Only the Destined. Морган РайсЧитать онлайн книгу.
asked.
That was the other danger. The captain could turn around and take the money, running back to his ship, and if Royce did anything to try to stop him, it would only make it clear who he was. For a moment, everything seemed to stop.
Then the captain nodded. “Aye, it’s enough. I’ll get you to the Seven Isles in one piece. After that though, you’re on your own.”
CHAPTER TWO
Genevieve stumbled away from the town in a daze, barely able to believe what had happened back at Altfor’s castle. She’d gone there full of hope, yet now she felt as though there was nothing left inside of her. She’d thought that with the duke’s forces defeated, with Royce victorious, she might be able to go to him, might be able to be with him.
Instead, her mind’s eye took her back to the sight of the ring on Olivia’s finger, proclaiming her engagement to the man she loved.
Genevieve staggered as her foot caught on a rough patch of ground, pain flaring in her ankle as it twisted. She limped on, because what else was there for her to do? It wasn’t as if there was anyone to help her out there on the heather.
“I should have listened to the witch,” she said to herself as she kept walking. The woman, Lori, had tried to warn her that there would only be misery if she went to the castle. She had shown Genevieve two paths, and promised her that the one that didn’t lead to Royce was the one that would make her happy. Genevieve hadn’t believed her, but now… now it felt as though her heart was breaking.
A part of her wondered if it might still be possible to wander in the direction of that second path, but even as she thought it, Genevieve knew that the possibility was gone. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t in the same place now. It was the fact that she’d seen what had happened with Royce, and she could never be happy with anyone else.
“I need to go to Fallsport,” Genevieve said. Her hope was that the route she was taking would lead her to the coast. Eventually, she would get there, and there would be a boat that would take her where she needed to go.
Sheila would be in Fallsport by now. Genevieve could go there with her, and they could work out a way to make the best of everything that had happened, assuming that there was a best. Was there any way to bring something good out of a situation where she was pregnant with Altfor’s child, and the man she loved had abandoned her, and the whole dukedom was in chaos?
Genevieve didn’t know, but maybe with her sister’s help, they would be able to think of something.
She continued across the heathlands, hunger gnawing at her, tiredness starting to build up in her bones. It might have been easier to bear if she had known exactly how far she had to go, or where she might next be able to find food, but instead, the heather just seemed to stretch on forever ahead of her.
“Maybe I should just lie down and die here,” Genevieve said, and even though she didn’t truly mean that, there was a part of her that… no, she wouldn’t think like that. She wouldn’t.
Off in the distance, Genevieve thought she saw people, but she walked away from them, because there was no way that meeting them could turn into anything good for her. As a woman alone in the wilds, she was at risk from any group of deserters or soldiers or even rebels. As Altfor’s bride, the people of Royce’s army had no more reason to love her than anyone else.
She walked instead, heading away from them until she was certain they were out of sight. She would do this alone.
Except that she wasn’t alone, was she? Genevieve put a hand to her belly, as if she could feel the life growing within. Altfor’s baby, but also hers. She had to find a way to protect her child.
She kept walking, while the sun started to fade toward the horizon, lighting the heather in motes of fire. It was a fire that didn’t do anything to keep Genevieve warm, though, and she could see her breath starting to mist the air in front of her. It was going to be a cold night. At best, that meant she would have to find some hole or ditch in which to huddle down, burning whatever peat or bracken she could put together to make a real fire.
At worst, it would mean her dead out here, frozen to death on a moor that had no kindness toward the people who tried to walk it. Maybe that was even better than wandering aimlessly until she starved to death. A part of Genevieve wanted to just sit there and watch the lights dancing off the heather until…
With a start, Genevieve realized that not all of the orange and red tints on the moorland around her were the reflection of the sunset. There, in the distance, she could see a light that looked as though it was coming from some kind of building. There were people out here.
Before, the sight of people had been enough to make Genevieve turn and walk away, but that had been in the daylight and the warmth, when people had represented nothing but danger. Now, in the dark and the cold, those dangers were balanced by the hope of shelter.
Genevieve limped toward the light, even though every step she took felt like a battle. She felt her feet sinking into the peaty soil of the heathlands, the thistles scratching at her legs as she kept going. It felt like some kind of barrier thrown up by the natural world, there to tangle and scratch and ultimately sap the will of anyone moving through it. In spite of that, Genevieve kept walking.
Slowly, the lights grew closer, and as the moon started to rise and illuminate more of the landscape, she saw that there was a farm down there. Genevieve walked a little faster, hurrying down toward it as quickly as she could with how exhausted and hurt she was. She got closer, and now there were people coming out of the building.
For a moment, Genevieve shrank back, a part of her wanting to run again. She knew she couldn’t, though, so she kept staggering forward until she reached the farmyard, where a man and a woman stood, both holding farm implements as if expecting an attack at any moment. The man held a pitchfork, while the woman had a sickle. They quickly lowered them as they saw that Genevieve was alone.
The couple was older and weather-beaten, looking as though they had worked this patch of ground for decades, growing a few vegetables and grazing a small number of animals on the heather. They wore simple peasant clothes and as they looked at her, their expressions turned from suspicion to sympathy.
“Oh, look at her, Thom,” the woman said. “The poor thing must be frozen.”
“Aye, I see, Anne,” the man said. He held out a hand toward Genevieve. “Come on, girl, we’d best get you inside.”
He led the way inside, into a low ceilinged farmhouse where a cauldron of stew bubbled in the corner. The man led Genevieve to a chair in front of the fire, and she slumped down in it, almost swallowed up by it. Its comfort only made her realize just how tired she was.
“You just sit there and get some rest,” the woman said.
“Here,” the man said. “She looks familiar, doesn’t she, Anne?”
“I’m no one,” Genevieve said quickly. When people had recognized her back in the village, they’d been angry at her just for being Altfor’s wife, even though she hadn’t had any control over what the duke’s son had done.
“No, I recognize you,” Anne said. “You’re Genevieve, the girl the duke’s son took.”
“I’m—”
“You don’t need to hide who you are with us,” Thom said. “We’re not going to judge you for being stolen away. We’ve lived long enough to see all the girls who have been taken by the nobles around here.”
“You’re safe here,” Anne said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Genevieve couldn’t begin to say how grateful she was for those words. When the farmer handed her a plate of stew, she ate it hungrily, not realizing until she did just how starving she was. They put a blanket over her, and Genevieve slept almost immediately, falling into the kind of darkness without dreams that she could only have hoped for before.
When she woke, daylight streamed in through the windows of the farmhouse, bright enough that Genevieve guessed it must be getting close to noon. Anne was there, but there