by Elise Marion
Somehow the phalanx around Isabelle had been broken, and now the only thing standing between her and certain death was Serge and the cold steel in his hand.
But, only if he could reach her first.
Two more enemies approached him from out of nowhere, and he cut them down with savage fury, never letting Isabelle out of his sight.
As the rebel approached, chuckling and taunting her, she swung the sword in a wide arc, just barely bouncing the point off the man’s breastplate. His chuckles grew louder as he advanced on her with slow steps, content to toy with her for a moment, his victory assured. She swung the weapon again, but this time missed entirely. The weight of the blade knocked her off balance and she fell back onto her rear. The sword fell onto the ground beside her with a heavy thud.
Serge raised his sword and lunged just as the man lifted his own weapon over Isabelle. Before either of their blades fell, the rebel soldier pitched forward and fell onto his face, a feathered arrow sticking straight up out of his back.
Relief flooded Serge as he knelt beside Isabelle on the ground. Giving her his hand, he pulled her into a sitting position.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, mouth agape as she stared up at him with wide eyes.
“Good,” he bellowed, dragging her to her feet and shoving her toward the carriage. “Because when this is over I am going to kill you for being so incredibly stupid! Get in and stay in, for the love of God!”
Once he’d all but thrown her back into the carriage and slammed the door shut on her vehement protests, he turned back to the dead rebel. Yanking the arrow from the man’s back, Serge studied the black feathers with a frown. There were no archers riding with them.
A cheer from his men broke through his thoughts, and he abandoned the arrow and tried to comprehend what was happening. In the distance, coming from the direction of Guthrie Hall, another group of riders approached. This one, though small, carried with them the Barony battle standard. Realizing this was where the arrow had come from, Serge let out of a whoop of joy, and jumped back into the fray with renewed vigor.
Within a few minutes, the newly arrived soldiers from Barony were close enough to release a volley of arrows. Each and every one found its way into the throat or chest of a rebel soldier, their bodies dropping like heavy lead weights.
Serge found himself stunned by the superior skill of these soldiers. They directed their horses with their knees, expertly weaving in and out of the other men, wielding their weapons with deadly precision. Their clothing flaunted the red and gold colors representative of Barony, and their armor gleamed in the afternoon sun, each breastplate etched with the realm’s coat of arms.
He watched as one somersaulted from the seat of his horse, wielding a long pole with a sharp blade at the end of it. As he swung the blade with precision, he lifted his leg and delivered two rapid kicks to another approaching opponent’s throat, rendering the man unconscious. He crouched down with the blade still in one hand, and swung it low to catch another two opponents at the backs of their legs, cutting both of them down before leaping back into the saddle of his horse.
Another stood a bit away from the others, holding one double-barreled rifle. A second rifle was strapped over his shoulder, along with a bow and a quiver of arrows. He lifted the rifle to one eye, aimed and fired. He did not even wait to see that his bullet has struck true before yanking back the hammer and firing again. He lifted the second rifle and fired two more shots, bringing his body count up to four. When both weapons had been emptied, he did not attempt to reload, choosing instead to remount his horse and lift his bow, firing arrows so swiftly, Serge hardly saw him pulling them from his quiver. Each one struck a death blow to the enemy.
As Serge brandished his second revolver and fired a bullet into the chest of one opponent before turning to the next, his eyes came to rest on another soldier from Barony, this one wielding twin battle-axes. He made his way through the rebels, swinging the weapons as if they weighed no more than twigs plucked from a tree.
A great cry went up from the men as the remaining rebels scrambled to retreat. Just as he raised his pistol along with his men to fire into the backs of the withdrawing cowards, the soldiers from Barony raised their bows and arrows as well. Bullets and arrows flew together swiftly before finding their marks; all but one rebel fell into the dirt. Serge raised the pistol containing his final shot, and closed one eye to take aim.
“Allow me, Your Grace,” said the soldier with the battle-axes from beside him.
Lifting one of the axes, he took a few long running steps before letting it fly. It spun through the air for several yards before landing in the final rebel’s back. And just like that, their attackers were vanquished, the princess kept safe from harm.
As the men began to search through the wounded and dead for their own, Serge addressed the axe-wielding soldier who stood beside him.
“Thank God you arrived when you did,” he said, extending his hand to the man. His grip was firm through his leather glove as they shook. “The rebels are more formidable than we could have imagined.”
Primus stepped forward with a smile. “We are grateful that you were watching for our return. As always, your timing was impeccable.”
The soldier and his men bowed in response, though none spoke. Serge studied them all with narrowed eyes. Something was different about these men. By all appearances, they were fierce and brave warriors, the likes of which he had never seen before. Yet something at the back of his mind begged for closer inspection. He knew there was something about these men that wasn’t right … but what was it?
“We certainly owe you our gratitude,” he said to the soldier he’d previously addressed, making out a pair of gray eyes through the slits of the helm he wore. “You have saved us, and your princess, from death or injury. I know she will wish to express her thanks once she meets you.”
“We are glad to be of service, Your Grace,” said the soldier.
It was in that moment, when the soldier spoke again, that Serge knew what was different about them.
“Damn it all to hell,” he whispered, as the captain reached up to remove his helmet.
Though the leather breeches, armor, and helm screamed masculinity, the shoulder-length, raven-black hair that came tumbling down around narrow shoulders told Serge the truth. This soldier was certainly not a man.
As he looked on in numb shock, the soldiers removed their helms one after the other, until they were revealed, each one in all of her stunning, intimidating, womanly glory.
Chapter 9
Isabelle tentatively peeked through the carriage window, pulling the curtain back with a shaking hand. Since everything had gone silent, she assumed it was all right for her to leave the carriage. Had they won? Were they now safe? Did the rebels wait for her to exit the carriage so they could capture or kill her? What of Serge? Surely, he wasn’t still angry with her for trying to defend Francis.
When she had seen her bodyguard fall at the hands of a rebel, she had been unable to sit idly by and watch him be killed, which would have happened if she hadn’t intervened. It had been humbling, to say the least, to find that wielding a sword proved much harder than fencing with a foil—the heavy, clumsy weapon not made for the sort of skill she possessed. But, she had done what she thought was right and wouldn’t feel sorry for it.
Of course, she could have been killed for her efforts, but decided not to dwell on that. Instead, she would set about thanking the soldiers who had arrived just in time.
After ensuring it was safe, Isabelle stepped down from the carriage, followed by Gayle.
“Are you certain this is prudent, my lady?” the maid asked, clutching her hand tight. “Perhaps we should stay inside the carriage until His Grace decides it’s safe.”
She gestured toward Serge, who stood speaking with the captain of the small regiment that had come to their rescue. “It looks safe enough to me. Come along, Gayle, I wish to thank those brave men for their assistanc
e.”
Practically dragging her maid along behind her, she stepped around dead and wounded soldiers, careful not to look at any of their faces. Seeing the carnage from the carriage had been difficult enough.
As she neared, she could hear Serge thanking the captain for his assistance. Then, the soldier removed his helmet.
Isabelle gasped and Gayle nearly choked. He was a she! One after the other, the soldiers revealed the feminine faces they’d been hiding. Even their figures had been disguised by their garments and armor.
“Damn it all to hell,” Serge whispered as she reached his side.
“Captain Ava Longley, at your service,” said the leader with a sweeping bow.
When Isabelle neared, the captain dropped to one knee and bowed her head. The other female soldiers followed suit.
“My lady,” she said. “It is an honor to stand in your presence.”
Motioning for her to rise, Isabelle placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “The honor is mine Captain. You have my undying gratitude for arriving just in time to aid our men.”
Serge, who had been stunned into silence until this very moment, spoke up. “Wait just one minute. Barony allows female knights?”
“I believe the laws are the same in Cardenas as they are here, Your Grace,” replied Ava, her stormy gray eyes narrowed as she glanced at him. “Women are not given the honor of knighthood. However, female soldiers and bodyguards are a long-standing tradition here.”
“That’s right,” said Primus with a smile. “I think you will find the women’s regiment to be as capable as any other.”
If the arrow that had appeared out of nowhere to save her life was any indication of these women’s skills, then Isabelle had no doubt. She studied the group curiously, her eyes locking with each and every one of them. Ava was quite lovely despite her manly garb, with angular features and olive skin set off by her dark hair and silvery-gray eyes. She stood a whole head taller than Isabelle, and even wearing armor the strength of her body was apparent. It was no wonder she’d been able to wield her battle-axes with such power and accuracy.
The rest of the women all came in a variety of shapes and sizes. One particularly large woman with her blond hair cut short around her ears, held a menacing club the size of a tree trunk in one hand. Another stood almost as tall as Serge, putting her at a height above many of the others. Her skin appeared darker than any Isabelle had ever seen, and gleamed in the afternoon sun like precious ebony. Her dark hair, shining with brown undertones, had been braided and coiled intricately about her head, the gleam of beads showing on the ends. She held a heavy bow in one hand, as did many of the women. A quiver of arrows and two rifles were strapped to her back.
At her side stood the petite soldier who’d wielded the deadly pole-blade, and was one of the smallest people she had ever seen. Isabelle hardly ever met anyone shorter than she was, but there the woman stood, no taller than five feet. She was so slender, Isabelle wondered how she had managed to wield such a heavy-looking weapon. Her midnight black hair was cut bluntly up to her chin. Her skin was fair, her black eyes tilted at the corners, assessing as she gazed at Isabelle with a heavy measure of curiosity.
“Well,” said Serge, breaking the silence. “I must say I am impressed. I have never known a woman who could fight as well as a man.”
“It is my opinion that all women should know how to defend themselves in some way,” Ava replied, glancing pointedly at Isabelle. “My lady, should you ever desire to learn how to really use a sword, I am always at your service.”
“I have been practicing fencing for some years now,” she replied, though the claim seemed like nothing compared to what these women could do. “But I’d welcome the chance to learn true swordplay.”
Before Ava could respond, Serge had taken Isabelle’s arm in an iron grip, and began steering her toward the carriage.
“That will not be necessary. Princess Isabelle has protection enough.”
Once he had pulled her closer to the carriage, he swung the door open, careful not to lose his grip on her arm. His mouth was pulled into a tight frown, eyes blazing with fury.
“The next time you pull a stunt like that, I’m going to throttle you. What in the hell could you have been thinking?”
Isabelle pulled against his hold in an attempt to free herself, but to no avail; Serge simply tightened his grip. It didn’t hurt, but his unrelenting grasp proved too strong for her to break.
“What was I supposed to do, stand back and watch Francis be killed?”
“Yes! He’s a bodyguard for Christ’s sake, so that’s exactly what you are supposed to do when he’s standing between you and a deadly threat.”
Primus appeared between them, plucking Isabelle’s arm from his grasp. “That is quite enough. There is no need to speak to her that way.”
“I’ll speak to her however please,” Serge said, his voice menacingly low. “Especially when she has so foolishly endangered her life.”
“I really don’t think...”
“In the future, I will not tolerate your interference where my wife is concerned.”
The tension that stretched between them in that moment grew so thick it was suffocating. Primus’ eyes widened, and his mouth fell open for a fraction of a second before he swiveled around to face Isabelle. She resented the guilt welling up in her at his stricken expression. She had no reason to feel that way when she had promised him nothing.
Still, she only felt worse when he asked, “Is this true, my lady? Have you promised Prince Serge your hand?”
“Yes. We had thought to save the news for after we reached Guthrie Hall, but I suppose the secret is out now.”
More silence followed, during which Isabelle glared at Serge, while her fiancé gave Primus a warning glare.
The grand vizier’s hand slipped away from her elbow, and he cleared his throat while taking a step away from her.
“Congratulations,” he said, before turning on his heel and walking back to where their men took count of their wounded and dead, and placed a few injured rebels in chains.
Looking quite pleased with himself, Serge turned back to her. “Now that he’s out of the way, we can get back to the matter at hand.”
Isabelle’s palm itched to connect with his arrogant face, but she shoved the tingling appendage into the pocket of her skirt. In his present state, she didn’t think he’d take too kindly to being struck, even if he did deserve it for his boorish behavior.
“You have made yourself quite clear,” she snapped. “Now, allow me to do the same. Should you ever threaten to throttle me again, I will seek out one of those women over there and ask to be taught to use a sword properly so I can run you through!”
With that, Isabelle fled toward the carriage.
* * *
Tears stung Isabelle’s eyes as they arrived at Guthrie Hall. Named for her ancestors, the formidable castle had been built into the side of a mountain looming high above them, blocking the light of the sun as they stood waiting for the gate to be opened. As they entered the courtyard enclosed by stone walls, something resounded deep within her, and the tears she’d been holding back began to flow.
She was home.
No, she could not remember the short time she had lived here, but entering this place resounded through her in a very real way. The stones seemed to hold all the secrets of her lineage, this particular courtyard even having soaked up the blood that had been spilled in the final battle during which she’d been secreted away.
Having been alerted of their arrival, a bevy of servants stood before the front steps leading into the keep, all watching and waiting for their lost princess who had now returned. They knelt when the soldiers parted to allow her through, many with tears in their eyes. Some whispered that she was the very image of her mother, others offered up prayers of thanks that she had finally come back to them. A handkerchief was pressed into her hand, and she accepted it with a sniff.
“Welcome home,” said Serge, draping arm
around her waist.
Her earlier irritation with him forgotten, she rested her head on his shoulder and enjoyed the moment. She’d worried for so many years how they would receive her, despite Gayle’s insistence that she’d be welcomed. These people did not know her, but accepted her anyway, simply because she was now here to take her rightful place.
Once she had composed herself and greeted the servants, she fell in step behind Primus, who ushered them proudly into the main hall. She gasped, sighing with wonder as she gazed at the opulent beauty found within the old stone walls. Veined marble floors gleamed below her feet, and painted angelic figures gazed down on her from the domed ceiling. Tapestries bearing the Guthrie family crest and the Barony coat of arms lined the walls, stretching from ceiling to floor. On the wall directly across from the heavy double doors hung two massive portraits. She pulled away from Serge’s embrace, and walked forward until she stood close enough to reach out and touch the paintings in gilded frames.
She had miniature replicas of her parents’ portraits, but nothing compared to what she saw now. Isabelle felt as if she was truly seeing them for the first time, and realized the miniatures did not do them justice.
Clearly, she had inherited her looks from the queen, who’d possessed the same light blond hair, pale blue eyes, and heart-shaped face. There was a gentleness portrayed here that did not come through in the miniature. Her father’s dark eyes twinkled with humor, and she could tell just by looking that he was a man who’d enjoyed a good joke. He was just as handsome as she had always imagined.
“He was a great man,” said Primus in a low, solemn voice. “She was a wonderful woman. You have much of them both in you, my lady.”
Still dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief, she nodded and managed a weak smile. “Could I be shown to my chambers now? I think I need to rest a while.”