Jacq's Warlord by Delilah Devlin, Myla Jackson Page B

protection galled her.
    She picked up a short sword that looked like a dagger and tested its sharp edge gingerly with her thumb. Next, she lifted the broadsword—or rather tried to. The point fell directly to the ground due to the unexpected heaviness of the blade. The sword she’d used in the mock mêlée was much lighter.
    With her legs braced apart, she strained to give a couple of practice swipes in the air, before returning the weapon to the stack in exactly the same position she first found it.
    Bored now, she moved aimlessly around the tent until the discomfort struck her.
    She needed to pee. With a deep breath to gird herself for the confrontation and smell, she went once more to the entrance. She stepped out and eyed her new guard.
    “I have to relieve myself,” she said, knowing her face betrayed a mutinous pout.
    Any pretense of civility with this man was a waste of time.
    He stared at her for a long moment, and she was almost ready to tell him to go to hell and return to the tent, when he stepped aside to let her exit.
    Relieved, she walked toward the edge of camp.
    Her hairy, odiferous sentinel followed close behind.
    When she reached the privacy of the bushes she turned to him and said, “If you will just give me a moment…”
    He didn’t move, and his face remained impassive. Hints were obviously lost on this imbecile.
    “Look, I need a little privacy to take care of business,” she insisted.
    Still his expression didn’t alter.
    She took a deep breath, and felt her face heat up as she realized he had no intention of letting her out of his sight. “I take it you expect to watch me?” she asked, disbelieving.
    She knew who was responsible for this latest humiliation. “Fine!” she said in exasperation, and squatted where she stood. Her long skirts served as a shield, and she concentrated on holding them as far away from her as she could to keep from wetting the fabric. She did her best to ignore his presence, but it didn’t work. Her flow wouldn’t start, and she glared at him as she crouched, despising him, Lord Rat-face and the way her eyes teared at this latest humiliation.
    “I can’t do this while you watch me.” Her voice trembled, adding to her list of reasons to hate the man responsible for her predicament.
    Her jailor’s scowl deepened and he turned sideways to stare directly ahead. He could still see her from the corner of his eye, but his intense glare didn’t pin her to the dirt.
    60
    Jacq’s Warlord
    Surprised at this little bit of sensitivity in a man so noticeably unfazed, Jacq was able to finish the job.
    She stomped all the way back to the camp. All those ridiculously soft and feminine thoughts she had been thinking of Lord Rufus earlier withered. Whatever magic had deposited her here would just have to be reversed. She would not be attracted to a man with so little respect for women. No way! She didn’t belong here.
    * * * * *
    Still itching for a fight, Rufus found Percy’s men pitching tents and setting up camp. Unfortunately, not a one was practicing the art of war. He considered telling them they wasted their time because they would be moving out the following day, when he heard footsteps from behind. He turned to face Percival of Sedgwick.
    “Rufus, I’m dreadfully sorry we weren’t here to lend our support yesterday. It saddened me to hear of Albermarle’s death—how dreadful it must have been.”
    The tic twitched at the corner of Rufus’ eye, otherwise he managed to keep his face clear of the irritation he felt.
    As Percy drew abreast, Rufus noted he had removed his mail and changed the leggings he had muddied in his scrape with Jacq. Despite his condolences, the man looked less than remorseful, almost as if he were a bit on edge.
    Rufus wondered at the alertness he sensed in the other man. “Yes. We might all have been dead if the weather hadn’t given us an unexpected respite. God was on our side yesterday.”
    “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to lend