The roar of thunder jolted the Duchess Miranda du Lac from her exhausted slumber, and for a moment, she forgot where she was, panic taking hold at the sight of the immense drop below her. Gods, Sandsmark’s men left me up here all night, didn’t they? the red-haired beauty reflected inwardly, flexing once more against her hated bonds. A night’s desperate struggles had done nothing to loosen the ropes binding her wrists behind her back; likewise, the coils encircling her waist, ankles and above and below her breasts remained steadfast. Then again, considering that it was from these bonds that the ropes suspending her from the beam were connected, even if she had slipped free in the darkness, her only reward would have been a hundred-foot drop down onto the plains before the city’s main gate.

Shuddering, Miranda fought to keep her despair in check, a battle as hard as any her husband Robert had experienced. That he and the entire Third Army had returned from the Ravenwatch Marches to besiege the city was of small comfort, for in their desperation, the self-appointed Lord Protector Sandsmark and his rebels had strung her up here, a hostage to ward off any attempts to capture the city. Whether that would work? Robert was a man of duty and honour, and for all he loved her, he’d been a soldier for far longer. He was not the sort of man to allow a foe to go unchallenged, especially one that threatened to throw all Arkland into chaos… or that had taken his wife as a captive. Gods, if only I could have seen him one last time before the end…

Then the thunder boomed once again, impossibly close, and Miranda cursed her fatigue for obscuring the truth from her, staring out over to the hills west of the city, where the Third Army seethed with activity beneath a cloudless sky. This was no thunder, but cannon fire, eighteen-pounder shot punching hard into the towers and ramparts on either side of her across the western wall, dislodging the rebels’ own wall guns, and sending broken stone and men crashing to the earth. Moments later, they were joined by the distinctive snap-crack of rifles, and Miranda craned her neck to see three of the men assigned to send her plummeting to her death at the first sign of a fight draped lifelessly over the battlements, the rest cowering from the lash of the suppressive fire, any eagerness to kill a member of the gentry squashed by the Third’s marksmen. Far below, she caught a glimpse of ladder parties moving to scale the wall, yet if the cough of muskets behind her was any proof, then many of their fellows were already inside the city—indeed, in the very tower. I’m actually going to be rescued, Miranda realized, hope kindling afresh at her breast, and she shook a stray tress of red hair from her vision, blue eyes eagerly seeking a glimpse of her husband amidst the chaos.

“Worthless scum!” the angry cry sounded at the top of the tower, and Miranda’s heart sank to behold the self-professed Lord Protector Sandsmark; revolutionary, ideologue, traitor and architect of her capture, his face red with uncontrolled anger as all his plans fell to pieces before his very eyes. “Get up and fight, you bastards!” he raged at his followers. “You want the royalists to capture the city? You want to bow to the whims of a fat king and spoiled nobles again? Stand and fight!”

His gaze falling upon the helpless noblewoman, Sandsmark advanced towards the base of the beam, radiating anger, and Miranda gave a frightened moan at seeing the hatchet in his right hand. “Highborn bitch,” he spat, heedless of the bullets that smacked against the stone around him. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since this started, and I should have cut your pretty throat the instant I took you captive.”

The hatchet rose like an executioner’s blade. “MMMPPPPGGGHHHH!” Miranda screamed, the stoic dignity she’d tried so hard to maintain forgotten with death a downward stroke away.

“No matter. At least your brute of a husband won’t--”

The Lord Protector suddenly fell silent mid-rant, gazing downwards at the length of bright steel jutting out of his chest. Heart pounding, Miranda watched as her captor fell, blood gushing from the wound, and a wave of utter relief washed over her as she beheld the man who wielded it, every line of his rugged, scarred, mustached face intimately familiar.

“Bastard,” General Robert Julian du Lac cursed, blue greatcoat stained with blood, ripping his Heavy Cavalry sword free of his enemy’s back before plunging it deep into the neck in a final coup de grace. That was enough for the surviving revolutionaries in the tower, and as one, they shattered like a wineglass underfoot, eagerly pursued by the blue-jacketed soldiers of the Third Army. A few lingered, momentarily distracted by the Duchess’ naked, shapely bosom, and Robert sent them on their way with a snarl. “There’s a fight! Go and bloody join it!” he snapped, turning his attention to the wooden crank that extended the beam. A few minutes spent struggling with the mechanism, and a few precise cuts with his blade, and Miranda’s imprisonment finally came to an end, her pale figure shuddering with exhaustion and relief in her husband’s loving arms. “Are you all right, love? Here, let me help you with that damned gag.”

Nodding wearily, Miranda waited patiently as Robert unclasped the leather straps holding her muzzle in place, her first free breaths sweeter than the finest wine. “You came for me, I just knew it!” she declared, clinging to him like a shipwrecked mariner holding onto a broken spar to stay afloat. “Please tell me this is someone else’s blood.”

“Haven’t got a scratch, darling, which is more than these buggers can say,” Robert stated, casting a vengeful glare towards Sandsmark’s body. “I’ll never let something like this happen again, I swear it. By the time we’re done here, not one of Sandsmark’s rabble will live to hurt you any more.”

“Just… be careful not to hurt any innocents,” urged the red-haired beauty. “I’m not the only one who suffered at the hands of Sandsmark’s regime, and if you end up punishing the innocent along with the guilty, you’ll only end up proving him right.”

“I know,” Robert said, kissing her deeply. “I’ll make sure you’re safe and protected back at our camp before I head back to the front line.”

“Are you sure about that? I know how important it is for you to be there for your men.”

“Just this once, love, I’m going to be selfish.” Draping his greatcoat over his wife to preserve her modesty, Robert scooped her up in his arms, just as he did on their wedding day. “Shall we?”

“Lead on, good sir,” Miranda quipped, resting her head against his broad chest. Yes, if Robert was here, then the fight was all but won, and the capital all but recaptured…