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ached and her head swam after a day with little food. The leather thong of her reins cut off circulation to her hands where her wrists were lashed to the saddle. The collar of her coat had come askew, and cold rain soaked the back of her shirt to her still-bruised skin. Her secret was out, her identity discovered. She’d fallen into the clutches of an enemy camp as all of Germany blazed in rebellion and revolt.
    Her father’s voice came to her: Bit of a pickle, isn’t it? A bubble of hysteric laughter caught in her throat. Dear Lord, the duke’s dry reserve and her safe English home seemed a lifetime away.
    A group of four heavily armed militia officers stepped forward from the campfire where they’d been warming themselves.
    â€œBecker!” called out a tall one in scarlet. “What’s this you’ve found on the road? Have you taken to kidnapping boys?”
    The men were all huge, hulking, clothed in leather jerkins and swirling greatcoats, with swords sheathed at their sides and guns in their belts. She sat silent and ignored on her horse as her captor dismounted and revealed her identity to his comrades. The moment allowed her to study their group. Tents scattered the field of the encampment, with a pack of hobbled horses grazing off to one side. The rain had finally stopped, and smoke rose from where groups of a few dozen men sat at campfires, eating, talking, and laughing in the gathering dusk.
    She’d seen numerous such bands in the past week: a ragtag pack of German rebels. No reason to be cowed, she tried to convince herself. She straightened her spine and kneed her horse forward into the knot of men. “I demand to speak with your leader,” she said. When they ignored her, she raised her voice: “If you men are at all true to the principles of freedom and rights for which you fight, you will not hold me against my will.”
    The militiamen turned toward her. Laughter burst from the one who’d towed her from the Bielstadt Road—Becker, they’d called him. “See that, men? She’s a fit mate indeed for Prince Kurt, issuing her commands!”
    A beefy one with arms like corded tree trunks pulled his dagger and cut loose her hands. He dragged her roughly from the saddle and pushed her to the ground by their fire. “Join our campfire, F räulein . You’ll find our hospitality in exact proportion to the care doled out by you aristocrats to your peasants.”
    â€œ Halt! ” She scrambled to her feet. “You claim to be the new order! Bringing justice to Germany and fighting for freedom! Is this how you inaugurate your precious democracy, by threatening abuse toward an innocent and defenseless woman?”
    â€œMarie Antoinette lost her head last century, just like her king,” the beefy one said, sneering. “If you choose to bind yourself to scum like Prince Kurt, you must be no different—and no better—than him.”
    It was on the tip of her tongue to disavow her fiancé—although he was surely no longer even that. Kurt’s pride wouldn’t tolerate her betrayal. But she was uncertain enough of the situation to hold back. Perhaps her status as bride-elect of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt held some possibility of protection for her.
    Becker walked to the fire and spooned himself thick stew from the pot hanging there.
    Her mouth salivated at the smell—Lord, she was hungry.
    He glanced over his shoulder at her. “And somehow I doubt you are defenseless.” He turned his attention back toward his fellow militiamen. “She fought like a she-lion when I discovered her on the road. Look what she pulled on me!” Becker drew her dagger from its scabbard tucked in his belt and used it to spear himself a chunk of meat from the stew.
    â€œPrince Kurt’s broadsheets claim you were kidnapped by rebel brigands while delivering charity baskets in the countryside,” Becker continued, chewing