A Woman’s Honor

by Andreya Stewart
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Married to the border lord who killed her brother, a hostage to ensure the good behavior of her people, Eleanor discovers the price of peace . . . is merely a woman’s honor.

Free Romance: A Woman's Honor

“Is it possible to hate someone as much as I hate you?”

The Duke, in fresh clothes, stood at the end of the wagon. Moonlight illuminated the blood pouring from her hands onto her shift. It looked like black ink.

“I have been watching you for half an hour, hoping you would find a way to slit your own wrists.”

She remained silent, pressing her hands together to try and stop the bleeding. It hurt beyond belief, and she wondered if he could see her panic. She thought she was likely to bleed to death if he didn’t help her, but she would rather die than ask him for aid.


With an oath, he stepped into the open-ended cart.

He drew his dagger and cut the ropes on her hands and feet. The cold steel burned her skin where it touched. “I suppose a hundred well armed soldiers are a match for you even with your hands free.”

He watched her struggling to rise, then cursed again. He grabbed her by an arm and jerked her onto her feet and out of the wagon. There he let her collapse, watched her tear her already tattered shift to make a bandage for her hand.

“They breed them hard in your family,” he said standing over her.

She looked up. His back was to the moon and it blinded her. She couldn’t find his eyes in the darkness that was his face.

“So easy to strike you down now-” he said, as if to himself.

“I am not afraid of you,” she said in a curt voice. She stood up, putting her good hand against the wagon. “You should kill me now, for I vow you will never have a moment’s peace while I live.”

He laughed, the sound filling the night. Then he slapped her hard across the back.

“Good!” he said as she stumbled to her knees. ” I need someone to help me exercise my demons. I shall lie awake thinking of ways to make you pay for all we have lost-”

“You have lost?” She flew to her feet. She snatched at the dagger he had returned to his belt, and, to her surprise, she found it in her hand.

He stepped back as she raised it over her head. She held it there, frozen by uncertainty.

Should she kill him? Herself? Who did she hate more? How could she punish him if she were dead? How could he punish her if she was . . .

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