The Unlikely Heroine

by Kae Elle Wheeler

  “Ah, but I think you do.” Leaning in, he kept his voice low, as well. An intimidating tactic he’d used on many occasions. She smelled fresh and feminine, like flowers, jasmine. The tactic failed. She raised her chin, her jaw tense in obstinate dignity.

  Handing her deftly onto the carriage, he instructed the driver to return his horse to the Royal stables. He would gladly see Lady Pricilla back to the castle once she’d finished her scheduled rounds. Perhaps her only appointment was with Silas and they would make straight back to the castle.

  Her fury was so complete she could have set the meadow afire. The thought did not bother him as it should. Her passion regarding the situation was...enlightening.

  “What do you mean by such masculine, strong-handed tactics?” she demanded.

  “You cannot just go to the tenants and accuse them of misrepresenting their books.”

  “I, sir, did not accuse him. I asked him.”

  “Hmm. Asked,” he repeated. “That’s exactly how it sounded.”

  “Someone is profiting and I mean to get to the root of the problem.”

  “Profiting? Mean you, stealing?” he asked, intrigued.

  “Mais oui.”

  Arnald studied her for a long moment before shifting his gaze ahead. He snapped the reins and the well trained grays responded into a sharp trot. The abrupt motion had the benefit of startling his fury-ridden companion into grabbing his arm before she found herself ousted by the roadside. Quite handy, in his estimation.

  The warmth from her grip sent the blood pulsating through his veins. He frowned at the unexpected intimacy. Mayhap Maman had whipped up another tiny spell from her magic stick—if said stick were still in her possession. After all, she did seem to have trouble finding the blasted thing on occasion.

  Devil, take it. These thoughts were leading him nowhere. Silence ensued for some time before he finally deigned to break it. “Where to now, my lady?” he growled.

  The outrage poured from her.

  “Slow down, this instant,” she demanded. “You wish to kill us, non?”

  Her fierce demeanor drew an unwilling smile but he complied, pulling on the reins. “At your command.”

  “Blasted blackguard.” She muttered it under her breath, but he’d heard it quite clearly.

  “Tut, tut,” he chastised. “Such language.”

  “I’d planned to examine the outbuildings in this area,” she mumbled. “Check on the improvements.”

  “You were planning this on your own when you set about?” His mouth tightened in disapproval. “With no one to accompany you? Were you not appointed a resident bailiff to assist you in these more industrious efforts?”

  Lady Pricilla dropped into an unusual silence, set her gaze about the passing landscape. It did not last long, however. She made straight for an attack on the issue of her escort. Him. “As I recall, you sent my footman scurrying for the castle,” she said. “Turn left up ahead.”

  “It occurs to me that it does not matter one whit to you what my feelings are on the subject.”

  “You are very astute,” she said primly. “Mayhap that is what attracts all those ninny-headed chambermaids that seem to fall before your ungainly feet.”

  “Never say you are jealous, Lady Pricilla.” He cast her a quick glance, surprised to see an engaging blush touch her cheeks.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with an unladylike huff.

  In an effort of honor, Arnald allowed her remark to pass, and changed the topic. “Which buildings are you interested in examining?”

  Upon Lady Pricilla’s instruction he made the turn left. The road followed a line of thickly webbed trees that created a dense forest of shadows. In the distance ahead, he counted five crop-sharer cottages dotting the landscape in haphazard fashion.

  “I have an interest in speaking with François De Paul.”

  “DePaul!” Arnald jerked the reins, halting the horses abruptly. They neighed their protest and the grip on his arm tightened, sending her bonnet askew. “What need have you of him, pray tell! Talk of blackguards.”

  She shoved the bonnet from her eyes—mesmerized him with the starkest eyes turned silver he could ever recall. For the slip of an instant, the fact that he was angry quite deserted him. Then a vision of Lady Pricilla at the mercy of DePaul flailed him, and in a quick move he’d detached her grip and snatched her by the upper arms.

  “Sir! What are you about?” she gasped.

  “He is not a gentleman, Lady Pricilla.” He gave her a sharp shake. “Have you no care at all for your person?”

  Her shock quickly gave way to an ire that would have had the castle turnkeys quivering in their boots. Her hands drew up inside his grip, pushing outward forcing his release. In another swift motion she bounded from the carriage, and stiff-backed, marched down the road. His surprise was so great he stared after her before realizing her intent. He jumped down and rushed after her.

  “Lady Pricilla,” he called. He could not be sure, but it appeared her back pulled straighter, stride lengthened. “Hell’s teeth,” he muttered, lobbing into a sprint.

  And in this heat.

  Chapter 6

  “Lady Pricilla,” Arnald barked in that annoying, deep resonance that had the maids fighting over who should win the privilege of cleaning his private privy. Oui, she’d heard the gossip, and found it disgusting.

  Pricilla could not remember having ever been so furious. Not even when Prince had the grandiose idea of trying Cinderella’s shoe on every maiden in the kingdom when the blasted thing fit Essie’s dainty foot, but in truth belonged to Cinderella, further highlighting her own larger foot. And, that was an infuriating moment, to be sure.

  Her stomp down the gravel path would have been infinitely more satisfying had she not felt every pebble through her inappropriate, yet adorable blue slippers. How dare he insinuate she could not handle Francois DePaul, she fumed. “How dare you insinuate my ability in handling Francois DePaul?” she yelled over her shoulder.

  From the sound of it, Arnald was making sure progress in overtaking her pathetic attempts of escape. She stiffened her back and picked up her stride. The sun bore down through her flimsy bonnet. Perspiration gathered at her nape and brow.

  “Hell’s teeth, slow yourself.” Arnald snagged her arm, and pulled her to a halt. “Would that my Maman’s little hex worked on the likes of you,” he muttered.

  “Excusez-moi!” she sputtered. “Release my arm at once, you-you bâtard.” She tried to jerk free but he held fast.

  “You little fool. He will eat you alive.” His fierce countenance tripped her doubt, but fury overrode it.

  “I am an agent of the Court! He would not dare,” she said bravely. But for all her words, it felt false.

  “It matters naught to his sort,” he said harshly. “You are a woman.”

  “What do you mean, ‘his sort’?” None of this made sense to Pricilla. She was Land Agent, and as such, the tenants were accountable to her, woman or no! That included Francois DePaul. She fisted her hands at her hips. “My notes state that he is practically Silas Huntley’s right hand man. Why should I not confront Monsieur DePaul with my concerns, pray tell?” Exasperation complete, she watched the play of emotions cross his face, fascinated.

  He shifted from one foot to the other, then ran a hand across his forehead. “The man is the worst of libertines. Surely, you have heard—”

  An ear-splitting pop rent the air. Pricilla flinched, and before she could blink, she found herself flung to the ground, flat on her back. Arnald’s large, muscled body covered hers—quite completely from head to toe.

  “What in blasted he—” she started. But Pricilla was unable to complete her sentence due to Arnald’s mouth descending on hers in a hard, silencing kiss. Was that his tongue touching her lip? It was. Her mouth parted in shock. Then his tongue touched hers, melting her insides like fresh butter in direct sunlight. She felt his breath, his heat. She froze, fingers digging into his shoulders. Hard, unrelenting sh
oulders.

  He lifted his head. “Quiet,” he said softly.

  She could not have spoken had she wanted, for she had ne’er felt the like. Shock rendered her speechless. But slowly, awareness crept in. The pebbles she’d felt through her flimsy shoes were now poking her backside, along with her untenable position. “Get off me, you big lout,” she hissed, pushing at those hard shoulders. She suddenly didn’t care a fig that the stabbing pebbles became more painful as she struggled to wriggle free. If anyone happened upon them, her life as Chalmers Land Agent would be ripped to shreds.

  “Quiet,” he said again. His breath touched her neck, and despite the heat, her skin prickled in response. His face congealed in a pained expression. “Someone just shot at us.”

  “What! Do not be ridiculous, sir. Mayhap you are suffering from the heat. We are agents for the king.”

  “And kings have been overthrown, my lady. ’Tis the oldest known war to man,” he grimaced. He lifted his head, glancing about. Apparently satisfied with what met his eye, he shifted to her side and leaped to his feet. She had no choice but to accept his outstretched hand.

  Bonnet askew, Pricilla ran shaking hands over her skirts in an effort to gather her frayed nerves. She was dismayed to find her pretty blue frock covered in dust, even sporting a slight tear. Why, it looked as bad as the ones Maman had forced on Cinderella in their earlier childhood days.

  “Who on earth would...would shoot at us? Shoot! With a...a musket?” she sputtered. Pricilla watched him brush the dirt from his trousers, no worse for wear, before answering.

  “Oui. A hunting mechanism, if I am not mistaken.” He grabbed her arm, and tugged her none too gently, toward the shelter of the trees.

  Pounding hooves over the hard ground had her wrenching her head over her shoulder. “Our conveyance. You must go after it.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you, you speak loudly for a gentlewoman?” Amusement touched his lips, infuriating her. “It’s much too late to go after that sad species of horses, besides.” Speaking the obvious ignited her ire further.

  “But how shall we get back?” Arm still imprisoned in his death grip, Pricilla felt certain she would be sporting a bruise on the morrow.

  He shoved her behind a large oak. “Let me worry of that.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He rounded the large trunk, stared at it with a narrowed gaze. “That tree will not bring back our carriage, sir. We must get help. Mayhap, Monsieur DePaul...” she trailed off at his disdainful glare.

  “Blast, I knew it,” he said, under his breath. He acted as if he’d completely forgotten her presence. He ran his fingers over something in the bark. Long fingers attached to very strong hands, she was irritated to notice. She grimaced. This was one man for which she refused to feel an attraction.

  “What?” she demanded. Pricilla placed her hands deliberately at her hips to keep from smacking him in the head and tapped her toe.

  He crouched to the ground, and patted an area at the base, a determined compression to his mouth. A full moment crept by before he finally answered. “Ah, here we are.” Arnald held out an open palm where a small metal ball lay in innocence.

  She leaned in for closer inspection, pushing her bonnet from her eyes.

  “’Tis not much help,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean?” She plucked it from his hand, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. “It looks like a marble, only gray...and heavy.”

  “I suppose it does at that.” He smiled. But his smile did offer comfort. He came to his feet. “Look at this.” He took her gloved hand and pressed it into the same indention he’d spotted on the trunk, a portion of the bark smoothed and rounded out.

  The frisson in his touch startled her. She almost snatched her hand away, but that would have put that condescending smirk on his face. And she was not about to have him lauding questions at her. Questions she could not answer.

  “I would venture the culprit was not aiming for a small animal at this level.”

  Pricilla swallowed an audible gulp. “And you would venture said culprit was aiming for...”

  “My head.”

  ***

  Arnald knew Prince would personally strangle him if he let anything happen to one of his precious wife’s beloved sisters. First and foremost was keeping one loud, quarrelsome female out of the range of fire. In one fluid, inconspicuous move, Arnald directed Lady Pricilla round the far side of the tree deeper into the cover of the forest. He refused to contemplate his reluctance in releasing her hand. He turned her hand over in his, dismayed to find her white glove damaged beyond repair.

  He watched her eyes follow the movement of his hand.

  “’Tis torn beyond reparation,” she said softly.

  He brought her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry.”

  Frightening her was not exactly what he’d intended when he told her the shot was aimed for his head. In truth, it might not have been him the villain targeted at all. Lady Pricilla’s headstrong, impulsive nature was a detriment, leastways, until the situation could be properly assessed. The fact that he had no clue who might wish him—them—injury, or worse, was alarming.

  Not to mention, seeing their carriage trot down the road as empty as you please. How had the situation spiraled so out of control? The thought disgusted him, presenting a whole other list of complications he refuse analyze.

  Uncustomary fear glistened in her eyes. Yet, that natural stubbornness raised her chin. Jaw clenched—a manner in which he was becoming increasingly familiar, she stepped back and tugged her hand from his grip. He lifted a brow, knowing exactly why she chose to insert some distance. Pink tinged her cheeks.

  She wrenched away her bonnet, inadvertently snagging several pins that held her flaxen locks in place. They tumbled down her shoulders in a heap of wild curls.

  Arnald swallowed the prick of desire before it swallowed him.

  “I suppose you have some clever stratagem?” she said. Her head fell back, and she closed her eyes. She pushed her fingers through the silky mass, shaking her hair from the nape of her neck.

  Arnald was so caught up in the movement he failed to comprehend the question—his sarcastic wit literally rose, evaporated in the clouds. How had she slipped passed his mother’s spell of falling before him like the many other maidens and matrons? The notion occurred that he might not mind the annoyance in her case. The frown she threw out tempted him to kiss it away. The memory of plump lips and warm breath caressing his sent a wave of desire pulsating heavily through his veins.

  He drew one finger round his collared neck. It was devastatingly hot. And now thoughts of that luscious mouth had him missing every word she’d just uttered. “Je suis désolé? I’m sorry?” he choked out.

  “I repeat...” She spoke as if addressing a very young, very slow-witted child. “Have you a machination for retreat?” Her irritated sigh was warranted, he supposed. But then she muttered under her breath, “I vow, men!”

  Arnald shook his head to regain some composure, and shot her a baleful glance. “Lady Pricilla,” he tsk’d. “That is quite unkind, you know.” Satisfied with the flame in her cheeks, he looked about their cover. Unfortunately, she was right. They needed a strategy, and quickly.

  This time he heard the distinctive tick before the fire of the musket. He thrust her to the ground a second time as the hiss of a passing ball hit another nearby tree.

  “I sincerely hope, sir, this will not be a habit with you,” she muffled against his shirt. The heat of her breath seared his chest through the fabric of his thinly woven shirt. She sounded much cooler than the heat roaring through him. Aggravatingly, so.

  “I fear we shall need to seek shelter, Lady Pricilla,” he said softly. Head angled, he listened, failing to pinpoint the direction of their attacker.

  “A mite difficult to manage with you lying atop my person, sir,” she responded tartly. At least she’d kept her voice to a lower resonance. Acutely aware that every curve of her body mold
ed to him like a perfect fit, he felt the stirrings of arousal. Would this day ne’er end, he grimaced.

  The chit appeared to fear nothing. He rose slowly, but kept low to the ground. Trees created the illusion of a safety cocoon, woven closely together, allowing little sunlight to seep through. As a result, it was difficult to gather much in the shadows.

  If he had some kind of course to go on he would blast the blackguard with a shot of menacing fire of his own.

  Would that he had his pistol.

  Arnald took comfort in the knowledge they were not completely unarmed with the blade tucked safely in his boot. Soft fragranced jasmine filled his nostrils jarring him into moving.

  Lady Pricilla pulled to a sitting position. A smudge of dirt dusted the tip of her nose and forehead. “If I am not mistaken, sir, there is a hunting cottage not far.” She said this softly as if they were now as one.

  He darted a glance her way. “How would you know that?”

  “I am the Land Agent, non?” she sniffed. “’Tis my duty to know the lay about. Now, are we to sit here all day? Though I vow, the shade is divine.”

  Surprise, and mayhap—admiration, filled him. Casting his glance about once more, Arnald tugged her to her feet. “Come along then, my lady,” he growled.

  ***

  Pricilla was not sure she cared for the hold Sir Arnald had of her dirty gloved hand. It was much too warm. He dragged her unceremoniously deeper into the thicketed forest with no thought to her thin-slippered, now aching, feet. “Sir?”

  “Lady Pricilla, s’il vous plaît! Must you scream like a banshee? We are under attack in case you did not notice.”

  “But—”

  “But, what, Mademoiselle,” he hissed, coming to an abrupt halt.

  The move sent her plowing into a rock hard shoulder, nose first. It was entirely his fault. She took a steadying breath when he turned cool caramel eyes upon her. “We are moving in the wrong direction, sir.”