The Unlikely Heroine

by Kae Elle Wheeler

  Sir Arnald stared at her for a moment, his glance unreadable, before spinning her about. “Change of plan, my lady.” He clapped her wrists together.

  “What—”

  “Shush,” he breathed against her neck, shocking her silly. Then outrage, when she felt the rough and distinct texture of twine. He was tying her up?

  “Is that comfortable?” he whispered.

  She shivered at the brush of heat on her skin. The man was brilliant in making snap decisions. Though it was an admission she’d never voice aloud. She tested his handiwork before nodding.

  “Mayhap you have a pocket?”

  “Non,” she whispered.

  Arnald leaned down, reached for his boot—his next action had her gasping for breath. He slipped a leather casing in her bodice. Between her breasts.

  “This shall have to suffice, I fear,” he told her.

  “But—”

  He graced her with a short, hard kiss. “Don’t force me to gag you as well, my lady,” he whispered, hot against her lips. “This is the only chance for escape I can manage on short notice.” He turned to their captive. “Otis,” he said in that soothing tone that was starting to annoy her to no end. She must remember to guard herself from it in the future. “Rise, s’il vous plaît, we have guests.”

  “Ah, very good, guv’ner.” Arnald assisted the miscreant to his feet, before snatching a piece of hanging twine about his own wrists.

  “Be ready, my lady. We’ll not have much time,” he whispered. “Stay close.”

  Ha! Just let him try to keep her from tripping over him.

  “Don’t forget our plan, my good man,” Arnald told Otis.

  “Nay, not to worry, guv.”

  Pricilla’s heart stuck in her throat. Ocean air breezed readily through the narrowed passage. Deep voices echoed over stone, blustering tones they did nothing to disguise. She prayed her knees held, trembling as they were. Arnald moved and pressed his shoulder to hers. She read it as a silent halt. She nodded an assent and backed against the wall.

  “Otis,” Arnald handed him a winning smile. Otis stepped forward like a strung-up puppet.

  If this worked and she made it home to her own chamber, mayhap she would consider falling at his feet.

  Non. She could never manage it. ’Twas a ridiculous theory that Faustine, the queen’s own sister, mind, would, even if she possessed the ability, have women throw themselves at her son’s feet.

  His Maman, indeed.

  Chapter 18

  “She’s coming to, Sire.” The midwife’s voice seeped through Prince’s wary brain. He jerked fully awake, his neck creaking soundly. Hands shaking, he started through the door, when Esmeralda shoved past him, rushing to his wife’s side.

  “Cinde?” Esmeralda knelt beside the bed.

  “Essie? Cill?” Princess Cinderella’s eyes fluttered, then opened. Esmeralda laid a gentle touch on her cheek.

  “Cill’s not here. Oh, Cinde, we’ve been so worried.”

  Prince watched Esmeralda grasp his wife’s hand. He stood in the shadows swallowing past a large lump in his throat. ’Twould not do for her to see him in such a state. He gazed over dark hair, matted beyond redemption, and the circles etched deep beneath her doe-like eyes. She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. He somehow resisted dropping to his knees, his relief so great.

  “I feel...a bit light-headed. M-my son?”

  “Is perfect, and resting.” Esmeralda rose and lifted a glass from a nearby table and pressed it to her lips.

  “Has...has my husband—”

  “I am here, my dear,” he said gruffly. He pushed forward, overcome with emotion. He barely registered Lady Esmeralda’s closing of the door on her way out.

  Her lucid questions had tears stinging the backs of his eyes, clogging his throat. He sank down in the chair and grasped her hand. He brought it to his lips. It was blessedly cool. “I declare, only one child, heretofore,” he whispered. “Damn the spare.”

  Chapter 19

  Arnald prayed this haphazard scheme of his would work. Thinking on one’s feet was not so easy under the scrutiny of an enticing female dissecting one’s every thought and action.

  “Weel, weel, weel. What have you, Otis?”

  In a subtle move, Lady Pricilla stiffened next to him, but Arnald strived to keep his attention rooted on their two new adversaries. Their nasal tones, grated on taut nerves. If he and Lady Pricilla survived the rank smell of their clothes, ’twould be its own miracle.

  “I caught us some pris’ners,” Otis said proudly. “I gots ’um tied, Tom.”

  Two scraggly-clad forms appeared in the opening. The ocean breeze worked against them in the confined space. One man, stocky and heavyset, sported a pistol with an unerringly firm hold. He stood calmly beside the other whose greasy hair and bushy brows were indiscernible. Greasy-hair stalked forward. What a charming picture he made. Arnald willed him to meet his eyes. Just a glance was all he’d require, but no luck. Arnald stepped up to block Lady Pricilla from the approaching worm. With surprising strength, Tom jerked Arnald’s arm and swung him round.

  “Ye call this tied, ye fool, Otis!” Tom made quick work of the twine, cinching it tighter.

  Arnald grimaced as the knave gave a final wrench and shoved him toward Otis. He made a show of stumbling forward. As tempted as he was, Arnald resisted looking toward Pricilla.

  It didn’t stop Tom, however. “Mmm. Ye’er a nice juicy gel, I ’magine. Mayhap, I’ll fin’ me some comfort betwixt nice hot thighs.”

  A haze of red blurred Arnald’s vision. Killing was too easy for the bâtard. He tried twisting his wrists. The bonds, too tight, cut into his skin.

  “Sir!” Lady Pricilla barked. Embarrassment and indignation bounded reverberated against the stone.

  Tom’s evil chuckle set Arnald’s teeth on edge. Arnald whipped about to see Lady Pricilla flinch as Tom, the soon-to-be dead man, drew a filthy finger along her jaw. “Mayhap, we’ll save you fer later. What say ye, Culver?”

  Culver’s hand never wavered, just the smacking sounded of his mouth as if he’d not eaten in days. The hungry glaze in his eyes never strayed from Lady Pricilla. Panic dipped deep in Arnald’s gut. If these vermin did not succumb to his will, his plan would not work. ’Twas ne’er a sure thing to begin with. Arnald nudged Otis with a twitch of his nose. Otis grabbed Arnald’s arm turning him so he faced Lady Pricilla.

  Fury emanated from her. All she had to do was lift her knee to fell the bâtard but Arnald silently pleaded with her to withhold doing anything rash. The situation could turn deadly if they lashed out recklessly. Her compressed lips were a reassuring sight, so Arnald held his tongue. What good if they were shot before they escaped, by whatever means? Prince needed to know what schemes were afoot.

  Tom tugged Lady Pricilla forward, as if he were handling precious glass. At least he treated her gently, an act that would ensure he might not suffer in his death if Arnald was feeling generous perhaps. Arnald expelled a relieved breath at the control she maintained. Once more he found himself amazed by her unfettered composure.

  But his breath stuck in his throat when Tom reached around her to test the bindings, his chest touching her breasts. “Good work, Otis,” Tom cackled, but he stepped back, allowing Arnald to release the air in a slow steady seam.

  Until Tom’s next move.

  ***

  The menace, Tom, could be dealt with easily enough. All Pricilla had to do was plow him with her knee in his soft parts. But she caught Sir Arnald’s silent message, and resisted. The bigger concern lay with Culver’s penetrating gaze. They needed Tom’s presence to serve as distraction; otherwise, Culver’s hesitation to shoot Arnald dead was certain to culminate. And any hope of help after that, lost.

  Nerve endings on high-alert, she branded Tom with a hard stare, refusing to cower. ’Twas naught but a slight untwist of her wrists to slip her bindings free. Thank the heav’ns, she’d sense enough to secure them better lest he catch on.

&nb
sp; “Ye just have a sit, ducky,” Tom rasped. His pitch snapped her attention where he slopped a wet kiss on the side of her mouth. The stench of his breath almost had her emptying the contents of her stomach—had there been anything to empty. Her knees gave, and she slid down the wall, scraping her hands in the interim. Mustering every ounce of control, she kept from wrenching her hands free to swipe them across her face.

  Culver took a minute step forward, mouth salivating. Only moments ago she could have killed with rage, now she felt sick with fear. In silence, she begged Arnald what to do.

  Patience, his eyes replied. She dare not nod, and glared back at Tom. She focused on her breathing, keeping it slow and shallow.

  “The man’ll be interst’d in our captive, Culver.” Her intuition screamed that Tom spoke to Arnald, though he leered at her. Bile rose in her throat. Non, ‘twas not possible Arnald meant to leave her here with this...this lecher. Could he not compel him...or...something? Tom turned to his friend leaving his back to her. “Culver, take our pris’ner here down to the brig.” For a moment she thought Culver might argue, but he grunted instead.

  “I’ll have me turn at her, ye prig,” Culver spat.

  Pricilla did not wait to hear more. She would kill Arnald when she had the chance later, but now there was no time to lose with Tom distracted. She worked her hands free with a minimal of effort.

  “Go on, Otis. Help Culver keep an eye on our friend here. I’ll be along shortly.”

  So terrified was she, she almost missed the glance Arnald shot Otis. The intensity of it startled her. With a clairvoyance she’d not known she possessed, she realized Arnald commanded Tom’s attention with a deliberate purpose in mind.

  “Come on, guv.” Culver shoved Arnald through the opening, abandoning her with the remaining smelly profligate.

  With their departure, left with one-half the light, Tom stood rooted in place, seemingly entranced by the silence.

  Pricilla got quietly to her feet, dazed by her own calm, and slipped the knife from her bodice. Sheathed in a worn leather casing, it was smaller than she’d realized. She pulled it free and almost fainted at the sight of its sharp tip. She swallowed. This was a knife designed for slaughter. She lifted her eyes for a quick prayer then stepped toward her quarry.

  Chapter 20

  “You are weary. You should rest.” Essie said.

  “I have been resting for days, non?”

  “I suppose.” She sighed. “He is beautiful.”

  “Oui.” Cinderella observed Essie’s awe cradling Edric. She’d felt much the same counting all ten toes and fingers, hours earlier—several times over. He had a full head of dark hair just like his charming father. She cared not if he lost every strand as the midwife had promised was inevitable.

  “Look, how he holds my finger, he will be a warrior for certain. Such a strong little man,” Essie cooed.

  “I see I shall have to issue a Royal decree against referring to my son as little,” Prince smiled, striding into the room. Cinderella closed her eyes reveling in his deep soothing resonance and the kiss he dropped on her forehead. “You need your rest,” he chided. “We were quite concerned.”

  “Duly noted, my prince.”

  “Where, pray tell, is my other sister?” Cinderella would have to have been dead to miss the pointed glance that passed between Essie and Prince. “She is well, non?”

  “Well—” Essie started.

  “She is fine, my pet,” Prince interrupted.

  Essie glared at Prince. This did not bode well.

  “Darling,” Cinderella said. “Mayhap you could bring me something to quench my thirst? I am parched.” He snapped his fingers toward an attendant in the corner. Cinderella caught the twitch of Essie’s lips and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. He was going to be difficult, it seemed.

  Chapter 21

  Arnald could have kicked himself. He had to do something. Lady Pricilla was clever, but this was too much, even for her. With Culver behind, however, there was naught he could do with bonds tied and truly tight. The three of them made the downward trek. It was steep and the tang of the sea grew heavier. He stepped in a puddle.

  Arnald sought to rein in his chaotic thoughts. Not five minutes had passed before silver moonlight illuminated the entrance of the cove. A sound brig rocked gently on calm waters. The pistol seared a place between the blades of his shoulders. Culver must be feeling quite confident with such an action.

  An odd thought just occurred. “I suppose your superior needs a man of the crown?”

  “I’d keep that tongue in check, guv,” Culver groused. Yet the man did nothing more than shove the weapon deeper into his back. His control on the trigger was heartening. “I may not be a killin’ ye, but I wager bringin’ ye back unconscious would work jest as weel.”

  All Arnald needed was an opening—a single glance from Culver—and, impossible in his current position. He opted for the only preeminent instrument at hand, and raised a brow toward Otis.

  “Otis, I believe Culver may need your help with his pistol.”

  “Ye think so?”

  “Oui, Otis,” he said softly. “I do.” Culver gave Arnald a hard shove sending him sprawling onto the brig’s wooden deck smacking his head but good.

  “Bâtard,” Arnald hissed, for which he received a hard kick in the ribs, stunning him momentarily breathless.

  Otis launched the lantern at Culver like the obedient soldier Arnald compelled, surprising the brute. Arnald rolled from the scuffle, and cringed at the crack on Culver’s jaw. He dropped like a rock.

  “Nice shot, Otis.”

  “Thank ye, guv.”

  “Mayhap, you could detangle these bonds?”

  “Aye, sir.” Otis whipped a knife from his boot that had Arnald suppressing a wince. He sliced through the ties like butter.

  “I do believe you’d be a welcome hand for Chalmers, Otis, what say you?”

  “Ye think so, guv?”

  “I do, indeed. Find something to take care of our friend here. I have a maiden to save, Otis.”

  ***

  Pricilla pressed her lips together. This was what came of having men in charge of a dire situation—marching a villain through a humid cave at knifepoint. Any other time, she’d be crowing in triumph. Right now, however, she prayed Sir Arnald had somehow managed to slip from his bonds to take care of Otis and that scary Culver. She shuddered. At least she was armed. And if they hurt one hair on Sir Arnald’s dark, curly head—

  Pricilla nudged Tom with the sharp point. “I sincerely appreciate your cooperation, Monsieur,” she said, breaking the unnerving silence.

  Tom said not a word, but followed her direction without contention. ’Twas unsettling, but as long as he did as she asked, she’d suffer through the apprehension.

  Her foot splashed in a cold puddle, freezing her toes to the bones. The thin leather soles were no match for the water. Blast. Cinde’s glass slippers would have offered more protection. Cool air touched her cheek, a blissful welcome.

  Tom led her dutifully along a winding path with nary a word. Relief rushed her as resplendent moonlight burned ahead. She cared not that her feet were soaked through grateful for the shard of light.

  One more moment of that suppressed darkness, Pricilla knew she would expire on the spot. She rushed forward, gulping the fresh air. Tom, be damned! But just as she sidestepped him angling for the salty sea air, he dropped to the ground in an undignified heap, narrowly missing the point of the knife she held.

  With a startled gasp, Pricilla hopped backward, her weapon skittering across the stone surface. Her eyes flashed forward to meet Sir Arnald’s cold gaze.

  ’Twas only the beat of a second she hesitated, before hurling herself into his capable arms. Instant strength engulfed her, the relief almost catapulting her into tears. She swallowed them, quickly snatching her only viable refuge—anger.

  “What in the name of Hades do you think you are about, sir! You almost flattened me in the interim.”


  ***

  Naturally, Arnald’s instincts erupted when Lady Pricilla threw herself at his body. Mon Dieu, he relished the sound of her railing. All he’d envisioned was her lifeless body left in the bowels of frightful caves, left for dead in blackness she loathed. When that profligate, Tom, appeared, he’d been certain of her fate.

  To hear her cursing him like a common drunkard showed she’d not only survived physically, but any sagging spirits had rebounded with undue vigor. He buried his head in her liberated curls and breathed deeply, taking in the subtle floral fragrance, shaking slightly with the effort. Had it only been that very afternoon he’d followed her to Silas Huntley’s?

  A matter still unresolved. It occurred to Arnald that mayhap Lady Pricilla had unwittingly stumbled into the undercurrents of espionage. Was Silas connected in some way?

  Slender hands landed on each shoulder, giving him a hard shove. Relieved to hear her anger, his arms fell to his sides. She was a fighter, one he’d cherish at his back—forever.

  Forever?

  “Get your blade,” he barked a bit more harshly than he could help. He heaved a stunned Tom over his shoulder. Though he’d prefer to kill the bâtard with his bare hands, ’twas certain Tom harbored information for the Crown. He would be making the journey with his cohorts, instead of being dropped over the side of the brig left for fish sustenance. Lucky blackguard.

  “Wait here, my lady,” Arnald ordered. No way would he allow Otis to assist his little spitfire onto the brig. Arnald managed his efforts onto the boat easily. “Otis,” he barked. “Do something with this degenerate.” He dropped the sagging Tom on the deck and spun back to retrieve Lady Pricilla.

  “Oomph.” Unruly locks hid her face.

  “I believe I asked you to wait,” he said, placing a steadying hand on her arm as she scrambled on board.