Faking Love To Save The General

Eulah landed in the dirt of the back garden, her knees bending to absorb the shock. She kept low, using the tall, manicured rose bushes to hide her movements as she sprinted toward the rear entrance of the stables. She slipped through the wooden back door. The air inside smelled strongly of hay and horse sweat. The stable boy was slumped on a stool near the front entrance, snoring softly. Eulah moved silently. She found a massive, purebred black stallion in the third stall. She quickly unhooked his leather lead rope. There was no time to fetch a heavy leather saddle and strap it on. Every second counted. She grabbed a handful of the horse's coarse mane and hauled herself up. She swung her leg over, settling onto the horse's bare, slippery back. Eulah squeezed her thighs tightly against the horse's ribs. The stallion let out a sharp whinny and bolted. They exploded out of the stable enclosure. The estate guards stationed at the front gate heard the commotion. They spun around, raising their long, iron-tipped halberds to block the path. Eulah didn't slow down. She raised the leather riding crop and brought it down hard on the horse's flank. The stallion surged forward, its powerful front legs leaving the ground. They cleared the guards' heads by inches. The horse's iron shoes slammed onto the cobblestone streets outside the estate, kicking up a cloud of gray dust. The morning streets of the capital were already busy. Merchants pushing wooden carts and pedestrians carrying baskets screamed and scattered as the massive black horse tore through the narrow avenues. The wind whipped violently against Eulah's face. It tore the pins from her hair, sending long, dark strands whipping around her face. She flattened her upper body against the horse's neck, ignoring the burning in her thighs. Her eyes were locked on the horizon. The golden, domed roofs of the Royal Palace were getting closer. Suddenly, at a busy intersection, a heavy wagon loaded with massive oak logs lost control. The draft horses panicked, dragging the wagon sideways, completely blocking the street. Eulah yanked back on the leather reins with all her strength, desperately trying to force her horse to turn. The black stallion reared up on its hind legs, letting out a terrified, ear-piercing scream. Without a saddle or stirrups to anchor her, the violent, upward jerk destroyed Eulah's center of gravity. She was launched off the horse's back. She flew through the air in a terrifying arc. Her body slammed onto the unforgiving cobblestone street. She rolled violently, her shoulders and hips taking the brutal impacts. A sickening, blinding pain erupted from her right ankle. It felt as if the bones had been grabbed and twisted until they snapped. Pedestrians gasped. A crowd quickly formed a circle around the fallen noblewoman, murmuring in shock. A few reached out, offering hands to help her up. Eulah bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard the skin split. The metallic taste of fresh blood flooded her mouth, shocking her brain past the haze of agony. She slapped away the hands reaching for her. She pressed her palms flat against the rough stones and pushed herself up. The moment she put weight on her right foot, a tearing, agonizing pain shot up her leg. Her knee buckled. She almost collapsed back into the dirt. Cold sweat instantly drenched the back of her riding shirt. It stuck to her skin like ice. But when she looked up, her eyes were feral. Like a cornered wolf. The heavy, bronze bell in the palace clock tower began to toll. Dong. Dong. Dong. Time was up. Daryl was arriving. Eulah dragged her useless right leg behind her. She limped forward. Every single step caused the broken bones in her ankle to grind against each other. It was a suffocating, nauseating torture. She passed a fruit vendor's stall. She reached out and snatched a thick, sturdy wooden pole used to prop up the awning. The vendor opened his mouth to yell at her. Eulah reached up, her fingers gripping the heavy, jewel-encrusted silver clasp at the collar of her riding habit. With a violent yank, she tore it free, ripping the fabric, and threw the expensive piece of jewelry directly at his chest. The man caught the glittering silver and snapped his mouth shut. She used the pole as a crutch. Her expensive riding habit was torn, covered in street grime and her own blood. She looked like a beggar, but the sheer, terrifying aura radiating from her made the crowd part like the sea. At the end of the wide avenue, the massive, black iron gates of the Royal Palace loomed. And rolling slowly toward those gates was a heavily armored convoy of carriages, each bearing the silver wolf crest of the Langley family.