t that offend our great ruler?” Tethran shook his head and glanced away. “It’s common for men to have dalliances, but with no discretion? I thought he had a wife.”
“I hear his first wife died over ten years ago from some unknown illness. He remarried and has a young daughter. Rumour has it, the current wife might be newly…unproductive.” ”
He sighed and scratched his forehead. “What kind of party is this? Should I be worried about having to participate?”
Sinclair shrugged. “The hell if I know. Look, I just want to find Josephine. And even if I have to stare at a damn man’s naked arse for a couple hours, I will. So, are you in or am I alone in this?”
“Goddamn it, Sinclair,” he groaned. “You know I vowed to help you.”
“Good. Now all we have
to do is convince Miss Crymble to play along. We might just have to tell her everything and be done with it.”
Tethran groaned and reached for his glass, forgetting he’d already finished his drink. Releasing a sharp breath, he signalled for the barmaid who came scurrying over, a far too eager look on her face. He rubbed the space between his brows.
Miss Crymble could not possibly--would not--agree to such farce.
* * *
A buxom redhead poured LeMark a drink, all the while leaning rather brazenly against him, her oversized bosom thrust directly in his face. Sinclair grinned and the featherbrained floozy shot him an inviting wink before drooling all over LeMark once again.
Jolin straightened the collar of her high-neck bodice, suddenly wishing she had something more provocative in her possession. Goodness, when had she started having such bold thoughts? Ah, yes. Since, Mrs. Smythe had chucked some rather enlightening words at her two days past. She’d been looking at LeMark in a whole different light since then, from an altogether distinct perspective. What made matters worse was the fact that they had been sharing a room from the very night they’d arrived at the tavern. The dratted man had been tormenting her soul, stretched out like a wooden corpse on the hard floor, his large back always turned to her while she stared at him from the comforts of the wide bed. Too wide a bed. Jolin had not slept well those nights, and whatever inch of shut-eye she’d managed, it was all consumed by scandalously delicious dreams of him. Dreams that had felt so real, she’d awakened every single time quite sweaty and flushed, a pulsing need at the apex of her thighs.
Her eyes narrowed on the impudent maid who had long overdone her stay. Wiping her palms over her indigo skirts, Jolin strode across the room with as much grace as she could afford and tapped the girl twice on the shoulder. The maid spun, eyebrows raised.
“While my husband might seem to be enjoying your rather…delightful company, I’m afraid you must know that such behaviour is not at all becoming. In fact, it is, quite frankly, rather whorish.”
LeMark choked on his drink. Sinclair coughed. Jolin smirked, arching a daring brow at the girl, who glared fiercely, grabbed her jug and then stormed off in the opposite direction. Cocking a triumphant smile, Jolin spread her skirts and took the seat right next to her husband, rubbing the side of her thigh against him for added measure. She felt him tense and she smiled, glancing at a still shocked Sinclair.
“Gentlemen, please. I’m tempted to check if I’ve suddenly grown horns in the sides of my head. Do calm down.” She gave a playful laugh and then took a sip from LeMark’s glass, wincing as the dreadful liquid burned down her throat. Goodness, the vile things men consumed.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
She glanced sideways to see LeMark staring at her, gaze smouldering. “Of course. Whyever would you ask such a question?”
Then smouldering eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “You’re acting a bit…feverish.”
Jolin slapped an affronted hand over her heart, widening her eyes. “Feverish? Oh, nonsense. But I do wonder what my husband had been doing with a barmaid almost bouncing in his lap.”
“Well.” Sinclair jumped to his feet. “I do believe I promised Mr. Smythe I would do something for him.”
“What could you possibly be doing for the man at this hour?” LeMark demanded.
His friend shrugged and bolted, almost upending his chair. Jolin watched with carefully disguised pleasure before she felt one big hand close around her left wrist. She glanced up to see LeMark’s deep blue eyes dancing with merriment and…mischief? Drat. She had not planned on that at all. Jolin made to tug her hand from his grip but it only tightened, his mouth twisting into a lopsided grin. Heaven help her, but a mouth like that could make any woman succumb to all forms of sinfulness.
“Husband, you may release my hand now.”
He did not even blink. “There’s no need to call me that while we’re alone, Miss Crymble. You know full well it was only for appearance’s sake.”
“Of course. Mr and Mrs. Smythe would have hardly offered a room to an…unmarried couple.” She leaned in, his eyes drawn to her lips as she spoke. “However, it totally defeats the purpose if you go around flirting with every woman you see.”
“I was not flirt--” LeMark growled and tugged her hard, her legs almost knotting with his own. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, now do I?”
She swallowed, thoroughly lost in those eyes. “Tell me something, LeMark…”
“What?” He grunted the word as if it left a bitter taste on his tongue.
“How many women have you ever kissed?”
The man stiffened and his hand fell from hers, that delicious mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. She’d shocked him. Again. And the feeling was invigorating.
“Are you sure you didn’t drink something before coming down here?” LeMark hissed. His eyes roamed her face as if he really was searching for some sign of illness.
“Oh stop that!” Jolin pressed her hand against his solid chest and shoved him back. “I am perfectly well, thank you, and in control of all my faculties.”
He continued to stare at her as if she’d truly lost her mind and then shook his head, one glorious sable lock falling over his forehead. “You are one peculiar woman, Miss Crymble. Though one might say that such…erratic behaviour resembles the signs of a woman suffering from the throes of jealousy.”
Jolin laughed, though it hurt her heart to do so. It really, really did. But he needn’t know that. From the look in his eyes, she knew that he knew what she was up to. And he was rather enjoying himself too. Blowing out a defeated sigh, she angled her chin and eyed him dubiously.
“Well?” she quipped. “Aren’t you going to order your wife some dinner?”
A slow smile formed on his lips and his eyes twinkled. “You’re dipping your foot within dangerous waters, Miss Crymble. A man might start to expect wifely duties along with that.”
Something thick stuck in Jolin’s throat, her pulse racing with both trepidation and anticipation. Drat! She might have stretched her little performance a bit too far.
TWELVE
“What say you, we go upstairs right now and find out just how well you’d like me to play my part as besotted husband?”
Tethran smiled as Miss Crymble’s face reddened, her beautiful brown eyes wide. The woman was a walking enigma. Only a few moments ago, she’d verbalized her claim on him in front of the dozen patrons, scared off the coquettish maid, flirted outrageously with him and now… Now she was so still, so tense not even a breath escaped her lips. At the moment, she looked positively ravishing. Nothing would please him more than to press his lips against hers and renew his exploration of her mouth. To taste again the sweetness of her tongue, to kiss the vee at her neck and shoulders. To slide his tongue down her throat and rip away that godforsaken high collar and get a view of those firm small breasts. Good god, the muscles in his groin was wound so tight, even a feathery touch from her would have him spilling his seed.
His gaze flicked to her lips. They were parted now, the tip of her small pink tongue probing against the tiny gap. The enticing view almost had him reaching out and grabbing her by the back of her neck. He was that close to losing control and if she continued to look at him like that--like she was feeling the same thing too and desperately needed release--he would throw all sense of decency to the wind and claim her. Truly claim her.
Tethran cocked his head, searching her eyes for something. Anything. Just a flicker that showed she felt even the slightest of disgust for him. But nothing. Which was strange. Odd, that she could look at him as if his scars were not right there staring back at her. No woman had looked at him like before. Like he was someone.
“You have beautiful eyes.” Miss Crymble’s voice came like a caress, enveloping him in a tight embrace of warmth and desire. “So blue,” she said, never blinking. “I like the way they look at me.”
Tethran swallowed, knowing full well his desire was
as clear as the damn scars on his face. “How do they look at you?” He had to ask.
“Like you want me.” Her eyes dipped to his mouth and then back up again, a somewhat uneasy look in them. “Do you? Want me, that is?’
Like I need the air I breathe. Tethran squeezed his eyes shut. This woman was going to be the bane of his existence. She was going to twist his gut into a pulp, tear every single thread of hair out of his head and milk his manhood dry. Damnation, just her mere presence sent his pulse into a frenzy.
The Strength of Baffin Page 8
