“Yes, my brother found me. I was not destined to be a concubine.”
“And this young boy is?” The lad hid his face in his mother’s skirt.
“My son, Rudolf.” She pulled him by the hand. “Please greet the effendi.”
The little boy gave a toothless smile. The revelations continued to astound. To meet Yasmin and her son, whose name was similar to one of his? A grandmother, wizened and curious? A copper-haired, blue-eyed boy? He had no choice but to ask, “Yasmin, if I have any obligation to you, you must let me know.”
Her response was quick and firm. “Effendi, my son is named after his father, our leader.”
Relief spread over him, yet the grandmother gave Yasmin a hard stare.
“My grandmother is an honored member of our tribe. She has the gift of sight. Why not let her read your cards?” She pointed to a table and seats, rough-hewn with no backs, placed along the riverbank. “She will not charge you; it would be a gift for all your goodness to me.”
He agreed for Yasmin’s sake and saw no harm to humor them, but he found himself in wonder of the olive-skinned little boy with red hair and startling blue eyes. He couldn’t help that he computed the child’s possible age with the events of his past.
With a motion for them to sit, Yasmin addressed him. “My grandmother is simply called Madame Olga.”
Seated now, he asked, “Your boy is handsome. How old is he?”
“Almost five and a half years. Time has flown since we last met, effendi.” She averted her gaze away.
He sat across from the old woman who drew five cards and placed them facedown before him. She turned the first card over, the Knight of Swords. “You are ready for battle, no? You are quick to judge but severely critical of yourself.” Olga nonchalantly flipped over the next card, The Tower. “I see a great change in your life. You will release the demon from your soul, and you will come to know the truth, gallant one, so let go and allow your deity to fill you.”
Though now uncomfortable, he observed, no longer in amusement, but with significant interest. Olga turned over the third card, the Wheel of Fortune. “You are blessed, soldier. Good things will come your way when you face yourself. Let go, warrior, and embrace the gifts given you.”
The fourth card she flipped without interruption in her flow of speech: “Judgment. All you have ever hoped for can be yours. You are like the caterpillar that has transformed to a butterfly. You must fly, or you will die. It is too late to turn back.”
The last card Olga turned sideways—the card of The Lovers. She chuckled. “It is love that has this warrior bound. Do you love yourself enough, Colonel? You will face a test, and you will have a choice. Therefore, choose wisely, oh, great warrior.”
A cold breeze filtered through the air. Madame Olga laughed at this last card, grabbed his hand, and cackled. “You are on a journey to right this card and conquer the obstacle that crosses you.”
“I don’t understand. What obstacle? Explain yourself.” Is this woman a charlatan?
Olga chortled. She squinted her semi-blind eyes and opened them wide, looking past Wolferton and peered into the realm beyond. “Allah spares you for a greater purpose. You have suffered long, and now you must choose a life of love or torment. You have prayed for redemption, and Allah has answered. By the grace of your ancestors, you must find your way. Cast out evil and embrace goodness. Follow the path of the wolf and the one who guides you with blazing sword, and cultivate the flower that grows from the tears of torture.”
“Bloody hell,” the words escaped. How could she know of the Guardians?
She pointed a gnarled finger at him. “Your men look to you, but I see a great change, one that you can’t earn on the battlefield. Ah, but you are guided by forces beyond your knowledge and are yet to experience your greatest challenge. This event will change you forever, and you must stand before yourself in truth. Do not let love cross you, embrace it.”
Madame Olga dropped her intensity at this point and said with clarity, “It is a woman who will bring you to terms. What is your birth date?” she asked in apparent fatigue. The session took a great effort.
Wolferton answered, “August eight, seventeen eighty nine.”
With numbers committed to the heart through her lifetime, she calculated out loud. “Eight plus eight equals sixteen plus one, plus seven, plus eight, plus nine equals forty-one, or ultimately four plus one equals five.”
As her words trickled through, he touched each card and studied the images.
The little boy wriggled.
Yasmin peered at Wolferton’s face.
Halbert’s expression was one of curiosity.
The gypsy’s glazed eyes pierced through him.
He spoke after the long moments of silence, “It is of interest that you reference numerology. So you contend these numbers and these cards tell you things no one knows but myself?”
She nodded. “The woman in the cards, do you know her date of birth?” Olga asked with quiet and a hard gaze to Yasmin. He placed his right hand to his temple. And now he was in front of a seer who asked the birth date of the woman he was predestined to mate. The other important woman in his life was Isabella. She was gone from him. Yasmin was now married. It was neither of them. The only birth date he knew by heart was that of his very young ward, Jaclyn. Then he remembered May 2, 1807, and told Madame Olga so. He didn't want to know any more and wanted to get the hell out of there. Bloody hell!
She recalculated with closed lids. “Five plus two plus one, plus eight, minus zero, plus seven equals twenty-three, or two plus three equals five. Her birth number and yours are the same. It is Kismet.”
“Thank you for the information. Forgive me, Madam. I do not believe in numbers, but I do believe in destiny. I do not, however, know how you read me so well from a deck of cards.”
She ran her hands along her cheeks, then packed up her cards, and spoke in a softly accented voice. “I believe cards never lie nor do the numbers. Amongst your other qualities, you tend to insist upon control of situations, thus no room for others to have a chance to lead, Colonel, yet there are supernatural forces working on your behalf if you allow it.”
Halbert interjected, “Yes, that’s true. He never collaborated with others once he got his orders. He gathered us, gave instructions, and off we went to follow him. I will say he never lagged behind but was in the forefront always ready to challenge death.”
Wolferton laughed riotously. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she paid you to say that.” He smacked his hands on his thighs, continued with a grin, “Come, Halbert, it’s time to go.” He arose from the hard bench and handed the gypsy two gold coins. As if her sight fully returned, she clasped them tightly. To the little boy, he gave a similar amount. “Thank you, Madame Olga. I found this session of interest.” He turned to Yasmin. “I’m glad our paths crossed again. May good fortune shine on you, your husband and your boy.” The age of the boy did not escape his notice. Another number five!
He turned to leave when the Madame Olga asked, “Is there any significance to the number eleven? Your family name, Radolf, is an eleven.”
“No,” he lied. His steel-like expression to Halbert was the signal for him not to say another word. After all, these were gypsies who manufactured tales to suit, but she hit too close to the truth. The duke who saved the red wolf family was the eleventh duke in the eleventh century when the special supernatural powers of the guardians became protective of the Wolferton clan. He and Halbert took their leave and kept an eagle’s eye out for gypsy men who might follow them.
Wolferton quickened his walk. “This encounter was unexpected. It amazes me how myths, destinies, fortuneteller and seers’ predictions become gospels of truth.” He thought he heard a noise and his hand went to his holster. He turned but saw no one. Then he added, “He can’t be my son for I always wore protection.”
“Then the fates have been good to you that the protection did not break,” Halbert spoke, his hand on his holster
too.
“Something nags me that we should go back and seek more information. The boy looks much like me.” He turned, but that was no longer an option. A band of gypsy men on horses strung across the road spoke to each other in their language and raised their guns and fists.
“Too late, Halbert. Let’s get the bloody hell back to town. Maybe it is my destiny never to know the entire truth.”
They hurried their steps and soon were out of sight. He would later send Halbert to reconnoiter the gypsy camp. There was no one with more stealth who could accomplish such a deed. A day later, Halbert reported back that the camp disbanded and he could not find out where the gypsies headed.
“So be it,” Wolferton said. “Destiny has spoken.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Haunted
Yanked back to the present at the liquor cabinet in his study, Radolf poured a too-generous portion of cognac, sat in a chair, and faced the stained glass. “You, Golden Boy of deliverance, what do you have in store for me?” He gulped the glass empty and rose to pour another portion. “Am I a five or an eleven? His mind reeled, forehead creased. There were five guardian stained glass windows. Five was his and Jaclyn’s birth number; and it had been five years since he last slept with a woman. Of course, the five-year old boy he met in Turkey, Yasmin’s son would now be ten years old. So strange, Jaclyn trusts me. Trust is a five letter word,” he muttered.
His inner thoughts haunted and he could hear his voice, but it didn’t belong to him. The sound was the same, but it didn’t come forth. Every breath he took tormented. A part of him wanted Jaclyn. How could he endure this ache if he could not have her forever?
He went to the window, his hand raised, and his voice ranted, “How long is forever in your world, Golden Boy? A second? An hour? A lifetime? An eternity? If only Jaclyn and I can see and hear you, is it a manifestation of the legend? When did you start loud moans and howls? Did I not notice? Was I too blind? Are Jaclyn and I predestined to become life soul mates?”
He removed all his garments and donned his Turkish kaftan, relishing the feel of the imported silk on his naked body. The satin-lined curled-toe slippers cooled his weary feet. He glanced to the glint of hair that peeked through the deep v-neck of the garment. He thought to have it shaved like most of the Turks but found he held a fondness for his red hair. It set him apart from the Turks. Restless as hell, he paced back and forth. The more he paced, the more he fumed. Was his past a punishment in exchange for his future? Control. He needed to rein in his enraged emotions. He stopped and went to his chair. He leaned back into it and waited for some sign from the archangel. There were no sounds, no light streams, and no color changes. “I didn’t think you were a coward,” he spoke out loud. “Is this how you protect me?”
He spoke again. “Are you and I to have a gladiator fight to the death for the soul of this woman? Sometimes to defeat evil, one must work hard against the devil. Or one must embrace him. Which are you—evil or good—Golden Boy or Black Satan in disguise?”
The room brightened. A golden light streamed across the room to a shelf. It landed on a book, and with the bright force, the book slipped out of place and fell to the ground. Astounded, Wolferton inched away and gazed back and forth. Mesmerized, he watched pages fan open and stop. The light force withdrew. The book lay on the carpet. He listened, heard nothing, and he then went to retrieve the book. Hot to the touch, the singed chapter heading read, “Numerology: The importance of the Master Number Eleven.”
“Bloody hell,” he said under his breath.
A tap sounded on his door. “I do not wish to be disturbed!” he fumed. “Halbert, if it’s you, the house better be on fire, because I am.”
Then he hesitated, what if the devil he challenged had come to fight for his mortal soul? What weapons could he use to protect himself? Had the drinks addled his brain? No, he drank a bit, true, but his constitution was used to heavy spirits, and during his years in the war, the occasion always warranted. The Guardians were quiet. A fear he never knew before snaked his spine, and his lower body tightened.
“Who’s there?” he called.
There was no answer.
The superstitious forces in his life were simply a matter of fact.
He strode to the door, glass in hand and opened it.
It wasn’t his batman, Halbert.
In front of Radolf stood a fearless, barefoot, and magnificent Jaclyn in her night wrapper. Relieved, but intrigued, his words echoed his thoughts. “Do I have something you want?”
“I heard you shout and wondered if you were all right. The conversation was noisy. Has the person gone?” Her concern was more than obvious.
“No,” Radolf answered. “He and his companion wolf live here with me.”
She peeked in. “I don’t understand. May I come in?”
He opened the door wide, primarily to scare the wits out of her. “I warn you. If you come in as a virgin, you may not leave in the same condition. Am I correct you are still a virgin?” He bowed in mock obeisance as she entered. The door closed behind her. With predatory eyes, Radolf peered as she strode to him, stood on her toes, and slapped him…hard, an imprint left on his cheek. Because the blow was unexpected, it rocked him back.
“It must be the liquor that spills such words. Do come in and sit down and I’ll present you to my—our guardians, Jaclyn.”
She sat next to him and stared at the window, which now glowed. “I’d introduce you formally, but they do not have given names. To me, they are Red Wolf and Golden Boy. He’s an archangel.”
“How much cognac have you consumed in a short time?”
“Not enough,” he answered.
She arose from the leather chair, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured herself a brandy. Jaclyn turned to him and then to the window, raised her glass. “Pleased to meet you.” She gulped the brew. The wolf’s eyes winked, and the angel’s mouth changed colors. “Do they also speak?” She refilled her glass and went to stare at the mythical figures.
“In the past, they only changed colors when they wanted to communicate. But now, since you’ve come, they utter sounds which are more like moans. Not sentences, just sounds.” He patted the chair beside him for her to sit.
“They are beautiful. Are we the only ones who can see them?” She turned to sit again in the chair.
“To the best of my knowledge, we are. The legend is that only the current duke and his true love can witness the manifestations. The guardians exist to protect us.”
“Radolf, do you have any idea what you’ve claimed? If I can see them, am I your true love?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know until now. I need to think and my brain is addled. Come, let’s go into the other room.” He dragged her to his private bedroom. “I never cared much for audiences.”
The moon dimly lit the room, but it was enough to see her raven-colored hair, and of course, those damn violet eyes. He drew her close so that there was nothing between them but slivers of cloth from his kaftan and her silk wrapper. His thumb worried her lower lip. Molten desire sluiced through him, an avalanche of lust. “You’re not afraid of me and what we might do?”
“No, I trust you,” Jaclyn answered.
“That is not the answer I wanted to hear.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Reckoning
Jaclyn’s heart knocked against her rib cage, not from fear but deprived of much-needed air. He was the danger represented in one kiss an hour ago. She cursed her heart that the memory of him still brought her ecstasy. His tousled wild hair, massive broad shoulders, scorched stares, and shadowed beard were what she read about in romance novels. A delightful shiver danced across the tops of her breasts. His sensual onslaught cut a swath through her needy body as his masculinity claimed her in every important place.
In total honesty, the reason she tapped on his door before she walked in was to tempt him, seduce him. Stories abounded among maidens that a man could not resist the allure of a naked, agr
eeable, and anxious woman ready to grant every desire. Was it truly so? She’d find out.
Her finger traced the hollow of his throat, all corded muscle, and glorious skin. Not to mention his hair that invited her hands to rake through like a comb. She became lost in the wonder of him. His dark blue eyes commanded without words. Jaclyn wanted to enter such glory and get sucked into his soul.
“You’ve expressed a desire to know more about the sexual side of men and women.” He bit his lips with his teeth. “Shall I tell you what Halifax would do to you? He would penetrate you with his manhood.” He spread his hands wide and pointed to his lower extremities. She didn’t know what to do—run to him or away from him—and his male organ. It didn’t seem romantic at all. Something was missing. The desire, the passion, the touching, and the scent of anxious bodies that took away the fear of a first-time. There were no sweet words whispered in her ear to make her experience the elusive thread of sensuality. Then sexuality would enter the equation? It occurred to her it was another one of his damn lessons. Clinical. Too clinical. Too cold.
An intense burn threatened to ignite her further as he moved a step away. She averted her gaze at the tented view of his manliness, a sight not common to her. In spite of how he tried to discourage her, the liquid of her core demanded to unite with his firm male member. She discovered lower muscles of which she was unaware—bothersome, yet glorious.
His hand tilted her head to his. “Yes, you are an innocent. Don’t be frightened. I won’t go further.”
The depraved woman she had indeed become opened her wrapper. The serpent devil invited. Then the sound of a wolf howled a mournful wail.
Radolf stilled all action and stepped further back. “I would have compromised you. No decent man would want you as a wife. Your future would become a choice of mistress, prostitute, or marriage to a much older man who already sired his heirs.”
A sensation of shame overcame her. Jaclyn snapped her head at him with widened eyes, waited to hear more, her entire body on fire, whether from desire or disgust at her reaction, she didn’t know. The word penetrate held a different vision. Gross or wonderful, or did it depend on the man who wielded the masculine weapon?
The Blue-Eyed Black-Hearted Duke Page 18
