The Doctor's Rough Treatment (Historical Medical Smut With A Side Of Story) by Diana Quippley Read Free Book Online Page B

the state of his affairs as he
walked up the rickety stairs of the insalubrious place. It was an odd place for
a meeting; the mission had to be of the utmost secrecy for his mysterious
patron to have arranged for a convention there, at the outskirts of the city
walls.
     
    He stepped into the tavern, his
tall, muscular frame out of place and standing out like a sore thumb in his
highland kilt and scant metal armor, a massive Claymore broadsword in its
scabbard on his wide back. Men of all kinds and of all vices crowded the place,
most of them of the shady sort. They eyed the huge mercenary with caution as he
walked past them slowly. Several tables were arranged around the dirty dining
hall, with roughhewn chairs scattered all around. Men ate and drank, and sang
and argued, while others lay passed out on the tables or the floor. Serving
wenches swaggered around, carrying large platters of pungent meat and flagons
of ale, spilling some of it all around them. He sidestepped the rushing women
and his keen eyes searched the tavern for the one who had arranged this
meeting.
     
    He stopped midstride as a small
shapely hand suddenly pressed against his massive chest. He looked down at the
voluptuous blonde woman standing before him, her face covered in gaudy paint.
One of her finely plucked eyebrows was raised questioningly. She pushed her
generous near naked breasts up at him and her painted lips curled up in an
inviting smile. With what he had in his purse at that moment, he couldn’t
afford her even if he wanted to. Calmly he brushed her aside and moved forward;
his eyes locking onto the only other figure there that looked as out of place,
if not even more, as he did.
     
    The rather heavy set man sat in the
far corner of the tavern, at a small round table with only two chairs. He had a
heavy brown cloak over his shoulders and a large hood pulled down over his head
obscured his features. He raised a hand and made a quick gesture. The mercenary
slowly stepped up to the table. The hooded man motioned him to sit down.
     
    “One roasted partridge.” The
mercenary said, softly as he took the other seat.
     
    “And its eggs poached.” The hooded
man completed the coded message to confirm they were not making any errors of
judgment.
     
    “What’s the job?” The mercenary got
right to the point, not comfortable sitting with his back exposed.
     
    The hooded man slipped a hand into
his cloak and brought out a small painted portrait, fitted in a gilded frame.
It was the likeness of a young woman, breathtakingly beautiful, with fiery red
hair, emerald green eyes and skin as lush as fresh cream. The mercenary
recognized her immediately. There were very few who did not. The Princess
Shania was not one to be hiding behind the palace walls, though she seldom
ventured outside alone; she was well known and feared all through the Western
Kingdom and beyond.
     
    “Three days afore.” The hooded man
said in hushed tones. “Towards the Dark Keep to the east.”
     
    “I know the place.” The highland
warrior nodded, glancing over his shoulder as some drunk singing a ribald tune.
“What is the purse?”
     
    “Twenty gold pieces, sovereign
stamped.” The other replied, placing a small pouch before the mercenary. The
thick golden ring on his middle finger gleamed in the flickering light before
he swiftly pulled his hand away. “Five now, the rest when you have returned
with her alive and unharmed.”
     
    “I need a manner of proof to
convince her of my intentions.” The mercenary nodded, quickly palming the
pouch. “So she may not fear me more than her captors.”
     
    “I understand.” The slouched man
shook his head under the deep hood and fished out a small leather wrapped
package from under his cloak, placing it on the table.
     
    The large muscular highlander
picked it up, unwrapping the tight binding. His eyes gleamed at the ornate,
jewel encrusted dagger within it. That alone could pay for a few years of his
way of life.