That it was all part of a trap was obvious. That she was the bait to lure her husband into it was equally apparent.

But knowing those facts didn’t make the Duchess Miranda du Lac feel any better. Indeed, it only inspired the beautiful redhead to persist in her struggles, elegant frame straining against the ropes that held her fast. Beneath her, the wagon rumbled on, its wooden frame shuddering as it passed over each bump and rut in the road, while the old sailcloth that covered the wagon’s bed did an excellent job of concealing the beautiful noblewoman from onlookers who might be tempted to help. Not that such help was likely to be forthcoming. Fewer regions of the Kingdom of Arkland were as thinly peopled and inhospitable as Stormfen. Between the great winter storms that came howling from the Sea of Frost to the endless bogs and marshlands in which many an unwary traveller had vanished completely, it was aptly named, and only the hardiest folk managed to endure it, few of whom would be travelling on the same bad road today. The state of that road also reflected how distant and unimportant the region was. Like many of Arkland’s fringe territories, the authority of the King was tenuous here, the laws only grudgingly enforced, and by and large, the people of Stormfen simply sent their taxes southwards then carried on their lives as they always had. There would be few constables or road-wardens on patrol, not enough to bring down the band of ruffians if they did realize what exactly they were transporting.

And even if someone did find her? Well, the flintlock pistol levelled at her breast told her precisely how her captors would respond, and a frightened moan escaped the cloth bound over her mouth at the thought. “Expecting sympathy from me, you highborn bitch?” a harsh female voice demanded, brown eyes made harsh by hatred and disappointment staring daggers at the lovely redhead. “And I thought they said you had the only functioning brain in the nobility.”

“Mmmppggghh!” Miranda shouted, terror sending her heart racing. In the sixth months since the Glorious Revolution was put down, thanks to the heroic efforts of her husband, General Robert du Lac, Miranda had done her utmost to try and address the social problems that sparked the rebellion in the first place. The so-called Lord Protector Sandsmark had been little more than a power-hungry bully, even before he took her prisoner, yet the many thousands of desperate people who’d flocked to his banner did not come from nowhere. They’d been lured by the promise of a better future and the chance to avenge themselves upon the nobility who’d gorged themselves on the kingdom’s wealth and left them with nothing, and such sentiments would not vanish simply because the formal rebellion was over. As such, even while the King and most of her aristocratic colleagues either returned to their old ways or cracked down on the peasantry even harder, Miranda took it upon herself to tour the kingdom and reach out to the common folk, to learn from them and do her best to alleviate their struggles.

It was on this progress that she had been abducted, the shelter provided by a local manor proving the perfect lure for the noblewoman and her escort, weary from long days on the roads and soaked to the bone by a sudden cloudburst rolling in off the ocean. A drugged cup of tea was enough to leave her vulnerable, while her abductors, posing as servants, had managed to smuggle her away without the crack company of her husband’s riflemen noticing until they were leagues distant. Now she lay completely at the mercy of her abductors, ropes tight at her ankles, wrists and beneath her breasts, a cloth gag stifling her cries, and the threat of the guard and her weapon to ensure she remained secured. Hands left callused from years of manual labour clumsily plucked at the hem of her long blue dress, the damp material clinging to her more feminine dimensions, and a fresh sneer broke across crooked teeth. “You think a few kind words and paltry donations can make us forget what you and your bastard husband have done? We’re all slaves of the nobles again, thanks to you two. Wren was right. The only way things will change is if we get rid of each and every last one of you prancing scum.”

The stoic resolve that had served her so well as Sandsmark’s hostage returned to aid her once more, and she did not flinch as her captor tore at the seam of her dress to expose long, pale legs. “Oh, yeah, those are some nice gams. Just the sort of thing we need to lure your husband in.”

“Mmmmpggghh!”

“What did you expect? We can hardly get our freedom with the King’s favourite attack dog just waiting for an opportunity to put his boot on our necks, so he’s gotta go. I imagine it’ll take a few weeks before everything is prepared, so get comfy. You’ll be staying at the hideout ‘til then.” Again, crooked teeth flashed. “Need the perfect bait to lure him in, right?”

Oh, please, not after everything we’ve been through! Miranda shook her head in dismay, long red hair swirling. “MMMPPGGGHHH!”

“Oh, we’re not going to hurt you… at least not yet. Wren wants you alive and intact. After that?” The rebel shrugged. “As any fisherman knows, once you’ve lured in the prize, you might as well cut bait…”