“What do you mean?” Her heart was kicking up now. Another wail rang out, longer this time, shattering through her body like a fierce blow. “Tell me! It sounds…horrendous.”
LeMark looked at her then, his eyes rich and blue and intense. She could drown in those eyes. “You mustn’t see this, Miss Crymble. It’s…unspeakable.”
Unspeakable? Jolin jumped, startled as Sinclair brushed past and turned before them. “Goddamn bastards! Bloody cowards! As if it isn’t enough that they humiliate the woman. I’d run them all through if--”
“Sinclair.” One word. A hard slicing interjection from LeMark that brought his friend’s lips down into a hard pressed line. “Not here.”
Before she knew it, Jolin was being pulled. Again through the crowd, the movement like a haze as she struggled to keep up with them. The crush seemed to grow thinner as they went along, the spaces between the gathering of men, women…even children more clear, opening up to a circular bricked pavement that appeared to be at the very heart of the square. Her gaze inched upwards to make out a wide wooden structure, and the steps that led up to it.
She gasped. Gallows!
“Damn it, woman. Don’t look!” LeMark snapped, giving her hand a mighty tug that she lurched forward, almost tripping over her own two feet. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away even if she wanted to. A grey-haired woman at the front of the crowd released a loud sob, clutching a mewling newborn in her arms. Jolin glanced up, her eyes widening at the sight. Her gut twisted, her stomach reeled and her legs wobbled, her knees feeling suddenly too weak.
LeMark tugged her again, this time successfully shielding her from the scene as they ducked beneath the awning and strode over the threshold of a tavern. But not before she’d seen the reason for the chaos, the sole purpose of the gathering. The source of the heartrending cries. Tears threatened at the brim of her eyes, saliva flooding her mouth in a rush of bitter saltiness.
On the floor of the gallows, lay a woman face down, stripped to complete nakedness, angry gashes torn through pale skin, one of her arms severed from the elbow.
* * *
Tethran groaned, pacing across the floor of the room he had managed to secure after that damn crowd had managed to disintegrate. What the hell had Iqa City turned into? He’d told Miss Crymble that the place was a cesspool, crawling with vermins…or at least that was what he’d remembered it to be only a few years ago. But now… He couldn’t even bring himself to put a name to what he had just seen. It was a sickening scene. Revolting, and utterly repugnant. No woman deserved such a punishment, such a death no matter the crime that was committed. No woman deserved to be butchered like that before her own people like some insignificant creature. And no woman deserved to witness it either.
His head snapped up instantly as he regarded Miss Crymble, bent over a bucket where she had been retching for the last ten minutes. His gut twisted to see her like that. A woman like her should never see such violence; such a thing was sure to taint one’s soul forever. He cursed below his breath and ran a hand through his hair. He had tried his best to shield her from it but the stubborn woman just had to see for herself. Why didn’t she listen to him when he’d told her not to look? Tethran made to walk over to her as she slid to the floor, her face pale and hands shaking. His palms itched to touch her, to comfort her. To soothe her until she forgot about the terrible event. Biting back a groan, he took one step forward, only to be halted by the swinging in of the door. Sinclair rushed in, a small metal cup in his hand.
“I already retrieved the horses. You might want to give her some of this. It’s brandy. She’ll make herself very ill if she continues.” He then lowered his voice a notch. “The tavern owner’s wife laced it with a little opium.”
Tethran accepted the cup and moved tentatively, his arm sliding around the woman’s waist as he lifted her towards the bed. Her skin had grown clammy, sweat beading over her forehead and neck, dripping down the neckline of her green dress. After settling her against the raised pillows, he inched the mug to her mouth. She turned away.
“Miss Crymble, it’s just a little brandy. It will make you feel better.”
Her eyes flickered to him, distant and pained. “What did she do?”
Tethran swallowed, his eyes fastened on the mug. “Just take a sip. And then we’ll talk.”
To his relief, she conceded, her tight lips slightly opening as he tilted the mug. She winced at the first swallow but then allowed three more before shaking her head and drawing away. Her gaze slid across the room to where Sinclair stood and then back to him.
“I--I...” She swallowed, blinking rapidly to supposedly hold back tears. “I never thought such…violence existed in Baffin. I’d thought that my father had sheltered me too much. Especially after Mama had died.” She paused, possibly sensing the curiosity in his eyes. “Lung fever,” she explained, inhaling sharply. “It had taken her from us one night when I was eleven. My father had always done his best to love me, to protect me. And I always wondered why he never wanted to take me back here with him on his many…trips. But now I know why.”
His hand reached out of its own accord, fingers brushing lightly over her cheek. Miss Crymble’s eyes shuttered closed a moment and he marvelled at the sight, his heart drumming in his chest. The things he felt when he touched this woman were exceedingly strange, unexplainable.
“You never should have seen that,” he heard himself say. “Such brutality.”
The side of her mouth quirked up in a sad smile as her eyes opened again. It was obvious the opium mixture was taking its effect. “You’re not all that of scoundrel as you pretend to be, LeMark. I can see straight through your glower and those terrifying scars.” She chuckled then, a yawn stretching her lips. “But since you won’t tell me… Sinclair?”
Tethran frowned as Sinclair inched forward, brows furrowing. “Miss Crymble?”
“I know you must have given me something to induce rest but I need to know before I go to sleep,” she said, eyes pleading. “He won’t tell me so I hope you will.”
Tethran watched as his friend shifted on his feet, eyeing him uneasily. “Tell you…what?”
Miss Crymble’s lips trembled as she made to speak, eyes welling with tears. Tethran felt his heartstrings pull. Heartstrings. He hadn’t known he had such things.
“What did she do?” she asked again. “What crime did she…commit to face such a…such a--”
“She escaped her master. Violated his authority,” Tethran blurted, unable to take it any longer. He and Sinclair had both heard it on the hushed lips of two maids back in the hallway. He’d never known there existed such a law in Baffin. Masters and the lot. Not until today.
“M-Master?” Her eyes closed again, thick lashes fanning out over soft skin. “She…she was owned? But I never knew it was…”
Tethran swallowed, thanking the heavens that she had finally drifted off in sleep. He doubted that he could have survived answering any more questions on the blasted subject. Shoving to his feet, he left the cup on the small table next to the bed and crossed the room, Sinclair unsurprisingly on his heels.
“We need to move fast,” his friend hissed, grabbing him by the arm. “I need to get to Josephine before it’s too late. That could have been her! It might be--”
“It won’t be!” Tethran snapped, stilling his friend with a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “We’ll get to her and take her from this vile place. And heaven helps anyone who stand in our way.”
Sinclair’s eyes were hot with fury but Tethran could see the understanding within them, the fear lurking in their depths. His friend jerked a nod and released a sharp breath. “Something stinks of conspiracy, LeMark,” he muttered, jaw working with carefully controlled anger. “And I don’t like it one bit. I knew that women were being sold off like chattel but this…this is madness. Such savagery could not possibly be legal.”
Tethran considered his friend’s words. Though dripping with emotion, there was a nauseating truth to them. As
far as he had ever known, such practices as was demonstrated in the square were not only unconscionable but also went against the law of the land. No one would have dared committed such a crime in Iqa City right beneath the alderman’s nose unless… Unless… He felt his nostrils flare, not just at the rising pungency of Miss Crymble’s vomit but by the realization that had suddenly dawned on him. He slanted his gaze back at a wearied Sinclair.
“The alderman,” he muttered, trying to remember if he’d ever laid eyes on the man. But he’d heard much since he’d been a boy. That the alderman, Viktor de Gesch, was an amiable man. A principled fellow who ruled his people firmly but passionately. What if their ruler was unaware of such violence?
“Is probably still tucked in his big fluffy bed, snuggled up to his wife,” Sinclair spat dryly. “While my sister is being molested by a sick reprobate!”
“We’ll get your sister, damn it! We will. But we have to think this through carefully or else we’ll both end up getting ourselves hanged.” He dragged a hand over his face, glancing at Miss Crymble’s sleeping form. “We also have to consider the other women this could happen to after we rescue your Josephine. It wouldn’t ever stop for them.”
Sinclair’s gaze hardened but his mouth moved freely. “What do you suggest?”
Tethran gritted his teeth, hands clenching. He wished he knew the answer to that question.
TEN
Tethran straightened in the wooden chair as he leaned over to brush a wayward curl of brunet hair from Miss Crymble’s cheek. A soft sigh escaped her lips, tickling the fine hairs on his hand and shooting an unmerciful spark of fire up his arm. He retracted his hand quickly, flexing his fingers in and out of a fist as the tingling sensation remained, like tiny singeing needles pricking into his skin. But it was more than skin deep. The effect Miss Crymble had on him journeyed straight down to the marrow in his bones, slicing away all walls and barriers, and making him want to bare his heart and soul. Damnation. It hadn’t been more than a day since he’d known the woman and she was already having such startling effects on him. Oh, he must be finally losing his blasted mind.
With a low grunt, he dragged his gaze off her perfect face and scowled at the ceiling. He supposed this was the price to pay for the countless sins he’d committed. Tethran squeezed his eyes shut, brushing the back of his hand across his jaw, skimming the rough ridges of the scars on his face. Without noticing, his finger ran lightly over the one that ran a sharp line from the lobe of his right ear to his chin. The events surrounding the mark was engraved in his mind just as much as it had been etched permanently into his face. His very first scar…
He’d been just a month shy of sixteen years old when it had happened. Still a stable boy, he’d intended on working his way up to a footman and then, quite possibly, a valet to his employer’s son, Jeffrey Sundale. Jeffrey had been four years his senior, a friendly and dapper fellow with an optimistic view of the world. Tethran had admired him. Not only because Jeffrey had treated him like a friend, but because he had seen something similar between the two of them. They’d both craved ambition. Sundale had had his heart set on establishing himself as a captain in the alderman’s army though his father would have rather seen him, as the only male heir, stay home and govern the estate. Yes, Tethran had held Jeffrey Sundale in very high esteem. At least until one Spring, in the height of the afternoon sun, when Tethran had stumbled through the rolling fields of the Sundale estate to find Jeffrey bent over a sobbing miss of about fifteen, her full skirts tossed high as he rammed savagely into the chit from behind.
Tethran had seen red, disappointment had clouded his vision. He’d been shocked, disgusted, sickened. And when Jeffrey had glanced up, he’d done nothing but smile, hips driving viciously against the unwilling female. How could his friend had done such a thing? Taken a girl against her will? And when he was finished, he’d just shoved her aside like some dirty laundry.
‘Go back to the stables,’ Jeffrey had grinned, buttoning the fly of his breeches. ‘The chit was asking for it.’
Even through all his fury, Tethran had known that was not true. He’d witnessed it for himself, seen the assault. ‘You…forced her.’
‘And? Don’t be acting a fool now. If I’d known you’ve never felt the slick warmth of a woman’s cunt, I wouldn’t have let her run off just yet.’
Tethran had attacked him at that point, blind with rage and repulsion. His fist had connected Jeffrey squarely in the face, sending the bastard stumbling backwards, a gush of blood sliding from one nostril. Before Tethran could have reacted, something silver had sliced through the air before him and a stinging sensation burned across the side of his face. Jeffrey had cut him with a dagger, proving to him in just a scant few minutes that he wasn’t at all the person Tethran had thought him to be.
‘Get out of here, LeMark!’ he’d yelled as Tethran had clutched frantically at his bleeding face. ‘And don’t come back or else I’ll kill you.’
He’d left, giving up his dream of becoming a valet because he’d set his eyes on another, more profitable goal. Anger had driven him to cultivate a plan to murder Jeffrey Sundale. And he would have, if Sundale had not fallen from his horse three days later and broken his damn neck…
A very light warm touch on his hand jolted him back to the present and Tethran opened his eyes to see Miss Crymble staring back at him, her hand inches from his face. Cursing himself for allowing his memories to carry him away, he shifted and sat up straight. It had been a long while since he’d thought of such things. The past wasn’t a place he enjoyed revisiting.
“What were you thinking about?” came the dreaded question, warm brown eyes searching his soul. “Your expression… It was…” She shook her head, the mass of her thick hair framing her lovely. “Care to share?”
“No.” His answer came out clipped and harsh but he didn’t care. He had no intention of discussing his past. With anyone. Fighting not to squirm beneath her piteous gaze, he swallowed and diverted. “How…how are you feeling?”
She sighed, resting back against the pillows, eyes hooded. “Better, I suppose, all things considered. How long have I been asleep?”
“Almost all day. It’s a few minutes past five o’clock now. You must be starving.” He jumped from his seat and fetched a tray from a table across the room. “The tavern owner’s wife had sent this up for you. It’s just stewed lamb, loaf and some fruit. If you prefer, I can fetch you some soup instead.”
“It’s fine. I just… Could you…?”
Tethran frowned. “Yes? Come on… Spit it out, will you?”
Miss Crymble’s cheeks brightened to a reddish hue as her fingers twisted in the sheets over her lap. “I was wondering if-if you’d be so kind as to…s-send up a bath for me.”
* * *
Jolin stood at the lone window in the room, staring through the stained glass as she made out LeMark and Sinclair striding across the street towards what looked to be a locksmith’s shop. Her mind toiled to understand what the look on LeMark’s face had been when she’d asked him to request a bath for her. She knew that such a demand, especially from a man other than her husband, was entirely improper but who else had she to ask in that very moment?
Jolin knew LeMark was attracted to her. She’d been told on several occasions that she was quite pleasing to the eye. Besides, she could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at her. What he felt for her was simple, uncomplicated lust. An emotion no man was foreign to. But that wasn’t something she could entertain, at least not at the moment. Men, and their follies, was something she had been determined to ignore for some time now. She did not need a man that merely wanted her. She needed passion, devotion. An attachment based on the principles of an unending and thoroughly requited love.
Sighing, she wrapped her arms around her middle and moved towards the food tray. Popping a piece of loaf in her mouth, she resigned in the chair by the bed. Her body felt sticky and dirty and her hair was a mess. She needed to get herself together and set her sca
ttering thoughts to rights so she could go out and look for her father. The horrible scene she had witnessed earlier this morning did make her question venturing out alone in this city but she must put her feelings aside. She must find her father, no matter what. And as soon as she did, and they’d resolved the disaster he was in, she would have some stern words with him because she had no intention of ever returning to this…vile place. And neither would he; not if Jolin could help it. Her sweet mother, Charlotte Crymble, must be rolling in her grave.
A sharp rap came on the door and Jolin glanced up.
“It’s the tavern owner’s wife, Mrs. Smythe,” came a winsome feminine voice. “I brought the bath you requested, miss.”
Jolin strode over quickly and opened the door. A portly woman about her height strode in, followed by two young lads carrying a tub of water. When she’d asked for the bath, Jolin had only expected a bucket of water, soap and some wash cloths. Certainly not this.
“So very sorry to keep you waiting, miss.” The older woman smiled, brushing her hands over the linen apron tied at her waist. “I thought to heat the water first. Figured the warm water would be more relaxing under the circumstances.” She shifted forward as the boys left the room, closing the door behind them. “Your husband had indicated to me that you’d caught a stomach ache. Are you feeling much better now?”
The Strength of Baffin Page 7