The Duchess Miranda du Lac’s last night on earth was spent gazing forlornly out of the dungeon’s small window, praying for a rescue she knew would not come in time. The small hours of the night crept past with agonizing slowness in her prison, each breath bringing her that much closer to the hangman’s noose, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold night winds caressing her bare breasts passed through her, rattling the chains that held her fast.
Not for the first time, she tested her bonds, hoping against hope to find some means of escape, and once more found herself denied. The revolutionaries hadn’t even bothered to adjust her restraints after her show trail, for the most part, yet the heavy iron manacles binding her wrists behind her back remained secure as ever, as did those hobbling her ankles, while the tough leather belt strapped about her waist and connected to her wrist cuffs likewise proved unyielding. The addition of the iron collar about her neck that kept her chained to the wall and forced to stay standing in the tattered remains of her gown was but mere overkill. Blue eyes glanced about her cell for any means of escape and yet again came up empty. She was trapped, alone and utterly helpless, and a groan of despair escaped the stifling leather muzzle gag, the fears she’d tried so hard to keep in check welling up, threatening to overwhelm her.
Then, from beyond the oaken door to her cell, came the tramp of running footsteps and the jingle of keys, and the portal flung open to reveal the self-proclaimed Lord Protector Sandsmark, his clothes in disarray, face red with exertion and anger. “You!” he spat, levelling an accusing finger at the half-naked noblewoman. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
Shaking fingers reached out, unclasping the gag, and Miranda took a few deep breaths to steady herself before answering. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your damned husband! He showed up a few hours ago with his army, and now every entrance into the city is surrounded! We’re trapped!”
Miranda’s heart skipped a beat, and it was all she could do not to let out a cry of joy. The Third Army must have marched like a pack of demons were at their heels to make it back to the city so quickly, and in her mind’s eye, she saw Julian at their head, mustache bristling impatiently as he set the pace, every fiber of his being bent towards his wife’s salvation. “I told you he would come for me,” she reminded him calmly, letting neither the tattered state of her gown, her exposed bosom or her inescapable bondage strip her of her dignity. “But we can still stop this before it goes any further. Free me, Lord Protector. Let me return to my husband, and I swear, I will speak as an emissary on your behalf. He holds no great love for the King or the rest of the nobility, and together, we can address your concerns without the need for any further bloodshed. Enough innocents have suffered, but we can stop this before it goes any further.”
“So you would have us bend the knee to the same overprivileged fools who have ground us into the dirt for centuries,” snarled Sandsmark. “There can be no compromise in this, and no negotiation with our oppressors. You will serve as a hostage, madam, and if your husband does not swear loyalty to the Glorious Revolution, your head will be the price!”
He truly is feeling trapped, Miranda reflected. And it was no wonder; the revolutionaries had done well enough in overcoming the unprepared city guard in their initial conquest, not to mention the scattered bands of parade ground soldiers dispatched against them, but dealing with the professional, well-trained and battle-hardened troops of the Third Army was another matter entirely, particularly when directed by a tactician of her husband’s skill and cunning. “That is a choice he will never accept. Tell me, sir, is your revolution truly about addressing injustice, or merely about lashing out in a rage?”
Angrily, Sandsmark shoved the gag back into place, and Miranda gasped in pain as his hands yanked upon her long scarlet locks. “Nothing has changed, woman.” The collar clicked open, and Sandsmark frog-marched her out into the corridor, a quartet of guards moving to escort them, bayonets fixed. “You will tell your husband to stand down, or else…”
You two will go to war, and thousands of innocents will be caught in the crossfire, Miranda considered, paling at the thought. Gods, how am I going to get out of this?