“My lord,” she huffed five minutes later, “might we slow...for a mo...ment, s’il vous plaît?” Pricilla’s slippered feet sunk in the soft sand. To her acute disgust, Arnald surged ahead, ignoring her plight. The only thing that indicated he’d heard her plea was the tightening of his hold on her hand. She gritted her teeth and tried valiantly to keep up, but her feet refused to cooperate, digging into the sand. “Sir!” she panted when she fell forward, sprawled on her face.
“Hell’s teeth, woman! What are you about?”
Pricilla looked up spitting grit from her mouth. Arnald squatted before her. He looked—almost—anxious.
“I venture, you’ve ne’er had the need to move quickly in slippers such as these!”
In a swift, graceful motion, he stood, proffering a hand. She grasped it without the slightest sense of misgiving. It occurred to her that she had not hesitated in the least. Arnald pulled her so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. She studied the shadowed planes of his face in the limited moonlight. Harsh, concerned, and trained intently on her.
“Might we progress, my lady?” His mild tone belied the underlying urgency. The strain of sarcasm was certainly evident.
“Why you—”
“There they be.” The coarse voice carried faintly over waves, crashing against the shore.
“Hurry,” Arnald hissed. “The caverns are our only hope. Slippers or non, makes no difference to me. Kick them off, if you must.”
He did not have to tell her twice. Not that it would have mattered. The grip Arnald had on her arm portrayed the less-than-likelihood of his letting go.
“Caves?” she squeaked. It wasn’t so much the caves she was afraid of, she told herself. But caves? Dark and penned in, their lantern left behind in shards of the passageway. How might they escape if water seeped in? From this distance, it was difficult to discern where the water stopped and the floor began. Pricilla sucked in deep gulping breaths, not all due to their exerted run. “M...My lord, surely ’tis not ne...necessary to...to go into...”
Saints in heav’n, she was going to faint. That’s all she’d need. In Sir Arnald’s arrogance he’d likely categorize her with the hoard of giggling nitwits who fell at his feet on a daily basis. Oh, why had she not pulled the covers over her head this morn? Stubbornness truly was her downfall.
“They are too far away to manage an accurate shot.”
“Shot?” Her voice pitched higher, even to her own ears. A burst of hysterical laughter rose in her chest, but she swallowed it, terrified she would dissolve into uncontrollable tears instead. Arnald’s grip was unrelenting even as they faced the darkened mouth of the cavern. Did the man fear nothing? He guided them to a portion of the entrance the farthest point from the sea, but there was no way round the fact that the tide was making its way in.
“I suppose these slippers will be absolutely useless after this adventure,” she offered on a broken laugh.
She saw a curious yet fleeting expression touch his eyes in the dim moonlight before he glanced over his shoulder to their pursuers. “I fear so,” he said softly, before spinning about then sweeping her off her feet. He dashed through the depth of blackness.
***
The tide sloshed over Arnald’s boots to mid-calf, cold and rising fast. Their only hope lay in making their way to the western leg of the caverns, if memory served. The trek would be a steady incline that should lead them above the upsurge. He and Prince had managed to get themselves trapped in these very rocks sometime in their twelfth year. They were not any less frightful now than they had been then. He could feel the package in his arms trembling.
“My lord, set me down! I am much too heavy.” Her voice was breathless from their dash, arms tight about his neck. “It’s very dark. Pray, you do not drop me on my befuddled brain.”
“I highly doubt your brain is befuddled, Lady Pricilla.” He kept his tone brisk and practical, despite his body’s swift, heated instincts to the contrary. “’Tis still too much water. I believe we shall survive to higher ground.” He would guard her with his life.
In the cover of night, he could hear the fear overwhelming her, her quivering limbs practically strangling him.
“Higher ground? You know these caves well?”
“Certainment, I know them.” The soft jasmine fragrance, threatened to dispel any thoughts of villains, shots, and the running for their very lives. ’Twould be nice if he could manage a soft bed of hay instead of an escape from miscreant degenerates. His arms tightened about her, at the same time wincing at the picture such thoughts provoked.
He wondered how Maman’s spell neglected to affect Lady Pricilla. She should have fallen completely under his powers of compellation. By all accounts, he should have been fighting her off with a blasted stick. Rather, in a strange twist of fate, he looked to be the victim of her feminine sensibilities. Arnald shook his head free of damned meanderings.
“Is something amiss, My lord?”
“What? Non. Of course not,” he growled.
“I fear the excitement is proving too much for you, sir. Your breaths are rapid and shallow.”
Arnald wished he could see her expression. She sounded genuinely concerned, though still a bit breathless. He was amazed she had not yet resorted to hysteria; in his experience, ’twas naught but a matter of time. Keeping her on the defensive, indignant, seemed an ideal plan. “Too much excitement?” he scoffed.
“Oui, sir. You were knocked on the head, after all. You’ve been shot upon. Twice, mind you. And, now, having to haul me about? Well, I fear ’tis all wearing you down. Thought, I must admit, how impressed I am with your…stamina. ’Tis quite extraordinary.”
Arnald took a measured breath and quelled an impulse to drop the little princess flat on her attractive derriere. “Extraordinary? Why, merci, Mademoiselle. I cannot begin to convey how flattered I am by your observations.”
“Pardon?” He heard the frown in her voice. It echoed off the stone. He envisioned her drawn brows as if trying to decide if his sarcasm was real or feigned. For some reason the thought quite cheered him.
Without warning his boots scuffed pebbled ground. A few more feet and he could set the temptress down. He’d relish a rush of fresh air without her perfume assaulting him.
“Blimey, Roy. The tide’s a risin’. There’s no way they’s likely to survive it.” The gruff voice sounded behind.
Lady Pricilla went stiff in his arms. Arnald filed away the name. They were on drier ground now. He set her on her feet and placed his hand on the dampened wall. He would kill the bâtards.
“Bah, ’tis our necks on the line, ye fool,” Roy responded in deeper, raspier tones.
They were closing in.
Arnald edged Lady Pricilla behind him and kept a steady forward pace without relinquishing her hand. He had to appreciate her grasp of the situation, making nary a sound, following closely behind. He’d like to believe it was his powers of persuasion that had her following his silent lead, but that seemed unlikely.
“Where d’ye suppose they disappeared to?”
Arnald slowed his steps. If memory served, there was a fork in the cavern walls just ahead. One portion led straight out of the caves atop a small cliff, the other snaked below the cliff with more than a dozen hidden chambers. He had a distinct feeling his decision would not prove a popular one with Lady Pricilla.
“Ye gads, the water’s up to me arse.”
They were much too close. The surrounding pitch black would only help their cause, he decided. With one firm grip on Lady Pricilla’s hand, the other as a guide on the wall, Arnald moved as quickly as he dared. It would be too easy to miss the fork. The thing to remember was the passage leading the way out was a much larger opening. As a child, he’d been able to walk straight in; as an adult some twelve years later, however, ’twas likely he’d end up with another knot on his head.
Ten paces forward, his hand reached a curve where the ceiling dipped. He remembered to stoop. The situation was improving.
“Sir, you must have a plan?” Lady Pricilla kept her voice low. Nothing of the shrieking banshee lingered.
“Oui, I have a plan.”
“Might we make our way out soon? As much as I loathe to admit it, the dark is somewhat unnerving.” Her voice wreathed fear.
“In due time, Lady Pricilla. Stick with me.”
Chapter 14
Beads of perspiration lined Faustine’s forehead. Using the back of one hand she brushed the dampness into her hair. Droplets of any sort of moisture could alter the results of the healing potion, dramatically. ’Twas just like her son to disappear when she needed him most. She’d had the devil of the time locating the ergot in a timely manner. Not to mention the persistent annoyance of Thomasine’s rustling skirts with her infernal pacing.
Thomasine paused in her steps at Faustine’s shoulder. “Well?” she demanded.
Faustine blew out a pursed breath, striving for her last shred of patience. “I realize as my Queen, Sister Dear, that you demand instant gratification in all that you ask. However, this is a delicate process. I must insist you await the results outside the chamber.”
“Pardon!” Thomasine’s astonishment would normally have her struck as amusing, but Faustine feared even the slightest mishap.
“I must concentrate. Kindly remove yourself.”
After a shocked silence, Thomasine opened the door.
Faustine glanced over shoulder to see her twin, hand on the knob, set to flee, fire in her eyes. “Wait, si’l vous plaît. I shall require the Bloodstone,” Faustine said quietly.
“Are you certain?”
“Oui. We must submerge it in water. Though, I worry that we’ve no sunlight.”
“Candlelight, perhaps?” Thomasine whispered.
“I’ve no idea, but we shall have to work with what we have.” Faustine frowned. “If anything, ’twill help to calm the situation, possibly lessen the confusion and anxiety.”
With a barely discernible incline of acquiescence, Thomasine vanished.
Chapter 15
“I fear your sense of direction leaves much to be desired, sir,” Pricilla said quietly. Stifling the constant threat of her panic was taking its toll. “Mayhap we should have veered to the right rather than the left at the fork.”
“I know what I am about, Lady Pricilla,” he whispered back.
The warmth of his large hand over hers had an unnerving effect on her usual reserve—that, and the asphyxiating darkness. Damp, cold moisture seeped into her bones, the dread, a painful stab in her chest. She was not mistaken, they were meandering deeper into the caverns. She had an excellent sense of direction. The further they ventured within, the more impenetrable the atmosphere became. Her free hand, which trailed their path on a solid rock wall touched air, quite unexpectedly.
“Ah, here,” Sir Arnald said, as if announcing his cousin’s entrance to the nightly supper. His voice growled with a sense of quiet satisfaction, sending chills skittering over her. The abrupt lack of direction gave her no choice except to follow.
“Sir?” Oh, why could she not curtail her high-pitched squeal? She should have followed her other instincts—the one insisting she run for her life.
“Shush,” he whispered. He drew them deeper into what felt like a small chamber of some sort, akin to where a bear might hibernate.
A nuance of intimacy surrounded her, and her body trembled violently. She knew, without a doubt, she would have died had he not been there. She was too unnerved to be aggravated by the thought, however. Echoes from the main cave were muted by the perception of enclosure.
Without warning, Arnald shoved her against the rock, stilled like a coiled snake preparing to strike. Her head was ringing from the impact, when she heard them.
“Well, well...what have we ’ere, Otis?”
“Eh?”
“Which way ye s’posin’ they went?”
“I be thinkin’ they took to the right. Air seems fresher. I’ll tell ye, I’ll be a mite ‘appy meself to escape this water trap.”
“Well, the mister’s awantin’ em real bad like. ’Spect we should check both.”
Fear clawed Pricilla’s insides, she huddled her body into the safety of Arnald’s protective stance. He squeezed her hand as if he’d read her mind. She peered into the darkness and caught sight of a faint glow, concentrating fiercely on the stream of light. Her gaze moved to Arnald’s face. Grim, tight and unrelenting. A spark of hope lit within her.
“Lady Pricilla,” he whispered, stirring the hair on her nape. She shivered. “I beg of you, do as I say.”
She rather liked that he felt compelled to beg. Her hesitation in the space of a beat precluded her quick nod. Before she had time to react, he pressed a hard, shocking kiss on her lips. Again. How did he manage to manipulate her with such amazing haste?
In a quick, silent tread, he moved from her side, as if he hadn’t turned her rational thoughts into mush. The difference in the temperature on her body grew considerably cooler. In the space of second, the life before this eve will have altered her forever.
Terror surfaced. In both realizing her attraction to Prince Charming’s cousin and her precarious situation, but she stayed her position. Prayed she would know what to do when the time presented itself. Prayed it would not entail casting up her accounts.
The sound of shuffled feet sharpened, the stench of unwashed bodies prevalent, followed by the glow of blinding light. It glared harshly in the arch of the cavern chamber.
“Milord?”
Pricilla pressed her back into the cold stoned wall. Silence filled the small space.
Then Arnald said softly, “Excellent.” His voice drew their quarry’s quick glance in his direction away from her. She realized at once that had been his intention. Fascinated incredulity filled her as Arnald’s gentle tone and a flick of his wrist had the gentleman, for lack of a better term, lowering the lantern to the ground.
“Ah, we appreciate the light, old man. I fear the dark was playing havoc with mademoiselle’s sensibilities.”
Playing havoc with my sensibilities, indeed, she barely refrained from shouting. Unfortunately, he had a point, but she didn’t have to admit it. Pricilla clamped her hand over her mouth, fear warring with familiar annoyance.
“Your name, my good man?” Arnald acted as if he’d not issued the greatest insult to her person, maintaining an intense focus on the ill-dressed knave.
“Otis, sir.”
Something mild and lackluster in his voice stirred Pricilla, and she gave him a curious look. He did not appear dangerous; not in the least. His clothes were filthy and worn, his eyes surprisingly clear, expression blank. In fact, he did not fit her image of a villain at all. Pricilla switched her gaze to Arnald, and watched him closely. He had the oddest glint in his eye. It struck her as a strange kind of mesmerist’s trick.
Arnald’s lack of her awareness was quite frightening—how his hand swayed before the villain in a strange hypnotic motion. The intensive gaze he held on their quarry did not waver. All things she’d failed to notice before. Except perhaps when assisting some senseless female to their feet after they toppled before him.
“Tell me, Otis.” Arnald’s tone took on the eminence of chilled seawater prickling up Pricilla’s spine. She was awestruck, unable to move, captivated by his subtle pitch. “What shall we do with you, pray tell?” The sing-song effect of his voice had Pricilla wondering the same. She wanted to look away but felt somewhat helpless in doing so. “Mayhap, you would kindly serve as our guide.”
Pricilla could not be sure she’d heard him correctly. Was he mad?
“Oui, sir. I be ’appy to serve ye,” was the insipid reply.
***
Pricilla’s gasp sliced through the heavy damp air, reminding Arnald he was not alone in this haphazard adventure. And, after starting the day as a minion in her stead, he held back a sigh. How long ago all that seemed. “Merci, Otis. Perhaps you would be so kind as to lead us to the chambers hiding the smuggl
ed goods?”
“Of course, guv’ner.” Otis nodded a quick assent, leaving Arnald to fathom what myriad questions would surge from Lady Pricilla at first opportunity. He did not envision her letting the slightest unanswered statement slip by.
“Excellent, Otis. Lead the way...with the lantern, of course.”
***
Pricilla charged forward. “You have lost all charge of your facilities, sir,” Pricilla hissed.
“Back to ‘Sir,’ are we?”
His glib tone had her hands clenching at her sides, for surely taking a swing at the Prince’s cousin was considered some kind of a criminal offense, no matter how inane and obtuse it might appear, or how deserving.
“Take care not to move too quickly,” Sir Arnald called to Otis. “My companion’s slippers are not so practical for hiking through damp caverns.”
Otis’s rounded chuckle surprised Pricilla into forgetting her vexatious fear of constrictive enclosures.
“What has gotten into you?” she demanded softly. But the blackguard ignored her. Ignored her. “You gave him the light, for the sake of heaven.” He snatched her arm. Then winced, at his warning squeeze.
“We’re safe enough for the moment, my lady. But do try to curtail your temper lest you snap him from his trance-induced state, si’l vous plaît. ’Tis tentative at best.”
Trance-induced? “What sort of nonsensical gibberish is this?” She demanded, though she lowered her voice, unsure whether or not he jested. A mountain of questions burst through her. She stayed on Sir Arnald’s heels. “How did Otis come to be in his trance-induced state?” The words spilled from her lips, although she was afraid that one was much too obvious. It would certainly explain the tittering women who fell into Sir Arnald’s path, she thought glumly.
Rather than answer her questions, Arnald picked up his pace, dogging Otis’s footsteps into a widened corridor. She rushed to keep pace. Lagging too far behind would be a grave mistake, as she was not so certain Sir Arnald might just as soon as leave her behind.
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