Jacq's Warlord (3 page)

Jacq felt a pang of regret. She’d only met her aunt once when she and her father stopped in England on their way to an assignment in Germany. She vaguely remembered a gracious, elderly woman who smelled of lilacs.

Now her father was the only family she had left, and she didn’t know what would happen if she lost him. Better to steer clear of those thoughts.

Her father interrupted her reverie. “It says there’s another letter in the envelope from your aunt, written before her death with instructions for the care of the book.”

Jacq picked up the envelope once more and peered inside. “Sure enough, here’s the other letter.” She quickly unfolded it, noting the spidery handwriting of her Great-Aunt Louise.

She read it aloud.

Dear Jacqueline,

It is one of my greatest regrets that I didn’t get to know you better during my lifetime. My
late husband passed away only last year, God rest his soul, and the time has come for me to
perform my duty to the family legacy. Unfortunately, my husband and I were not blessed with
the gift of a daughter, and thus I write this letter to you, my only living female relative.

The book I leave in your keeping is the last and most important inheritance of the Rathburn
Estate. Guard it carefully to keep others from abusing the powers with which it was blessed.

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Jacq’s Warlord

Please begin by reading the very first page in the book and heed its warning. Whatever you
do, do not read the pages aloud. My mother-in-law gave the same instructions to me when I was
your age. I have treasured this book and added to it in my time.

May your life be blessed with love and happiness, as was mine.

Sincerely, Louise Langston

Hairs lifted on the back of Jacq’s neck. “Do you get a funny feeling about all this, Dad?”

He didn’t answer. He stared, openly fascinated by the artwork on the first page of the book. “Can you read this stuff?”

Jacq glanced over his shoulder and rocked back on her heels. She realized she was looking at Norman French, a language appropriate for the year etched on the cover of the box.

“Sure, Dad. It’s French. Damn, I think this book is the real thing.” She read the inscription. “This is getting downright weird. It says when I read one of the written prayers aloud, ‘the world will disappear in dense and shrouding mist…’”

The wind picked up outside the windows, sending an eerie howl against the panes of glass.

Jacq darted a glance at her father.

He shrugged. “It’s stormin’ all right.”

They shared sheepish smiles.

“You know,” Jacq said, “if this book is as old as it appears, it really belongs in a museum.”

“It’s in good shape. I don’t know how it could be that old.” Her father straightened, stretching his arms wide. “Damn. I wish I could stay up and have a closer look, but I have a date with twenty freshmen who think they’d like to be soldiers at O-dark-thirty on the track. You’ll have to tell me what it says tomorrow.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. His version of a hug. “Don’t stay up late.”

“I won’t.” Feeling a little bemused by her gift, Jacq fingered the yellowed parchment.

Her father grunted. “Looks like I’m going to have to rent the Rug Doctor again.

Make sure I don’t have to rent the upholstery attachments, too.”

Jacq wrinkled her nose. “Okay, I’ll shower before I read a little of this book. ‘Night, Dad.”

“Don’t forget to eat—the chili’s still on the stove. See you in the morning.” He turned to leave.

“Hey, Dad, will you make it to the Faire in time to see my performance?”

“You bet.” He grinned, and then formed his face into a menacing scowl. “I’ll be the one punching all the hecklers.”

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Delilah Devlin & Myla Jackson

“Now, you know they’re just part of the show. Promise me you’ll behave yourself.

Or if you can’t—don’t hurt them too badly.”

“The only promise I’ll make is I’ll be there. Beyond that—take what you get.”

“I’ll take you,” she said, stepping closer to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Dad. There’s not another man in this world I love more.”

The tips of his ears reddened, but he looked pleased. “That better change if I’m ever to expect grandkids,” he said, his voice gruff. “Besides, you need to start living your own life. I’m fine.”

Jacq smiled at his departing figure, warmth filling her chest. She loved to disconcert her father with open displays of affection. For all his blustering, he’d come to expect her goodnight kiss. Although the “C” word wasn’t mentioned much these days, the tight bond they’d formed during his cancer treatments hadn’t lessened.

After showering and helping herself to a bowl of blistering chili, she settled on the couch with the book in her lap and turned the next page.

A few minutes turned into hours. The book’s living history lesson fascinated her, and she couldn’t deny a sense of connection to the women. Their love for their family—

her family, however many times removed—created a bond between the generations.

She read on. The book contained the heartfelt prayers of generations of Rathburn women, each entering only one plea. The connection she felt grew as she discovered what meant the most to each of them. Some pleaded to extend the life of an ailing spouse, others wanted to conceive children in what had proven to be a barren union. It wasn’t until halfway through the book that Jacq came upon a prayer signed by a priest, Father Haskell, in the twelfth century. The only prayer recorded by a man.

Her interest piqued, she bent closer to translate his words.

Father Haskell started by giving an account of current events, as if he were setting the stage for the prayer. Jacq, being familiar with the history of this particular conflict, was fascinated to read the words of a man who actually lived in the time period. He wrote of Henry II’s invasion of England and the priest’s fear for the safety of the people of Rathburn and its current lord. Then he wrote his prayer in sparse, deliberate script.

As she read the words an idea blossomed. Dismissing her aunt’s quaint warning, Jacq committed the story and the prayer to memory. Then she looked up at the clock and cursed. One o’clock! She had to be up early to get to the fairgrounds and check out the stage before show time.

She gently closed the book and headed up the stairs to set her alarm. As she snuggled among the warm blankets, she smiled. The book had come in the nick of time.

The chance to weave a little real-life history into her bard’s tale had her looking forward to a job she’d dreaded.

Tomorrow’s performance would be awesome.

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Jacq’s Warlord

1153 A.D.

England

Rufus paused with his hand on the tent flap as a giggle sounded from inside. Not the laundress again! What was her name?

He threw up the flap just as a deep appreciative groan rumbled from the man sitting on Rufus’ stool in the center of the tent. “Donald! This is my tent,” Rufus muttered, striding inside to dump his sword on his cot. He ignored the sight of the woman’s slender hand as she stroked downward across Donald’s naked belly.

The woman tossed back her dark hair and gave him a saucy grin. “Milord, you sound like a great bear.”

Rufus shot her an irritated glance. She was always underfoot, tending to his laundry, offering to bathe him. Was she now attempting to make him jealous with this display?

Donald was welcome to her—but not his tent!

Perhaps encouraged by his glare, the woman dared reach lower, smoothing the warm, wet cloth over Donald’s lower abdomen, approaching the thatch of hair that framed his manhood.

An inch from success, Donald stayed her hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. He sighed. “I asked only for a bath.”

She leaned over his shoulder, her lips forming an attractive moue, while her glance slid sideways to Rufus. “I’m yours to command, sir.” Her true intent clear in the seductive smile she cast Rufus.

The laundress had stripped off her clothes save for her coarse chemise—no doubt to keep them from getting wet. She stood behind Donald, her ripe, wet breasts scraping his back each time she reached over his shoulder.

Rufus should be amused at her blatant invitation—and by Donald’s chagrin.

His captain-at-arms gave him a lopsided smile. “I stopped to speak with you.”

“Oh?” Rufus lifted one eyebrow and pulled his shirt over his head.

The laundress’s eyes widened, and her smile turned feline.

Donald cleared his throat. “Gwen took pity upon my sad state and offered to bathe me.”

“Of course, she did. And my tent happened to be available.” He wondered at his annoyance. The laundress’s womanly scent and lush figure weren’t unappealing.

Another time, he might have grabbed a fistful of her long brown hair and brought her 17

Delilah Devlin & Myla Jackson

to the floor for a quick tumble—might even have offered to share her with Donald. She did seem willing.

But today he was restless and irritated with her play. “I suggest you scrub his back, mistress. He can take care of the rest. And hurry it up—we have other matters to attend.”

Issuing a resentful huff, she dipped the cloth in the basin of warm water and wrung it out.

Donald muttered and closed his eyes, relaxing as she swept his back in quick, even strokes. “What matters, milord?”

Donald actually remembered who commanded whom? His captain looked entirely too comfortable and relaxed on
his
stool. Rufus felt tension knot his own shoulders.

“Lord Albermarle requests our presence.” He stepped out of the chausses he’d worn for his morning exercise with the men, and tugged the knots from the cloth covering his loins to strip it away.

The laundress’s gaze drifted to his cock.

Rufus turned his back.

“Is there a hurry?” Donald leaned his head forward for the laundress to wash his neck, seeming unconcerned with Rufus’ growing irritation.

The man apparently didn’t realize how close he was to being throttled. A lifelong bond of friendship wouldn’t save him from being pounded into the dirt.

The thought cheered Rufus enormously. “Albermarle has received word from his spies. He wants us now.”

“Damnation.” Donald lunged from his stool startling the laundress.

She sputtered angrily as she landed in a disheveled sprawl on the ground.

Donald scowled as he yanked on his clothing. “We’ve cooled our heels in this godforsaken place for a week, waiting for the man to make up his mind to move, and he wants us
now
?”

Unabashed by his naked state, Rufus sauntered to an open chest, grabbed braies, chausses, a shirt and tunic and dressed himself. He pulled the long woolen stockings up his calves, and then reached for his boots.

Donald finished dressing in his soiled clothing and leaned a shoulder against the tent pole while he waited for Rufus to finish.

Seeing Donald’s gaze drift to the buxom beauty who sullenly pulled her gown over her head and laced her bodice closed, Rufus smiled. He’d interrupted Donald’s little tryst. His friend had his eye on the girl for some time, but she’d rebuffed his invitations.

Until today.

“Any word from Lord Percival?” Donald asked, his gaze never straying from laundress’s charms.

Rufus’ good mood soured. “None, since word that Sedgwick’s entire garrison was laid low with a dose of the scutters.”

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Jacq’s Warlord

Lacing the last boot tightly, Rufus glanced up to see the woman pull a face at Donald and pout. There was much to admire in her appearance, and those full pouting lips were especially pleasing. He hoped Donald lost sleep over thoughts of those lips.

Rufus reached for a pouch lying at the foot of his cot and withdrew two shiny coins.

Scooping up the pile of dirty clothing he’d removed, he tossed it and the coins to the woman with hardly a glance and strode out of the tent.

* * * * *

“Rufus! Good to see you, man. I’ve news you’ll want to hear,” the Duke of Albermarle boomed.

Rufus’ gaze found his overlord seated on a stool before a rough table laden with enough food to provision half a dozen men for a week. His eyes narrowed in disgust for the waste. A glance at Donald’s furrowed brow indicated he shared the sentiment.

“Any word from Sedgwick?” the earl asked, sucking grease from his fingers.

Rufus frowned. “None, milord, since his last communication relating the news of his…indisposition.”

“A pity. A tricky thing, bowels.” The earl snorted. “We’ve waited for his reinforcement for naught. Well there is nothing for it; we must do what we can without his aid.”

The earl’s small, yellowed teeth tore ravenously at a greasy chicken leg before he returned his attention to his new arrivals. Throwing the drumstick onto the table, he heaved his portly body to his feet and paced the small confines of the tent.

Rufus waited impatiently for Albermarle to get to the reason for the summons. If the older man would be quick about it, he might still be able to salvage a little enjoyment from this wasted day. Boredom ate at him. A quick ride between the thighs of…whatever her name was, or a little swordplay of another nature with his men, would add something of interest to the waning afternoon.

Albermarle cleared his throat. “Word has come that Braxton’s army is within three leagues of us. They gather strength in numbers as they draw closer. We must intercept them before they reach Stephen.”

Excitement surged through Rufus. “I’ll give the order to break camp immediately.”

Already the list of preparations for the movement of the camp and the battle to come were ticking away in his head.

Albermarle waved his hand. “No need. Morning’s soon enough. We’ll travel light and hit them quickly.”

Rufus wanted to protest, to press him to act now, but knew it would be a waste of breath. Albermarle needed a good night’s sleep after he’d gorged. “I’ll see that the men are ready at first light.” He turned, eager to quit the tent and begin the real work.