Jolin shook her head, hoping it wouldn’t be the former. Shifting on her feet, her body stilled as the sound of cobblestones crunching beneath booted feet suddenly reached her ears, and a large shadow fell across her. Hell fire! A foreboding chill inched up her spine and Jolin wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to know who was standing behind her at the moment. But before she could react, a large hand clamped down hard over her mouth and she found herself being pulled, most likely, to her unfortunate demise.
SEVENTEEN
Someone had landed a fist to her face, she could at least remember that. In fact, it was the last thing she could recall and now she felt as if she’d been properly run over by a speeding carriage. A soft moan stretched from her parched throat as something cool was being pressed against her forehead, somehow helping to soothe the throbbing in her temples. Jolin sighed but winced as she attempted to open her eyes. Sunlight burst through the window across the room and she blinked several times to adjust her vision. Good, she was back at the tavern and thank God, not dead and rotting elsewhere.
Jolin allowed the events of the previous night to run through her mind. She’d been hiding out near the alderman’s gardens. She’d seen a little girl. Catherine, her name was. A sweet green-eyed darling who’d left her pondering over a flux of domestic thoughts. The pain in the right corner of her mouth sparked and she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to better endure it. Shortly thereafter, when Catherine had run off, Jolin had been accosted and flung violently to the ground. She’d fought, did all she could to escape but the man, whoever he had been, had decked her straight in the jaw. So hard, she had tasted her own blood. Still tasted it.
Groaning, she raised a hand to the tender flesh and immediately regretted it. The entire right side of her face felt aflame, her chest tight and stomach quivery. She glanced down the foot of the bed, above the sheets covering her body, to see Mrs. Smythe across the room filling a mug from an ewer. She groaned again. If the sweet sickly taste in her mouth was any indication, Jolin could bet the woman had forced a great deal of laudanum down her throat while she’d been unconscious. But she supposed she should not be complaining. If it meant ridding her head of this insufferable aching, then she would gladly take even a dram of belladonna.
“Ah. You’re awake.” Mrs. Smythe pivoted and crossed the room. “How are you feeling? Gah! I shouldn’t be asking such a silly question. But I hope you are not feeling as bad as your mouth looks, madam.”
“H-how does my mouth look?”
“Like you’ve been walloped by a steel fist.”
Jolin groaned. “I suppose you don’t have a looking glass, do you?”
“I may fetch one for you, if you’d like.” Mrs. Smythe gave her a sorrowful look and then sat on the bed next to her, titling the mug to her lips. “You’re head must hurt like the devil.”
Jolin accepted the drink, pursing her lips over the lid of the mug. Only, she did not receive the bitter taste she had been expecting. This was far more welcoming. She gulped a little, sputtered and coughed, then accepted three more sips. Her throat felt considerably better. “What is it?”
“Fireweed and ginger. It was a recipe of my mother’s, and her mother before that and so on.”
A fierce jangling of the doorknob almost had Jolin bolting upwards, followed by a blistering curse loud enough to resound down the upper-levels of the tavern’s halls. Mrs. Smythe scowled and muttered something beneath her breath. Jolin sighed. No one had need to tell her that it was LeMark who’d been beyond that door. Christ, she’d almost forgotten. It must have been him who had rescued her, of course. She just did not know if she was strong enough to face him now that she was sporting a bruise that was bad enough to support all the warnings he’d been giving her over the past few days. But she supposed it would have to happen sooner or later and when it did, she might just end up grovelling.
“Your husband is one stubborn man, madam,” Mrs. Smythe sniffed with unbridled disapproval. “I’d been forced to lock him out, I was. I’m certain that black scowl of his is sure to impede on your speedy recovery.
Jolin dipped her chin. “I suppose he has reason to be furious with me.”
The other woman eyed her quizzically. “So you admit to be the one to be blamed for that…” She waved a hand towards her. “…unfortunate incident?”
If she had listened to him in the first place, then she would not have been in that unfortunate incident. And Jolin suspected that those would be LeMark’s very berating words once they were in each other’s presence again. Perhaps, if she had seen Josephine like she had hoped, then the man would not be so rankled. But all she had earned from visiting the alderman’s castle were an array of too many scandalous sights and a battered jaw. She tried her best not to scowl. At least her injury would halt him from spanking her bottom much as she deserved.
“He told me not to go off on my own. Countless times.” The older woman need not know the true circumstances surrounding her injury.
Mrs. Smythe gasped and placed the mug down on the small bedside table. “Then mayhap you are the stubborn one, my dear. You are from the country and likely far too used to the amiableness and safety it offers. Things are much different here in Iqa City. Did you not see what had happened that first day you arrived? The city is not what it had been when I was a little girl.”
Neither when I was a girl. Jolin nodded, tears stinging her lids. She was entirely at fault and she knew it. “I admit I was acting a fool and I assure you, I have seen the err in my ways.”
“Hush now, madam. Don’t you be crying now. Your husband will understand, he will. But you mustn’t give him any lip when he lectures you about it. Remember what I’d said about men and their pride?”
She drew in a shaky breath and blinked back the tears. “I remember.”
“Good.” Mrs. Crymble bestowed a reassuring smile on her and then squeezed her arm affectionately. “I shall give you another few minutes to gather yourself. And then I’ll let him in, yes?”
* * *
Tethran paced a short path along the hallway, his blood boiling in his veins. That infuriating, stubborn, hard-headed woman! She could have been raped. Worse, dead! He could not stomach the thought that if he had not ventured out to cool his impatience and search for her last night, then he would not have stumbled upon the scene. That stomach-clenching scene that had sent him storming like a madman to her rescue. He could barely remember what had happened after he’d torn the scoundrel off her, only that his knuckles were still well blistered from the act. He would have killed the bloody guard if Sinclair had not intervened but he doubted the wretch had seen his face because the first blow had knocked him out cold. The other ten, fifteen or twenty were meant to incapacitate him.
Running an irritable hand through his hair, he leaned against the wall and tried not to think about the pain Jolin--Miss Crymble--must be in. The pretty porcelain skin of her face was marred black and blue by the hand of that blasted coward. Oh God have mercy, if he wouldn’t be in danger of being slain down in the courtyard, Tethran would have marched back within the alderman’s gates, find that by-blow of a guard and castrate the bastard himself.
Goddamn it! Tethran pushed away from the wall and slammed his fist against it. Miss Crymble was going to drive him crazy if she kept up with this madness. And not only because she was too damn headstrong for her own good but because, in that moment last night when he’d seen her utterly defenceless, he’d felt a rush of emotion that had nothing at all alone to do with anger. He’d felt something. And that something was what had propelled him into instant beast mode like a lion guarding his lioness.
“Good grief, Mister. I’ll not have you damaging our walls, I won’t. And after I’ve seen the black eye you’ve dealt that friend of yours, I’ve no doubt you would.”
Tethran’s head snapped up and he found himself glowering at the tavern owner’s wife. The look she was currently offering him was unquestionably meant to give him a fine dressing down to his drawers but he hel
d his ground. Men like him could not be chastised. And neither did they wear drawers. His eyes shifted to the door from whence she’d come and he took a step forward.
Mrs. Smythe held up a hand and came up to him, eyes boring hotly into his own. It was odd, how he felt the passing urge to take a step back. Tethran frowned and widened his stance. He would not be cowered by this woman. Especially when he had another one to tell a fine piece of his mind. He narrowed his gaze but the woman did not make any move to let him pass.
“I suspect my wife is awake.” The word wife had rolled so easily off his tongue, he’d almost believed it true.
“She is. And still in a spot of pain, if you must know. But I warn you--”
Warn him? The gall of the woman.
“--that you must not be overly harsh. I understand that your wife might be a little willful but she does not need to be handled roughly on the matter.”
A little was not what Tethran would have used to describe the measure of Miss Crymble’s dogged personality but he also suspected that voicing his opinion would not make Mrs. Smythe slither away any sooner. So instead, he verbalized exactly what needed to be said, though through clenched teeth.
“Thank you for the advice, madam. I shall endeavour to be calm and compassionate with my wife.”
The woman harrumphed and walked around him. “I’d better not hear any shouting from that room. Or else…”
Or else…what? Tethran dragged his gaze from the meddlesome woman and headed straight for the room, his stride quickly eating up the length of the hall. He passed three doors before he got there, and when he did, Miss Crymble was sitting up in bed, the sheets clutched up to her chin and the pillows fluffed behind her back.
He paused in the doorway, gaze fixed on her bruised face, the glistening in her eyes. His heart wrenched. Was she crying? Was the pain so intense? So unbearable? His fists clenched tight at his sides and he found himself contemplating the notion of heading back to the castle after all. Anything to make him feel better about the state she was currently in. The muscles in his jaws tightened as he watched one tear slip over the lid of her left eye and down her uninjured cheek. His legs almost gave way at the sight and he found himself rushing forward.
“I’m sorry,” came her shaky voice, so filled with regret he could hardly mistake it.
“Shhh.” Tethran perched himself to the side of her, his finger brushing away the trail of tears. Emotion clogged his throat. “Are--are you hurting overmuch?”
She sniffled but did not meet his eyes. “Mrs. Smythe gave me some medicinal to help with it. But I suppose it could not be as bad as the reprimand you must have reserved for me. I know I am deserving of it.”
Tethran swallowed, too stunned to speak. Yes, he had fully intended on roasting her for her behaviour but he had not expected this level of contrition. Not from Miss Crymble. But how could he, in all honestly, do such a thing now? She was bruised, ashamed and in need of comfort. Not his whipping tongue. Definitely not his whipping tongue.
He turned, leaned forward and began removing his boots. The first one hit the floor with a thud.
“What…what are you doing?” Her voice was tentative and wobbly. Did she mean to cry again? If so, he would at least give her a shoulder to do it on.
“I am going to lay in bed with you,” he said, tossing the other boot. Cool air touched his bare toes like a long-awaited kiss. When he glanced at her, her eyes were wide but she did not utter a word to discourage him. “Then I am going to tuck you in my arms and console you. If you do not wish it, say so now or prepare to be thoroughly comforted.”
She gazed at him a long moment, before ducking her head sheepishly, and nodded.
EIGHTEEN
He removed his vest and hung it over the arm of a chair before walking back to the bed. Miss Crymble had scooted to the other side of the mattress, her knuckles white from the deathly way she clutched the bedclothes to her chin. Was she afraid of him? He didn’t like that she was. Despite the ugly bruise on her face, she was still quite lovely; delicate and pretty in a way that made his pulse quicken. Her brown eyes regarded him in an uncertain way, as if she wasn’t at all sure of what to expect from him. Tethran’s lips twitched. For a woman who’d always held her ground with him, her acquiescence was extremely satisfying.
He reached to ease away the end of the coverlet closest to him and her eyes shot to his hands, then back to his face. He noticed how her pupils danced with misgiving before she quickly averted her gaze to a spot somewhere between the door and the red ceramic vase on the wooden lintel above it. If she grew any more rigid, she’d likely shatter into a million pieces upon first touch. Tethran cocked his head, watching as a dozen emotions flashed across her face before he leaned in and made himself comfortable on the bed. It was morning, but he intended on laying with her all day if she wanted him to. Not that he expected her to voice such a request but, whether or not she’d ask, he would do it anyway.
The scent of laudanum flooded his nose as he fluffed a pillow behind his head. That, and something spicy that he couldn’t yet place his finger on. Through the corner of his eye, he could tell she was watching him. Tethran turned to face her. “Which side do you prefer?”
She blinked. “Si--” Her voice came out in a croak and she cleared her throat. “Side?”
“Yes. Which side of the bed?”
“Um…I-I don’t think--”
“Come here, Jolin,” he said. A pretty name for a pretty woman. “As I mentioned before, I intend to comfort you. It is my wish.”
“Your wish?”
Tethran released an exasperated breath. “I will come to you then.” And he made to shift over.
“N-no. I’ll…I’ll come.” She eased hesitantly over to him, gaze planted firmly on the ceiling. He wondered what she was thinking. Surely she didn’t expect him to take advantage of her vulnerability? He’d be the filthiest of cads to do such a thing. And as much as he longed to feel the squeeze of her body, also possibly beneath his, he had no mind to act on his lust. At least, not today.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He pulled her across the last few inches so that her uninjured jaw was resting against his chest and his chin above her crown. “Put your arm around me,” he coaxed. “That is also my wish.”
She dithered but eventually did as he bid. It was a full five minutes before she relaxed, her body softening within his embrace. They lay there a while, his palm smoothing caresses over her shoulder and along the length of her arm. Damn, the woman felt like heaven. A lady like Jolin Crymble deserved a man who could give her the world. And he wasn’t quite sure if he could ever be that man. But he’d enjoy this moment while it lasted. It would be a memory he would cherish to his final day.
“And what else is your wish?”
Her question pulled him from his reverie and he chuckled. “Feeling inquisitive, are you?”
“Do you wish to kiss me as well?”
Blood rushed from his head to his groin. The cursed woman! Just when he was trying to ignore the feel of her slender body pressed so sweetly against his. “Miss Crymble--”
“It’s Jolin,” she said softly. Her fingers flexed over his chest and then relaxed. “Tell me, Tethran LeMark, do you want to? Do you ever think of kissing me again?”
He refused to answer. He would not answer.
She twisted in his arms till he found himself staring down into those bright brown eyes. Tethran was lost and he knew it. Those eyes could bare a man’s soul and strip him of all sense of constraint. Her unmistakable duende could lure even a monk out of celibacy. He stared as her gaze dropped to his mouth, openly disclosing her very thoughts. Thoughts he believed were far from innocent. Tethran’s throat dried. “If you don’t want to kiss me, then I will kiss you.”
His cock twitched in his trousers. “Jolin, I warn you--”
She reached up and touched her lips against his lightly. Fire--like scorching hot coals--burned through his blood and sparked every nerve ending in his body. He
should not have been this surprised. He’d kissed the woman before. But that time had been different, so much different. Now, she was the initiator. She was soft and so bloody willing, he’d be a fool if he refused the offer being handed to him. A blasted idiot, if he was to turn down this sweet, sweet temptress.
A groan rumbled in his throat and he returned the kiss gently, trying his best not to inflame her injury. Her mouth tasted of laudanum, ginger, honey and pure, unadulterated woman. She was going to kill him. Yes, she was going to unman him, turn his world upside down and have him feeding right out of her soft little palm. Her mouth moved against his tentatively at first, nipping and tasting, and he allowed her to take what she wanted. God, if he didn’t know better, he’d say he was hers for the taking but that could never be. She was only seeking comfort, and he would give it to her even if it killed him.
Her tongue slipped inside his mouth and his mind went black. Sweet merciful Jesus, God Almighty!
The Strength of Baffin Page 12
