Just Stab Me Now

Just Stab Me Now

Sword Lady Books logo, depicting a sword over an open book.

Published by Sword Lady Books

Copyright © 2024 Jill Bearup

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in part or in whole or by any means electronic or mechanical, without the explicit written permission of the author, notwithstanding brief quotations for a book review.

This is a work of fiction. The names, places, characters, events, locales, and incidents in this volume are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. (Aside from the resemblance of certain characters to the author, which is entirely intentional.)

Edited by Stephanie Gail Eagleson,

eaglesonediting.com

Typesetting by Libris Simas Ferraz,

oncapublishing.com

Cover by Scott A. Perry,

artforhire.com

ISBNs:

978-1-7394319-0-7 (eBook),

978-1-7394319-1-4 (paperback),

978-1-7394319-2-1 (hardcover).

For my mother, who always wanted me to be a novelist,

for my viewers, who made me write this book,

and for my husband and daughter, who put up with me while I did.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter 1

‘I can’t believe it!’

Lady Rosa­mund Hawkhurst had lived through worse days than this, but not many. ‘A trip to Abrenia with one guard would be risky even in peacetime.’ A pair of long hose flew through the air to land precisely on top of a set of saddlebags at the foot of her four-poster bed. ‘Why is Queen Eudosia willing to send me thus while we’re still at war?’ She pulled an undershirt from a drawer, shook a stray caladrius feather out of the sleeve, and folded the garment roughly before dropping it on a saddlebag and flopping onto the bed. ‘Hasn’t Hawkhurst given her enough already?’

The distant tap of the mourning drum came flooding back, as sharp as the day she’d heard it eleven months ago. The black-robed messengers had been all-too-visible out of the window, and when she’d seen them, she’d slumped against the wall, shaking.

Sir Hugo Hawkhurst was dead. Killed in the war between her home country — Abrenia — and Bevoria, where she had lived for the last sixteen years.

But grief was a luxury afforded to those who didn’t have an estate to look after, so Rosa­mund had straightened her dress, wiped her eyes, and marched wordlessly downstairs to face a future without her husband in it. At the funeral, she’d hugged her sobbing daughter and stared up at the ceiling to keep her own tears in check. Her son hadn’t spoken for the entire day. Both of her children had vanished as soon as the ceremony concluded, and Rosa­mund was grateful that they, at least, had been able to mourn in private.

But somehow, that day had passed, as even the worst ones must, and they had all been learning to cope. Until last month, when Baron Mabry, their liege lord, had come to visit. He’d complained at length about a shortage of caladrius salve for his men (despite having claimed most of the stock delivered to the front lines a mere fortnight prior) before beginning to pontificate upon the Hawkhurst estate’s lack of martial leadership.

‘As long as the war continues, I simply must have a Hawkhurst knight to lead the soldiers at the front. Perhaps Edmund will be free to assume the duty soon, despite his tender years.’

Rosa­mund had demurred as politely as possible. Edmund was barely fifteen, she had argued; surely there could be no reason to let an untried youth lead troops into battle. But Mabry had kept up the pressure ever since; she needed a more effective deterrent, and that meant she needed to curry favour with the Bevorian Crown. She needed Eudosia to intervene.

When news of King Adelric’s death and the ascension of his son Roland to the Abrenian throne arrived at Hawkhurst, Rosa­mund kissed her children goodbye and made haste to Veleria, the Bevorian capital, to offer her services to the queen. The last thing she wanted was for her family to get more involved in the war — but better her than Edmund. And given her personal connection to King Roland, Rosa­mund was sure that Eudosia would be eager to make use of her.

But Rosa­mund’s audience with the queen had not gone as anticipated, and now she was back in the palace’s guest quarters, packing for a trip that might as well have been a suicide mission. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Have I offended the Crown in some way? Does Eudosia not want to make peace with Abrenia?’ She hauled herself into a sitting position, too agitated to stay still. ‘And where did I put my green knife?’

Sudden, absolute silence fell, the normal noises of the palace abruptly cutting off. Rosa­mund jumped to her feet and ran to the window. Outside, everything had frozen in place — the queen’s pet phoenix perched on a flagpole in the courtyard, golden tail feathers glittering; guards clad in blue and gold paused mid-step; a nobleman stood with one arm suspended in the middle of an expansive gesture.

A woman appeared. Not through the door, nor the window, no: she simply blinked into existence at Rosa­mund’s elbow. Her outfit was incongruously modern: a striped blue shirt, blue-framed glasses, and tightly-bunned red hair with a rollerball pen stuck through it. She and Rosa­mund were otherwise almost identical. And as the second woman appeared, the truth of the matter dropped into Rosa­mund’s brain like a stone into a pond: I am the main character in this woman’s story.

And her author looked peeved.

‘Lady Rosa­mund Hawkhurst,’ Caroline said testily, ‘you really need to calm down. The details regarding your trip to Abrenia aren’t that important; I was going to fill them in later!’

Rosa­mund sat back down on the bed. ‘It’s not that important that I’m taking a week-long trip to my homeland in a time of war?’ She knotted her hands in her lap, willing herself to patience. ‘Caroline, I heard rumours that Queen Eudosia was considering a peace treaty with King Roland, so I came to offer my services as an envoy.’

‘A bold and risky move,’ said Caroline, as if this hadn’t been her idea in the first place. ‘But it makes perfect sense, seeing as’ — she produced a worn, leather-bound notebook from thin air and flipped it open to a page entitled Family Tree — ‘while you live in Bevoria now, you’re King Roland’s sister-in-law, and originally from Abrenia! And won’t it be nice to see your little sister again? And call her Your Majesty?’

‘Yes, it’ll be lovely to see Cat again,’ said Rosa­mund, ignoring the Your Majesty part, ‘but the queen has decided to send me to Abrenia with a Declaration of Truce and one guard. Not even an attendant! Is she trying to enrage King Roland by putting me in mortal peril? Is Eudosia running mad? Is this a trap? Does she secretly hate me?’

Rosa­mund had not been a frequent visitor to either court in the years since her marriage. Neither she nor Hugo had been social butterflies, and court gossip was dull as ditchwater. She’d never thought much of her absences from the mainstays of the social calendar, but perhaps it had offended the Bevorian Crown in some way?

‘Of course not!’ Caroline plopped down next to Rosa­mund on the bed. ‘But you have to understand, I — she — couldn’t send you with a maidservant and an entire contingent of guards; that’s not how the trope works at all!’ She slanted a sly smile at her heroine. ‘This is an enemies-to-lovers story! You and your Hot Enemy have to be alone together, in close quarters, dependent on each other, building trust and covertly eyeing each other and trading heated barbs and . . .’ She flapped her hands, causing several stray scraps of paper to fall out of the notebook. ‘It’s just how these things work!’

Rosa­mund’s mouth fell open. ‘It’s just not reasonable that I’m being sent with a single guard — ’

‘Very single,’ Caroline interrupted. ‘Your Hot Enemy is neither married nor involved with anyone else.’

Rosa­mund sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘No attendants at all? What about my maidservant Sally and my own guard from home? They accompanied me here.’

‘There’s been a terrible bout of, um, highly contagious fever. Or maybe infectious, I’ll have to check what the difference is. Most of the servants at the palace have caught it, including Sally and Jones, and those who haven’t are being run off their feet.’ Caroline shrugged, still cheery. ‘Your mission is too urgent to delay, so you and your Hot Enemy will just have to cope.’

Rosa­mund gave up arguing. For now. ‘Does this Hot Enemy have a name?’

‘Captain Collins, of the Queen’s Guard.’

‘A first name?’

Caroline wrinkled her nose. ‘Working on it.’

Rosa­mund nodded stiffly, took a deep breath, and stood up again. ‘Fine.’

She could survive this. She could facilitate peace and end the war. She could get home to Edmund and Charlotte without being killed by the dangers of the road or Captain Whatever-His-Name-Was Collins. If she was careful. If she was wise. And if she gave Caroline enough of the things she wanted. ‘Then let us continue.’

Caroline beamed. ‘Great! Time to crack on with the preparation scene!’ She consulted a list on another page of her notebook. ‘Oh, one quick note: you are planning to pack either a knife or an ornately decorated dagger, yes?’

‘Of course I’m planning to pack a knife,’ Rosa­mund replied, befuddled. As if she’d go anywhere without one.

Caroline marked an item on her checklist with an ostentatious tick. ‘To threaten your Hot Enemy in the middle of the night?’

Rosa­mund rolled her eyes. ‘The knife is for eating.’ She gave Caroline a flat look. ‘Though I suppose I could stab someone with it if sufficiently motivated.’

Caroline either didn’t notice the threat or ignored it, instead scribbling something on another page of her book. Indeed, Rosa­mund’s author seemed to have a talent for ignoring things that didn’t fit in with her bizarre and often clichéd plans. Take this Hot Enemy business, for example: Caroline seemed to be under the impression that the fantasy story she had placed Rosa­mund in was some kind of . . . romance.

Truthfully, Rosa­mund should have known something was amiss from their very first meeting. It had taken place in a spartan, white-walled room, where Caroline willed Rosa­mund into being and then started criticising her appearance.

‘Why do you look like me? And why are you so old?’

‘I’m thirty-six!’ Rosa­mund had retorted, bewildered by this strange, bespectacled goddess who had complete power over her existence while remaining maddeningly vague on details.

‘Yes, I see. Can you handle a sword?’

‘Yes. What kind?’

‘You know, a sword! Pointy end goes in the other man, weighs about’ — Caroline frowned — ‘four-and-a-half kilos?’

Rosa­mund wasn’t sure what system of measurement her world used, but she was very sure that wasn’t a reasonable weight for a sword by any standard. But Caroline was uninterested in specifics unless they related to the multiple attractive men she was planning to introduce. Men whose attention Rosa­mund was supposed to both desire and agonise over.

‘Love triangles are perennially popular for a reason, Rosa­mund!’

Rosa­mund, whose grief for Hugo still caught her by surprise at odd moments, was not impressed by this. Especially now that she was preparing to embark on a dangerous mission. The reason she had come to the palace had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with the safety of her children — children of a wonderful marriage to an irreplaceable man. But it was no use trying to make this point to Caroline.

‘I assume that you’re packing travelling clothes?’ Caroline enquired, making another note.

‘Yes.’

‘And your most beautiful gown?’

Rosa­mund’s eyes drifted to the saddlebags and the items jumbled atop them. Before she left the Hawkhurst estate five days ago, she had packed two court-appropriate changes of clothing: the green velvet underdress and surcoat she was currently wearing, and another dress . . . the details of which currently escaped her.

Caroline, still bent over the notebook, folded over the corner of a page and scribbled something that Rosa­mund interpreted as — wobbly dress? ‘I haven’t made up my mind about your other gown yet,’ Caroline said, snapping the book shut and looking up, ‘but I’m making a note that you’re packing it!’

Rosa­mund pressed her fingers to her temples. She felt a headache coming on. ‘Lovely. Could you please leave me in peace to finish this?’

Caroline faded out of view, and Rosa­mund forgot that the other woman had ever been there.

But she remembered that her green knife was in the third drawer.

Caroline Lindley was rather enjoying her new story. It did require an awful lot of Internet research about subjects ranging from the difference between woods and forests to the probable weight of a sword, but she had to admit it was creatively refreshing. Definitely better than attending useless meetings and serving as wildly overqualified tech support for Crossguard Solutions’ Chief Finance Officer.

Database administration, Caroline’s actual job, lagged a distant third behind doodling in her notebook while her colleagues debated minutiae and (more recently) playing the part of George Radley’s pet IT monkey. So for the past few years, Caroline had turned to writing fanfiction, slotting characters from large movie franchises into coffee shop romances. This had garnered her a small but enthusiastic audience who had subsequently demanded the stories as actual books. That endeavour had required a number of name changes (and the alteration of the more obvious parallels), but it wasn’t a great deal more work. It had even made her a little bit of money, especially once she’d found an editor to help smooth the rough edges.

Then her fifth coffee shop romance had achieved . . . popularity. Or to be more accurate, popularity on a certain section of social media. This had meant (what felt like) every single Internet denizen suddenly had Opinions, which hadn’t been great for Caroline’s self-esteem. She didn’t consider herself the world’s best writer by any means, but the acidity of a few of those reviews had left a mark.

After a particularly well-known commenter had opined, ‘One wonders what C. S. Lindley would do if she didn’t have ready-made characters with which to populate her tedious, derivative modern romances,’ Caroline decided she’d had quite enough of people besmirching her abilities: she was going to write something original.

She had called her usual editor and told him so — omitting the part where she was about to create an entire work of fiction out of spite. She also expressed, at some considerable length, her frustrations with her current book series and half-threatened to end it in a spectacular fashion.

Henry Walker, who had been working for her on a freelance basis since her second self-published book, wasn’t impressed.

‘Your Moonbeans Coffee Shop series actually sells, Caroline. It would be a terrible business decision to kill off half the characters and close the place down in the next book just because you’re a bit sick of it right now!’ He paused, mouth set, and the image of his face was still for long enough that Caroline checked the Wi-Fi strength in the corner of her laptop screen. The tiny cafe she wrote in at lunchtimes was not known for its connection speed.

Henry’s face fast-forwarded into his next remark: ‘Also, calling it Lethal Flat White might get you into legal trouble.’

She scowled into the camera at him, and he gave her a sympathetic half-smile, pushing his hair out of his face. His stupid, thick, wavy blond hair that always falls perfectly, and . . .

Caroline realised she was staring. She blinked and resumed scowling. She really did not want to go there. It was embarrassing enough to have a crush on someone who technically worked for her; she didn’t need him noticing.

He was still talking. Caroline tried to pay attention.

‘ — good idea for you to take a break from the series and write something completely different,’ Henry said. ‘Even if it is just an experiment.’

Caroline sighed, more relieved than was really appropriate. ‘Yes, but I’ve never written fantasy before, so if you’re willing to do a bit of extra hand-holding on this manuscript, I’d appreciate it.’ She felt her face heating up and rushed on, ‘I know it’s not your usual way of working, but I’m sure we can — ’

‘Not a problem,’ he said.

But then Caroline’s laptop pinged (George Radley has sent you a message), and she’d had to go.

Henry’s support of the project notwithstanding, the germ of an idea for a fantasy romance had brought with it Lady Rosa­mund Hawkhurst, and from the start Caroline had sensed that she wasn’t going to be a cooperative character. Rosa­mund was positively ancient compared to Caroline’s usual parade of late teen and twentysomethings; she seemed to have very Henry-like opinions on the appropriate kind of sword to use; and she came complete with two living children and one dead husband.

The Hot Enemy, Captain Collins, would probably be a little easier to work with, and Caroline had a charming character she’d originally been working on for a different story to cast as the Hot Childhood Best Friend — but Rosa­mund?

Rosa­mund was clearly Trouble.

And yet . . . Henry had seemed keen on the idea. That counted for something.

An alarm sounded on her phone, and Caroline pulled herself back to the present, swept the lid of her laptop closed and shoved it into her bag. She had to leave now if she wanted to catch the early bus to work. Maybe she could cram in a little extra writing on the journey. And maybe in her office, before the day officially started. But one thing at a time.

Across the table of the palace dining hall, Robin Waverley surveyed his oldest friend and worried.

Rosa­mund had appeared at court for the first time in years the previous evening, without so much as a messenger bird to precede her arrival. This morning she had waited in silence among her peers for three hours until the queen had called upon her for a private audience. She had spoken to Robin in passing upon her return to the Great Hall, but not since. Now they were at table in Queen Eudosia’s uncharacteristically quiet banqueting hall — the fever had taken its toll on nobles and commoners alike — and though she was smiling and nodding as her immediate neighbours spoke to her, the dark smudges under her eyes and the stiffness of her posture made his stomach turn. Was she sick? Or was something else going on?

Robin wasn’t surprised when Rosa­mund left dinner early, but staying to hear the end of Countess Linnivar’s longwinded tale of border skirmishes meant it took him a few moments to follow suit. He caught up with Rosa­mund as she exited the hall, snagging her arm at the base of the sweeping staircase that led up towards the guest quarters. She didn’t quite jump when he touched her, but she did relax when she saw who it was.

‘Rosy!’ Robin said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘May I be so bold as to say it’s wonderful to see you?’

‘It’s been half a year since you last saw me,’ said Rosa­mund, ‘so that would be an appropriate comment.’

She’d written to him a few times, but it was true, Robin realised with chagrin — he’d only seen her twice, and that briefly, since Hugo’s body had been committed to the flames. At the funeral she had moved through the crowds like a ghost, bowing, making small talk, attempting to smile; and her current manner retained that distant, careful quality, even now they were alone. The crease in Robin’s brow deepened. He had not anticipated the degree to which grief still shadowed her.

A Bevorian himself, Robin had attended boarding school with Rosa­mund in the neighbouring country of Calter. Both the school and the country had retained absolute neutrality regardless of which nearby sovereign states went to war, over what, and with whom, ensuring that Calter itself was never the object of hostilities. Robin missed the simplicity and quiet of that country sometimes; but hope sprang eternal that he could go back one day. Rosa­mund, as the eldest daughter of Abrenian paper merchants who had bought their patents of nobility, had retained absolute unconcern with the dictates of politics or status. They’d become fast friends, keeping up a correspondence even after they went their separate ways.

Robin had been delighted when Rosa­mund married Sir Hugo Hawkhurst as part of the previous Abrenian–Bevorian peace agreement. This had brought her to the Hawkhurst estate in northeastern Bevoria, and for much of their twenties they had seen each other fairly regularly. Robin had been particularly pleased to see how well Rosy and Hugo got on and took special pleasure in regaling Sir Hugo with stories of Lady Hawkhurst’s school days.

But then the realities of Robin’s own private obligations had intervened, and he had visited less often than he should have. Especially since Hugo’s death last year. And both of the times Robin had seen Rosa­mund since the funeral, he had been on official business, hurrying off again as quickly as he had arrived. A pang of guilt twisted in his stomach. He should have written more. ‘May I also mention that it’s less than wonderful to see you looking so ill?’

Rosa­mund raised an eyebrow. ‘Such flattery,’ she retorted, but there was a hint of a smile on her face.

‘You look like you ran all the way from the Hawkhurst estate,’ Robin ventured, and Rosa­mund shrugged.

‘I was in a hurry.’

‘Why?’

Rosa­mund stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned on the banister. ‘Robin, I know you don’t enjoy politics — ’

If only she knew.

‘ — but with King Adelric’s death and King Roland’s coronation, there’s been a definite shift in military deployments on both sides. The knight who sought Hawkhurst’s hospitality two weeks ago told us that Roland seems to be taking a less aggressive posture, and we know his farms will be suffering as much as ours in this drought. He needs labourers, not soldiers. I came to see if I could get the queen to — I came to see if I could be of any assistance to Her Majesty.’ She pushed herself upright again and started to walk away, but Robin matched her pace.

‘I’m sure you’re very helpful,’ he offered, after a short silence.

Rosa­mund gave him a wry smile, though the set of her shoulders belied it. ‘I am a model of helpfulness. But also a dire warning as to why one shouldn’t skimp on sleep when travelling. Good evening, Robin.’

And before he could think of a reason to detain her further, she reached the door to her rooms and disappeared.

Robin frowned. That Rosa­mund had come all the way to court after years of absence was a clear sign that something was amiss at Hawkhurst. Both Abrenia and Bevoria strenuously insisted that the resumption of hostilities was the other side’s fault, but regardless of how the conflict had started, it had dragged on for more than two years, casualties were mounting, and Rosa­mund was right: the lack of rain was now affecting harvests on both sides of the Grenalla River, making a bad situation worse. As an estate near the border, Hawkhurst had been expected to provide more than its fair share of manpower and resources. Perhaps that was why she had come. Perhaps he should urge Queen Eudosia to consider a peace treaty.

Perhaps he should have done a lot of things.

‘That was excellent, Robin, well done!’ said Caroline, and Robin started as