“No, Captain, the seal says it is from His Grace Duke Rard,” he said. “And it was delivered by someone from Court, not a mere messenger from the Lord Marshal.”
“Oh, Ishi’s big bouncy boobs, Ham, how can I run this war if I keep getting all this ‘advice’ from more experienced generals?” I complained, as I stepped out of the steel leggings that protected my thighs and annoyed my horse.
“The court is just nervous with an untried commander in the field. And one that caused that much of a stir at Wilderhall bears some oversight, I’d imagine,” he added, philosophically.
“Probably just more helpful advice. Or worrying me about our progress. I wish they would be patient. We’ve only been in the field for three weeks, and I just encountered the enemy in force for the first time today! just won a battle – hopefully that should convince someone I know my arse from my elbow! Do they think I’m enjoying the brutal conditions in the field?” I asked, rhetorically.
“Shall I fetch the Captain’s lunch, then? Another bottle of the Gilmoran red?” he asked, obsequiously. And sarcastically. Hamlan was like that.
“Yes, please,” I sighed, stripping off my sweat-soaked tunic. “And a tub of water. I need to at least rinse the sweat off of me.”
“As you wish, Captain,” the young man said, walking toward the commissary tents, resigned to his fate . . . with an insolent smirk on his face. “And I shall tell them how vexed you will be if it isn’t properly aerated and chilled this time. Brutal battlefield conditions are no excuse for sloppy table service.”
I suppose I could have gotten a servant who wasn’t a smart ass. But Ham’s temerity irritated nearly all the noble-born commanders under my command, and that alone was worth his monthly wage. He was adept at campfire gossip and the procurement of petty luxuries. He woke me in the morning with breakfast, and put me to bed at night with spiced winter brandy and a pipe. And he had other talents. The fact that he was a demon with dice and a decent valet was just a bonus.
I sighed at his back and reluctantly went into my battered tent. It was a relic from the Farisian Campaign from a few years ago. Of course, it could be argued that I was, too.
Inside, I saw the messenger. Tall, brown hair, green eyes, pleasurably slender curves, and a bust that would make a monk whimper. Best yet, her lips were ripe, full, and ready. And achingly familiar.
“You weren’t exactly the messenger I was anticipating,” I said, faintly, as I inhaled her aroma. There was sweat and exertion and excitement, herbs and flowers and leather and excitement, all wrapped up in a soft warm blanket of femininity.
And she’s a first-class mage. And an adept Shadowmage. Let’s not forget that.
“I hope that I’m no less welcome, for that,” she said, softly. I noted that it would only take removing three buttons – no, two – to make that dress slip completely off of her shoulders. I extended a magical tendril of force to each one, flicked it, and just as I predicted she was naked in an instant.
“Nope,” I sighed, moving into her arms as I lowered the flap of the tent, “You’re quite welcome, all the more for being unexpected. You finished your errand at Vorone, then?”
She nodded, and smiled at me slyly. Those eyes . . . I could wander aimlessly for years in those pretty eyes. I covered her lips with mine and let our tongues duel it out. I’d like to think mine won, but I’ve fooled myself before. My hand went to her breast and found a nipple. “Is the message you carry of vital import, Lady Isily?”
“It can keep,” she sighed, thrusting her chin up as my lips found that sweet spot where her neck decides to become a shoulder and vice versa. “At least ten or fifteen minutes.”
“I applaud your sense of priority,” I sighed, as she unfastened my pants. “You know how much I hate waiting around.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 44