Maela's heart pounded in her chest as she found herself face to face with an assassin for the first time in more than twenty years, but unlike the last time, nothing she'd been taught would save her now.
There were no guards waiting nearby to hear her cry. She had no knights, no soldiers, not even a lady-in-waiting or sister from the convent who could run for help. The knife at her waist was sharp and serviceable, but she had no confidence in landing a killing blow. The most she could do, the most she'd been taught to do, was to strike and struggle enough that she could buy time for her protectors to arrive.
Protectors she'd left behind when she shed the title of Countess to live a quiet life in the convent.
