Jacq's Warlord by Delilah Devlin, Myla Jackson

hard. “You will tell me, or I’ll have you whipped.”
    “Easy…for you…to say…when you have me tied up so…I can’t…defend myself,”
    she gritted out between shakes.
    He stopped and stared down at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Defend yourself?
    From what? It was I who saved you from either being trampled or cut in half by that warrior who was set on killing us both.”
    “I wasn’t on your stinking battlefield. You rode up on my stage. I was telling a story.”
    “You were on a hillock, on your knees. Now cease your lies and tell me why you were in the midst of the battlefield.”
    “I don’t know,” she shouted, suddenly collapsing into his arms. This whole scenario was becoming more than she could comprehend. She realized dazedly she was shaking, and that tears leaked down her face. Embarrassed by her weakness, she kept her face averted from his keen eyes.

    As the woman finally quieted, Rufus decided he was getting nowhere with this line of questioning. He considered himself a good judge of character and based on her expression, he thought she might be telling the truth. She was addled.
    Recalling the mist, he realized anyone could have become disoriented, as thick as it had been. He relented and set the woman a little away from him. He would let her rest for now, and lose her distress. Nothing made him more uncomfortable than a woman’s tears.
    Her head came up and she stared with her green eyes into his, searching for understanding he wasn’t willing to give. To avoid her moist glance, he looked down her long body.
    She was a plentiful wench! Lushly curved breasts pressed against the bodice of her gown. Below, the gown swelled around her broad hips. Facts he couldn’t ignore.
    Despite his need to be away, his body reacted with a surge of heat that swelled his loins.
    Then he spied the red marks on her wrists from the ropes. He felt a twinge of conscience that she’d been mistreated. After all, despite her waspish tongue, she was a 34
    Jacq’s Warlord
    gentlewoman. The quality of her clothing, the smoothness of her skin and palms and the prideful cant of her head belied her station.
    “I’ll untie these knots if you will promise not to try to escape.”
    “I won’t try to escape as I have nowhere to go,” she said in a flat tone.
    “Still, I will have your promise.”
    “All right,” she huffed. “I promise not to try to escape.”
    He set her away from him and reached for her bound hands. Her steady stare, nearly level with his own, disturbed him.
    When she was free, she bent to untie her feet, and then stood rubbing the marks on her wrists as she glared. “What do I call you?”
    “I am Lord Rufus of Rathburn Keep.”
    “My name’s Jacq. Jacq Frazier.” She stuck her hand out, but withdrew it when he stared down at it.
    Just what was she about? Did she want to hold hands? “Jack Frazier?” He frowned and his eyebrows nearly met in the middle his expression was so fierce. “What manner of mother would give her daughter a name more fit for a man?”
    She straightened, and her chin came up. “Where I’m from, it’s quite common for women to have masculine names. Besides, it’s short for Jacqueline.”
    “Jacq is not seemly.”
    She tossed her hair over her shoulders and tilted her chin in challenge. “Well, it’s my name.”
    He liked her anger more than her melancholy. Not understanding his need to prick her, he said, “I won’t call you Jacq. Then again, you are very large. Perhaps I am assuming too much. Are you even a woman?” His gaze dropped to her breasts, and he brought his hands up. Before she could utter a protest, he caught her around the rib cage, and pressed his fingers against her breasts, roughly testing the tender flesh through the thick material of her gown. She was a woman all right!
    She knocked his hands away and took up a fighting stance, hands balled into fists.
    “Don’t ever do that again!” Her cheeks flamed.
    Rufus pressed his lips