The Unlikely Heroine

by Kae Elle Wheeler

  Pricilla crept closer, and realized it was not defeat, but fury. That, and the lethal glint in his eye. “How came you to this, sir?” she demanded. The roll of his eyes was slightly irritating.

  Venturing closer, she set the lantern down. With the tips of her thumb and index finger she tugged at the cloth. She held it at arm’s length and dropped it quickly to the side. Her gloves would ne’er survive the night. “I thought you were to signal me,” she said with an indignant huff.

  He turned his head and spat. Never mind her delicate sensibilities. “Would it help my cause to mention the lump on my aching head?” he choked.

  “That lout hit you on the head?” Dread, then outrage filled her. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Oui,” he said, darkly. “I’m not sure what happened. Mayhap, you would be so kind as to help with the bindings on my wrists?”

  “Your hands are bound?” she said, aghast.

  Danger seeped from his pores, though he did not bother to respond.

  “Oh, mais oui,” she said quickly, dropping to her knees. She placed her hands on muscled shoulders and assisted him forward. She stripped off her, now useless, filthy gloves and fumbled with the knots. The thickness of the twine made her fingers clumsy and awkward. “How did this happen?”

  Finding him thus had her somewhat unnerved. She spoke primly, praying it hid her fear.

  “The door was rigged,” he said gruffly.

  She glanced up with narrowed eyes. Could he possibly be so abashed? She dropped her gaze back to her efforts. After several lengthy minutes, it seemed Sir Arnald’s restraint in mocking her could be held off no longer.

  “Time is of the essence, Lady Pricilla,” he smirked.

  “Blackguard,” she muttered under her breath.

  “If it helps, there is a knife in my boot.”

  “A knife?” Her voice actually squeaked. She calmed herself with a measured breath. “You’ve ropes on your ankles, sir. One moment, s’il vous plaît. ’Tis not like I’ve experience with this sort of thing before,” she bit out, rising to the baiting comment. The rope was bulky, rough. Another moment staggered by before she felt it loosen. “Ah. Got it.”

  “Merci,” he said, rubbing his wrists.

  “Mayhap, we should vacate the premises?”

  “A sound idea, my lady.” He shifted forward, reaching for the ropes at his ankles, grimacing in obvious pain.

  “You’ve blood on your face,” she said, softly. She touched a fingertip to his temple. She felt the beat of his pulse quicken. A thin sliver of moonlight slid through the slats of the closed shutters, his eyes reflected the lustrous beams. His hand snaked out, caught her wrist.

  He was going to kiss her, fulfill what he’d begun in the trees. Breath ceased—she silently begged. Oui. Oui, kiss me, síl vous plaît.

  ***

  Arnald stared into Lady Pricilla’s extraordinary gray eyes turned silver. Parted lips had their dire predicament fleeing his mind. Warm breath touch his face, she sat so close. But, it was her soft gasp that jarred him back to their surroundings.

  Slowly, he released the hold he had on her slender wrist, and reached down for the twine at his feet. Luck was with him then that the most humiliating moment of his life ended up witnessed by she, and not Prince. He almost growled aloud. Hell’s teeth. If she’d seen fit in trying to remove his boot first, they might not be leaving their little cottage with her innocence intact. Her mule-stubborn ways turned out to be but a blessing.

  If his head would cease its unrelenting pounding, mayhap he could execute some rational and coherent plan of action—like loosening the damned bindings on his legs. Finally, the twine gave way and he pushed them aside.

  Wriggling his feet, he turned his attention to the small chamber. The dirt in the room did little to conceal the subtle flowery fragrance emanating from Lady Pricilla. He’d struggled with every ounce of constraint to ignore the distraction. Then, when she’d touched the side of his head, he knew he was done for.

  He squinted in the darkness. “Pull that light over here where I can see,” he said.

  She dropped her hand. Was that disappointment he read? She grunted, pushing the lantern where he directed. He was sure to never know now. The low glow showed floors coated with dust, but for tracks where they’d dragged and shoved him against the wall.

  Arnald concentrated on the path of a second trail that broke from the first. It vanished beneath the wall, but in the low light he had difficulty distinguishing a firm pattern. Still... “I do believe there is a door in the corner,” he said.

  She leaned forward, assaulting him with that rush of jasmine. The brush of her hair against his neck had him swallowing thickly. He must have hit his head harder than first believed.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  He tried to focus on something other than how softly she’d molded beneath him. Covering her body with his had been a monumental mistake. Soft, feminine fingers startled him back to his unlikely rescuer.

  “Oui, look at the trail of dirt.” He tilted his head.

  She lifted the light, sending eerie shadows dancing on the walls. “Oh. You may be right.”

  He wouldn’t mind hearing her say those words again, the incongruous thought struck.

  Lady Pricilla’s calm demeanor served up his chagrin like one of the main courses of Aunt Thomasine’s foreign supper affairs. Only husky, clipped words spoken a mite too swift gave away her nerves. Humiliated or not, one must admire such unflappable temperament under their strenuous circumstances.

  It was for that very reason he’d been unable to resist taunting her. Women were supposed to be mild, meek. Subservient. The god who’d instilled that decree, however, had no notion someone of Lady Pricilla’s persona existed. Subservient, indeed.

  Just the hint of whispered femininity raised hackles over his skin.

  “Sir, mayhap we should make haste.” The husky tonality reached deep into his chest, stunning him momentarily. The urgency belying her previous composure startled him.

  But then, the cottage door slammed against the wall, vibrating through the small house.

  “Quick, the wardrobe. Take the light,” he ordered. “Wait for my signal.” Panic flashed in her eyes, but she swallowed, and it quickly shifted to one of suspicion. After a slight hesitation she gave him a short nod. She snatched up her glove and before he could blink, stuffed the damned thing in his mouth. At least she hadn’t used the original cloth, for which he was profoundly grateful. More likely than not, she hadn’t wanted to touch the thing a second time. He’d strangle her later. She grabbed the light, and fumbled only seconds with the handle before disappearing through the cupboard.

  “I tell ye, I left it ther’ on the table.” Arnald recognized the man’s voice who’d trussed him up like a goose.

  “Well, it ern’t there now, is it?”

  Tugging the glove from his mouth, he shoved it in his shirt and busied himself with concealing the ropes behind him along with the nasty kerchief, then tugged the ones round his ankles loose. He eased the knife from his boot, making ready. He’d not be caught off guard a second time. The sound of striking flint followed by a single flicker of light, told him they held a candle. Light swayed toward him as did the vile stench of unwashed bodies. It announced their presence long before their actual physicality. By stroke of luck, he’d caught sight of Lady Pricilla’s other glove and managed to snatch it from sight, stuffing it in his shirt alongside the other, heart beating furiously. He lowered his head to his chest hoping to fool his captors into believing him unconscious.

  “See? He’s just wher’ I tode ye he’d be. Dead to the world, he be, too.”

  They edged closer, but remained just beyond reach. Arnald was nothing if not accommodating. He let out a small groan, bringing his quarries a step closer. One kicked at his boots.

  ’Twas all Arnald needed. In a rapid vault he was off the floor, knife brandished across one burly hulk’s neck. He twisted the blackguard’s arm up his back at a
n awkward angle, struggling not to gag over the foul odor assaulting his nostrils; a far cry from soft scented jasmine. It was enough to tempt Arnald into snapping that arm into a painful break, but the knowledge that Lady Pricilla might balk at such violence, curbed his inclination. “Might I interest you gentlemen in some light conversation?” Arnald addressed in a pleasant tone.

  “Ah, bugger. He be one o’ them fancy fellers, ups from the castle,” the one holding the candle whimpered. Ah, his original nemesis. Scraggly, greased hair and a beard the rats could nest in made a disgusting sight.

  “Your intellect is quite astounding, my good man,” Arnald complimented him. The Original Nemesis flashed Arnald a proud toothless smile. “I would request your assistance, sir. I believe I left plenty of rope intact.” A scowl quickly replaced his unsightly grin, as the insult penetrated.

  ***

  Pricilla concentrated on instilling her racing heart with short breaths. She abhorred the dark, but closed spaces...but there would be time for panic later, she promised herself. Pressing her ear to the door, she fought through the panic that threatened to suffocate her and strained to hear the exchange—a difficult feat with her pulse competing in such fury.

  She must get control. Mayhap, their lives depended upon it. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself back in her cozy chamber, enjoying the sounds of the night through an open window, not a musty filled closet where mice might prove her only company. Her heart sped up. She hated mice.

  In...out, she breathed—then a second time. By the fourth or fifth, she’d lost count, her pulse began to slow. The muted voices weren’t familiar, only Arnald’s calm tones...mayhap, not calm, more like stoic sarcasm. He was a scoundrel to be sure, but she would not deny the relief that flowed over her with his presence.

  Pricilla straightened from her position against the door and surveyed her surroundings. It would not do to let the villains see the light from beneath the door. And without flint she dare not allow the flame to extinguish. She circled slowly using her skirts to protect its warm glow from shining through any cracks.

  The wardrobe was deeper than she’d realized. Various crates and bags haphazardly piled round gave the space a more confined feel. Once again her breath quickened and she struggled again to calm it. What on earth could they be storing? And who were ‘they’?

  Pricilla worked her way to the stack furthest from the door and tried her hand at prying a lid from one crate. The fit was quite snug. With a frustrated sigh, she glanced about for something that would give some sort of leverage. But another crate on the opposite wall caught her eye. Someone had already carried out the duty, leaving one corner raised.

  The flame in the lantern flickered wildly, drawing her attention from the crate’s contents. The faint whiff of salty sea and sharp updraft brushed her senses. Her heart skipped a beat and she lifted the light to examine the back wall. Nothing overt looked out of the ordinary. The wall appeared solid but, fresh, cool air indeed seemed to be coming in from that vicinity. ’Twas the only logical explanation. Using the light itself as a guide, she stilled. Somewhere along the wall must be a hidden door.

  Why, the fools had not even had the sense to position an obstacle in the one place they should have to conceal the silly thing. Still, she looked closely, and could not quite discern how to open it.

  A scuffle jolted her. Pricilla set the lantern aside and hurried back to the front of the wardrobe. She skimmed by the open crate, but a stray nail caught her skirt with a resounding tear. She groaned. Her beautiful blue dress was lost for certain. She placed her ear to the door again, but ’twas still too muted. She cracked it, just a smidge, dismayed to see her fingers slightly trembling.

  The first thing that hit her was the odious stench. She reached for her glove to cover her nose. Blast! She’d lost them and resorted to an open palm.

  The room was rooted in darkness but for a sliver of moonlight and the wild flickering flame of a candle. Arnald had managed to pry open a shutter. Distorted shadows leaped on the walls in a ghostly dance. Pricilla half expected to see a specter float by and hiss its presence.

  “...merci, my good man,” Arnald said. He spoke softly, convincingly. His dark tone made her grateful they resided on the same side.

  Crouched before two men, they occupied Arnald’s previous position against the wall. His low growl sent a chill up her spine. “So I expect I’ll see you at the next assembly?”

  Good heavens, was he expecting to congregate with those stinky villains? Confused, Pricilla leaned forward to better hear. She had every faith Sir Arnald would set the ruffians straight. Admittedly, his conversational demeanor was a stroke of brilliance. If he wasn’t the future king’s cousin, she’d be pressed to believe he—

  “Ah, so yer the lackey,” one chuckled.

  “You can be sure I shall be helping you out.”

  What? Her sharp gasp brought three pairs of eyes boring down on her.

  “Bloody ’ell,” one blasted. “’e’s got a gel, wiv ’im—”

  “Hell’s teeth.” Sir Arnald’s blasphemy coincided with his captives. His fist landed across one’s jaw, smashing his head against the wall, but Pricilla did not wait to hear more. She slammed the wardrobe door, inhaling great gulps.

  Surely, he had a better explanation. Yet, could she afford to find out? She was a woman alone with two—possibly three, dangerous villains. There was no time to waste.

  “Think, Cill, think,” she chanted. Dread crashed over her, bringing the choking sensation full-force. The traitorous bâtard. The scene played through her mind, chasing normal reason beyond reach. Thank the heavens, she had light.

  Her gaze swept over the jumbled contents of her surroundings. Quickly rounding the closest crate, and with every muster of strength, she shoved it before the door. With panted breaths she winded her way through the clutter to the back of the wardrobe. Panic threatened any semblance of calm but she swallowed it. Pondering the issue of how a hidden door opened was now a life-changing incentive.

  The one without a latch.

  Chapter 11

  “Well, that was satisfying,” Arnald told the unconscious man, rubbing his throbbing knuckles. “This has been one hell of a day.” His Original Nemesis stared at him, wide-eyed and unspeaking. That was more likely due to the dirty cloth Arnald felt justified stuffing in his mouth rather than the lack of a clever parley. He glanced over toward the closet. She was safe enough where she was.

  “Who took the shot?” Arnald implored politely.

  “Mmm, mmm,” came the garbled response.

  With a grimace Arnald pulled the gag from the Original Nemesis’ mouth much the same way Lady Pricilla had tugged it from his. Disgusting. “You have an answer, sir?”

  “Non. Non, guv’nor. I’d ne’er dare shoot at a lady.” He was lying through his rotted teeth, of course.

  “Who then?” The menace Arnald projected had the Original Nemesis trembling. The scraggily man, more than likely hadn’t had a decent meal in a year—or a decent scour. Tattered clothes hung from his angular body.

  The unnerving quiet from the wardrobe lowered a sense of doom over Arnald. But he would imagined Lady Pricilla had her ear adhered to the door. She was not one to shy from a bit of confrontation. The thought tipped his lips. “Well?”

  “Don’ know what yer talkin’ b...bout,” he stuttered. “’Twas nothin’ said ’bout no sh...shots.”

  Arnald almost felt for the poor bloke. There was nothing for it, however, but to knock the man unconscious or to kill him. Arnald brought his fist into the man’s face and rendered him silent. It would buy some much needed time.

  Taking the candle, he rose quickly and closed the shutter. The moon shining high in the sky was not a good sign. Lady Pricilla’s reputation would suffer. He’d likely have to marry the chit. The thought did not bother him as it should. An image of flaxen curls covering his pillow floated before him. He groaned. Now he was certain Maman had her little magic fingers involved. Thoughts of marriage were compl
etely foreign to one’s peace of mind.

  Odd, though, how Lady Pricilla did not seem to react to his person like the others Maman had cast her wily spell on. How did it happen that she did not fall at his feet, or flutter her lashes flirtatiously? In fact, he frowned, she seemed swayed to putting up barriers of her own. Maman would not be so pleased about that. He grinned. ’Twould serve Maman right, it would. But, oh, Lady Pricilla smelled nice, tasted so delicious.

  The candle gave off enough light, to locate the closet. Arnald reached for the wardrobe knob and turned. Lady Pricilla hadn’t managed to latch it properly. He pushed, but something obstructed the entry.

  One heavy shove dislodged the obstruction, extinguishing his light in the process.

  “Hell’s teeth,” he muttered. The wardrobe was shrouded in gloom. Arnald could not discern so much as Lady Pricilla’s breath. In truth, ’twas quite impressive—another point in her favor.

  He hesitated in calling her by name should their new friends managed to awaken. He reached forward to feel what barred his way. Ah, a wooden crate. He pushed it aside, more than a little surprised by its weight. Once he was able to maneuver round it, he closed the door. “Lady Pricilla?” he called softly. “’Tis alright to come out now, I’m afraid ’tis impossible to know how long before our companions will come searching. We must make haste.” That foreboding sense of doom heightened.

  The quiet gnawed through him. He’d prefer her aggravating confrontation, screaming like a banshee, to this tomb-like silence.

  “Do not be afraid, my lady.” There was an enriching concept—Lady Pricilla, afraid. “We must hurry s’il vous plaît.” Growing apprehension stole up his spine. Lady Pricilla could not in his wildest dreams be this quiet, this length of time, lest she were unconscious or worse. “Pricilla?” Genuine concerned gripped him.

  With absolute black in the wardrobe, the candle in his hand was useless. He almost tossed it aside but changed his mind and stuffed it in his shirt next to Lady Pricilla’s soft leather gloves then worked his way through the dark.