Page 49 of To Protect

“Already Matilda’s captain has sent word to the Earl of Gloucester to provide more men. With luck, they will arrive before any further attacks.”

Again, Amalia shivered. “I do not wish to die,” she said. “And I am sorry for acting so cowardly.”

They stopped. Roland spun her toward him. “You are not cowardly, Amalia. Being here, with no training or preparation, is immeasurably brave. And I vow to protect you. You will not die on this mission, Amalia.”

He sounded so certain, she had no choice but to believe him.

She wished to toss her arms around him, for Roland to hold her. Kiss her, as he had last eve. But there were injured men . . . “Come,” she said. “We must make haste to the men.”

Thankfully, none were mortally wounded in the fray. As Roland said, it seemed the attack was more a warning than it was meant to actually harm or attempt to capture the future queen. One man’s leg was broken, but thankfully they had the supplies needed, and Amalia had seen Rowena set bones enough times that she was able to do so easily.

Every once in a while, she looked up at Roland, who stood so close by her side that one might think the enemy still lurked beyond the nearby trees. Perhaps they did, but Amalia was no longer worried as she had been before.

Though she knew their forces could be overwhelmed, Roland’s words continued to run through her mind as she worked.

I vow to protect you.

By the time he escorted her back to the coach, the day grew late enough that concern rose over whether or not they would reach their destination by nightfall.

“My captain tells me,” Matilda said as Amalia settled herself back inside, “there were no mortalities?”

“None, Your Grace.”

“It was fortuitous for the order that you could accompany them.”

“I am a novice healer, my lady, and consider myself more of an herbalist. But aye, I am glad to be of service, both to you, and to the men.”

Matilda’s keen eyes bored into hers, narrowing. “Men? Or one man in particular?”

Amalia froze. The coach hit a rock and bounced, giving her time to consider a response.

“I . . . ” Consider it though she may, none came to her.

“He is an earl’s son,” Matilda said.

Roland. She knew her heart was set on Roland.

“How could you have known?”

The empress laughed. “’Twas a simple observation. The look that passed between you. His protectiveness of you. The father is similarly handsome,” she said. “If I were not already married, I might have fancied the man.” She sighed. “Given that he does not support my cause, that would have been a most inopportune pairing. Perhaps as inopportune as your own.”

Amalia’s stomach twisted. “Your Grace?”

“An earl’s son will be required to wed someone similarly as titled. As I’m certain you are aware?”

Amalia did not know how to respond. Of course, she was aware. But Roland had told her . . .

“Oh, my poor child. If that man has made promises he cannot keep, I will have him beheaded.”

“Please,” she said, a vision of Roland kneeling to have his head removed making her as queasy as she’d been when they were attacked. “He is an honorable man,” she began.

But Matilda interrupted. “He may be honorable in some ways, but he is a man. And you are a beautiful young woman. The urges of men are strong. They will say things they do not mean. Make promises they can never fulfill. You would do well to remember that, my child.”

Amalia looked out of the coach’s window as they bounced along.

The future queen did not know Roland. She might be acquainted with his father, but that did not mean she knew the son. Nor his intentions or integrity. But as they rode, Lady Elara’s words came back to Amalia. As did Evelina’s many warnings about the nature of men.

She looked up to Roland, who rode alongside them, but his attention was in front of them.

Was she being foolish to think he would forsake everything—his inheritance, the earldom—for her? Or had Amalia allowed Gareth and Evelina’s situation to influence her unduly? When in reality, Roland was the man she’d been warned against, and not the one she saw riding beside her?

She would speak to him. Gain assurances from him. But with every moment that passed, as she watched him atop his steed, Amalia became less and less certain of her position. He looked every bit like an earl’s son. Every bit the sort of man that would not marry a lady’s maid.

A farmer’s daughter.