Faking Love To Save The General

Eulah dropped the wooden pole. It clattered loudly against the cobblestones.

She took a deep breath, forcing her brain to completely shut off the pain signals screaming from her right ankle.

She exploded forward.

She dragged her broken leg, throwing her entire body weight toward the front of the moving convoy.

The massive, armored warhorses pulling the lead carriage panicked at the sudden human figure darting into their path. They reared up, their iron-shod hooves kicking at the air.

The carriage driver cursed loudly, hauling back on the thick leather reins with all his might. The heavy wooden wheels locked, skidding over the stones. The carriage lurched to a violent halt, stopping less than two feet from Eulah's face.

Instantly, the heavily armed guards flanking the convoy drew their longswords. The sharp shing of steel filled the air as they formed a tight circle around her.

Flint Wright, the Chief Guard, spurred his horse forward. He pointed the razor-sharp tip of his sword directly at Eulah's throat.

"Step back, assassin!" Flint barked, his voice cold and commanding. "Move, or I will cut you down where you stand!"

Eulah completely ignored the deadly blade resting against her windpipe.

She tilted her head up, making sure the bright morning sun fully illuminated her dirt-streaked, blood-splattered face.

She opened her mouth and screamed Daryl's name. She screamed it so loudly her vocal cords burned, her voice echoing down the entire avenue.

The early morning crowd-merchants, minor nobles, and commoners-froze. They turned their heads, drawn like magnets to the sudden chaos.

Eulah forced her eyes wide. She let tears well up and spill over her lashes. She perfectly mimicked the manic, desperate look of a woman driven insane by unrequited love.

"Lord Langley!" she wailed, her voice trembling with manufactured desperation. "I threw myself from my horse just to catch a glimpse of you! You cannot ignore me!"

Whispers erupted from the gathering crowd. Someone pointed a finger.

"Is that... is that the Duke's daughter? Eulah Merrill?"

The gossip spread like wildfire. The murmurs grew into a loud, buzzing hum of scandalized disbelief.

Flint's hand hesitated. His sword wavered slightly. He was trained to kill assassins, but butchering a high-ranking Duke's daughter in the middle of the street was a political nightmare he wasn't prepared to handle.

Inside the carriage, a hand reached out.

It was clad in a black leather glove. The fingers slowly pushed aside the heavy, black velvet curtain covering the window.

Lord Daryl Langley's face appeared in the shadows.

His features were sharp, carved from marble. He looked utterly cold, utterly devoid of human emotion. His grayish-blue eyes stared down at Eulah with the detached calculation of a predator assessing a very annoying insect.

Daryl's gaze swept over her. He noted the thin, bleeding scratch on her neck from Flint's sword. He noted the unnatural, sickening angle of her right ankle.

"What is the meaning of this?" Daryl asked. His voice was low, flat, and carried effortlessly over the noise of the crowd.

Eulah met his terrifying gaze. She pressed both hands over her heart, leaning into the ridiculous, lovesick persona.

"Your bravery on the battlefield has stolen my soul, My Lord!" she cried out, her voice cracking perfectly. "I cannot sleep! I cannot eat! I had to stop you, even if it cost me my life!"

In the crowd, several noblewomen gasped in horror, snapping their silk fans open to hide their flushed, embarrassed faces. It was social suicide.

Daryl's dark eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown. He was clearly disgusted by this pathetic, public display.

"Flint," Daryl ordered, his tone dripping with ice. "Drag this madwoman away. Do not delay my audience with the King."

Flint immediately swung down from his horse. He reached out, his large hands aiming to grab Eulah by the arms and haul her off the street.

Eulah watched his hands move.

The second before Flint touched her, she let all the tension drop from her muscles. She went completely limp, like a puppet with its strings cut.

She angled her fall perfectly, dodging Flint's grasp.

Her upper body slammed hard against the wooden step attached to the carriage door.

The impact jarred her broken right ankle.

A genuine, blood-curdling scream ripped from her throat. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving straight into her brain.

She dug her fingernails into the polished wood of the carriage doorframe, clinging to it like a lifeline. She lifted her tear-stained, dirt-covered face and looked desperately into the dark carriage.