The Unlikely Heroine

by Kae Elle Wheeler

  “I fear I did not hear a question of any sort,” she retorted, breathless. “Now. Take me home.”

  ***

  “’Tis a smuggling operation.” Arnald watched Prince prowl the chamber office with all the patience of a jungle cat on the scent of fresh prey. “You’ve sent someone to DePaul’s?”

  “Certainment. He’s disappeared, of course. Someone was very brave,” Prince groused. “How is it such activity remained undetected for so long?”

  “I am not sure. Perhaps the recent events surrounding your wedding, followed by birth of the new heir, contributed,” Arnald answered. “I shudder to think of Lady Pricilla’s oblivious visits to the tenants over the past few months.”

  “Oblivious?” Prince asked with raised brow.

  Arnald felt the heat rise in his face, but did not react to the statement. It was true. Something sizzled under his skin at the danger she’d unintentionally landed in.

  “What of the men you captured?”

  “They are enjoying a pleasant stay below stairs,” Arnald bit out sarcastically.

  Prince scowled and ran a hand over his face.

  “How fares Princess Cinderella?”

  “Out of danger,” he answered softly. “’Twas a close call. This past day or so has addled my wits, to be sure.”

  Arnald stood from his chair and crossed to the windows. Cool rain beat against the glass in melodic a meter. They were lucky the storm hit post their return. Her eyes matched the gray sky he looked upon. His ache for her, an unsettling habit, he feared.

  Now that they were among civilized company, Arnald wondered how one went about courting a woman who clearly showed no inclinations toward marital pursuits. As a gentleman, he felt compelled in his duty to protect Lady Pricilla. Her reputation would fall under heavy scrutiny. She, of course, could give a damn.

  “I vow, I shall find and kill the bâtard who dared take a shot at a defenseless woman.” Prince’s low voice reminded Arnald how aptly suited his cousin was as the future king.

  Better still, ’twas impossible to keep the twitch from his lips at Lady Pricilla described as defenseless.

  “DePaul, you say?”

  Arnald scowled and turned to his cousin. “Oui. I’ve been contemplating several tortures, myself.”

  Prince strode to a cabinet in the corner and snagged two tumblers. He splashed brandy into both. Arnald met him in the middle of the room and reached for the false fortification. A knock pounded the outer chamber, a rap that portrayed a confidence few individuals could render. He struggled once more to hide a grin. She was not very subtle, his Pricilla.

  It took a moment before the footman’s soft tap sounded, and he announced, “Lady Pricilla.”

  “Enter.” Prince’s barked order sounded even as she pushed past the servant.

  Arnald wondered what she’d done if Prince had denied the entry. ’Twould have mattered naught, he decided, biting back a grin.

  She swept in the room, looking especially fetching in a gown as blue as a summer sky. It had the effect of transforming her soft gray eyes to striking silver. He found himself unable to look away. Flaxen locks, once more coiffed and in perfect order, offered sunshine from the dark skies beyond the leaden windows.

  “Lady Pricilla,” Prince said. “Some refreshments, s’il vous plaît,” he told the servant, and set aside his empty tumbler. He met her at the door and bowed low over her hand. Why did Prince have to be so damned charming?

  “Lady Pricilla.” Arnald inclined his head.

  She dipped a shallow curtsy in his direction with a scowl on those luscious lips. She turned back to Prince, blinding smile notwithstanding. Arnald turned narrowed eyes on her. She was up to something. Something lodged in his chest, something akin to...to envy—non! Women swooned at his feet. ’Twas impossible.

  “How did you find my wife?” Prince asked, placing her hand on his forearm.

  “Frustrated from bedridden confinement.” She grinned, unabashedly.

  Prince chuckled. “I fear that is so.”

  “Oui, but contented with a cooing infant in her arms. Competing with Essie, of course.”

  “Of course.” Prince guided her to a settee across the room where she settled with a graceful descent, smoothing her hand over her skirts.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mademoiselle.” Prince was all that was irritatingly gallant.

  Arnald settled back to watch the fanfare. He knew what fires her calm demeanor disguised.

  “Merci. Now, what need have you of my service?” she asked.

  Before Prince could answer, a young maid entered, arms laden with a tray holding tea and various confections.

  Unavoidably, Arnald supposed, the maid cast her glance in his direction.

  Oh non, not now. The show took an unexpected turn in which he’d failed to prepare.

  Arnald jumped to his feet and darted forward. Too late. With compressed lips, morbid fascination took hold as the edge of the priceless Aubusson crinkled. It all happened in the space of seconds—the clumsy trip over the creased rug, the sprawled landing on her rump—amid a sea of cakes and tea. Arnald knew no other option but to rise and assist the chit to her feet. He escorted her to the door, listened with patience as gushed apologies erupted, all while suffering her moon-calf gaze.

  He made a mental note to speak with Maman as soon as feasibly possible.

  Narrowed suspicion touched Lady Pricilla’s glare. But he suppressed his groan and lifted a ‘what-can-I-say’ shoulder in her direction.

  “What in Hades was that about?” Prince demanded.

  “I sense Maman at work,” he muttered.

  “Pardonnez-moi?”

  “Ought we to turn to the business at hand, Sire?” Arnald said.

  “Oui, oui, of course. Summon someone to clear up this mess,” Prince ordered, flinging out a hand to another flustered servant hovering near the door. The man snapped into action.

  “Mayhap the butler or some other servant of male persuasion could offer his diligence,” Arnald suggested.

  Chapter 22

  “Well!” Lady Roche preened in glee. “I daresay we shall have you latched to the Royal family by weeks’ end, my darling.”

  “What!” Pricilla snapped at her stout maman, who sat ensconced in a deep-seated chair. One moment of peace, was that too much to ask? “Maman, ’tis late. Surely, this discussion can wait until the morrow?” Pricilla ran a palm across her forehead, willing a well-deserved solace.

  “What consequences had you imagined when you found yourself cavorting alone with a man all over the countryside?” Maman plucked a piece of lint from her massive velvet-covered bosom.

  “Cavorting? Maman, you realize I was shot at? Twice? Held at gun point? Stranded in a...d-dark cave? I’ve had a trying day.”

  Maman slanted slit eyes her way. A sense of trepidation prickled her skin when she caught the slight twitch of Maman’s fingers. Maman’s violent nature rested perilously close to the surface. Pricilla was by far the only one of the three sisters who could usually manage to elude censure in dealing with Maman’s sharp tongue. She’d always wondered if guilt played a role in her more liberal voice, due to Maman’s actions locking her in the closet at so young an age. But Maman was not an easy character to read.

  “Manette, my dress, s’il vous plaît,” Pricilla said softly to the maid.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.” Manette stepped forward and worked the hundreds of small buttons down her back with deft fingers.

  “What of your interview with the prince?” Maman completely disregarded Pricilla’s broad innuendo.

  Grateful for the dress over her head, it allowed her a moment to comprise a reply. After all, Prince had requested her discretion as well as her assistance. She had every intention of complying.

  “He gave me an update on Cinde’s...er, Princess Cinderella’s condition. She was quite ill you know,” she muffled through the mounds of fabric.

  Maman’s ill temper was unmistakable. “Oui, oui. A pit
y the child survived.”

  The dress slipped away and Pricilla spun to face her mother. “Maman,” she choked. “That is quite blasphemous. He is the heir! And, only an infant.”

  “Bah! I was speaking of Cinderella. She bewitched that man from Esmeralda.”

  Pricilla drew in a shaky breath. “Essie did not wish to marry Prince, Maman. Things have worked out quite favorably.” Before Pricilla could blink, Maman stood before her with an unrelenting grip on her chin.

  “Indeed,” Maman spat. “Quite the fairy tale, non?”

  Chapter 23

  “You look no worse for wear,” Essie said.

  Pricilla considered Essie’s comment wryly as she accepted a teacup from her outstretched hand. She took in the soothing green and cream décor against the heavy dark furniture in Cinde’s chamber. A welcome comfort compared to stone, cold, damp walls, dark corridors, and muddied puddles. She shivered. Lord, it was good to be home. “Merci,” she responded. She took a fortifying sip.

  “Someone, open a window,” Cinde ordered.

  Pricilla’s attention jerked round at her sharpness. She sounded different. Her eyes sparkled with...irritation. Where was her mild and meek sister? Essie’s choked expression would be comical if Cinde’s tones were not so out of character.

  “Are you sure that is wise, Cinde?” Essie countered.

  Pricilla inhaled the fragrant tea deeply, questioning her own sanity. Had she only been gone one night?

  “Oui.” To Pricilla’s further surprise, Cinde snapped her fingers to a servant hidden in the shadows. The girl jumped to her bidding. “This infernal rain will be the death of me,” Cinde muttered.

  “Do not jest with such a thing,” Pricilla said sharply.

  Maman’s words resonated through her head louder than a clap of thunder in the fiercest storm. A pity the child survived. She hadn’t been speaking in regards of the new heir. She wanted Cinde dead. Maman, apparently, would stop at nothing. Her descent into madness was gaining momentum, but what was one to do? Without Cinde’s consent they were trapped. But Cinde was still recovering. Laying this at her sister’s feet now seemed unduly selfish.

  “Cill, whatever is the matter? Surely, you rested well enough last night? You’ve only just appeared. ’Tis nigh on two hours past noon.” Essie informed her.

  Sleep? Ha! Sleep was as elusive as having Maman committed. Every detail carved in the frescoed ceiling of her chamber, sculpted on her mind. Pricilla felt as if she’d lived a lifetime in the last twenty-four hours. Attacked by villains, kissed by a knave... the worst of which, she’d worried past dawn, surrounding whatever nefarious plot Maman wielded—weaving a new wife for Prince in the name of—Essie?

  Oh, how she wanted to run her fingers through her bound-too-tight hair, live free of the sinister plots that flourished behind a curtain of calm security. ’Twould seem their cosseted world was all a façade.

  Maman’s rumblings had her nerves stretched beyond reason. Yet, Pricilla dare not upset her sisters. Her previous day’s escapades were infinitesimal to Maman’s deluded stratagems. Not to mention, Cinde’s trying ordeal. She glanced at Cinde. Her complexion, pale and translucent, made her dark-doe eyes appear much too large in her sweet heart-shaped face.

  “Pass me a cup,” Cinde commanded.

  “But, Cinde, the midwife—” Essie started.

  “Do not dare speak to me of that dreadful midwife.” Her shudder was visible. “I want tea.”

  “Oui, Your Highness,” Essie smirked.

  Pricilla, shocked at Cinde’s sharp tone, turned to see Cinde blinking quickly. She brushed away shimmering tears.

  Essie rushed to her side. “Oh, darling, je suis désolée,” Essie said. “I’m so sorry. You are under a tremendous strain. I should not tease you so.”

  “A nightmare, non?” Pricilla looked down, and spoke into her cup.

  “Unbearably,” Cinde sniffed.

  An unnatural silence echoed throughout the chamber before Pricilla raised her head. “Mayhap you need an escape for an hour,” she suggested quietly. A small plan was quickly forming. Keeping Cinde from Maman’s evil clutches was top priority. Perhaps beseeching help from Sir Ar—

  Pricilla squelched that train of thought immediately. The three of them had no need of some over-bearing knight’s help or opinions. Independence would serve them just as well. Cinde needed to be at her best. And her best included a visit outside this suffocating chamber.

  “How on earth am I to escape? They are guarding the door at both ends,” she hissed, but Pricilla heard a spark of hope. Cinde sat forward, anticipation flooding her soft features.

  “Cill, you cannot be serious.” Essie lowered her voice with a glance over her shoulder to the shadows. “Cinde has been gravely ill. If Prince had any inkling, he will likely have us thrown in the gaol, the least of which, if not beheaded.”

  “Where is your sense of adventure, Ess? Cinde shall perish if she is stuck in this chamber another single minute.” Pricilla considered Cinde carefully. “Truly, how do you feel?”

  “I feel stronger with each passing breath,” she whispered. “But, I am not even allowed the dignity of using the chamber pot on my own. ’Tis quite humiliating; let me tell you.”

  Essie groaned.

  Pricilla ignored her. “A dire situation, indeed. But we could only manage an hour at most. Essie is right, Prince will surely strap us to The Rack.”

  “Oui, oui.” I shall take care of him,” she said, impatience blatant in the hand she flung out. “Now. How shall we manage it?”

  With wide innocent eyes, Pricilla looked toward Essie.

  “Non. I shall not be your decoy,” Essie insisted, head shaking vehemently.

  Pricilla smiled, and regarded Cinde’s soft yet determined features, quite aware of Essie’s glare. Oui, it burned a hole right between her shoulders. The tap of her slipper reigned like the march of hundred soldiers—in a hurry.

  “We shall not venture far,” Pricilla told Cinde. “I vow, I should never have offered this lunacy.”

  “’Tis too late now, Cill. If you do not get me out of here, then I shall find my own way.” ’Twas difficult to miss the conviction in Cinde’s determined tone.

  “What if Edric should need you?” Essie demanded.

  “You said yourself ’twould be an hour at most. He has all he needs.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I am no good to him in my current state.”

  “Oui. ’Tis clearly written in your eyes,” Pricilla sighed. She snapped her fingers to the maid hovering in the shadows. “Send for Manette. Tout de suite. Right away!”

  “What are you up to, Cill?” Essie asked with narrowed eyes.

  “Vite. Quickly. Give her your gown, Essie. ’Tis the only inspiration that comes to my tired, befuddled brain.”

  “That much is obvious,” Essie muttered. She turned her back to Pricilla. “Undo these blasted hooks.”

  ***

  Arnald turned a slow circle ignoring the opulent, gilded drapes and ornate furniture. He garnered his frustration with effort. “You fail to understand, cousin.” This was a disaster in the making, but Prince, on occasion, rushed headlong into an asinine decision, regardless of the consequences.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Prince snapped. “Of course, I understand. She is a young woman. She needs shielding—our protection.” He emphasized the word.

  “I fear you are making a monumental mistake,” Arnald muttered. But his warning went unheeded. His cousin had obviously ceased listening.

  Arnald considered their present company where the Bailiff, Sebastian Landsome, sat across from him gnawing his thumb each time Prince turned to pace another direction. His balding head heralded uneven tufts of mangy gray hair that looked as if it would shed like a dog’s in the heat of summer. Beads of perspiration covered his upper lip under a rather pointed nose. The thought that Lady Pricilla could flay him alive curled his lips.

  Other members of the party included the west tenant, Hanley Murdock, and Carrick Viceroy
from the southern edged properties. Both were robust, hardworking men in their late thirties—truly, loyal subjects.

  It was not the tenants that had Arnald concerned for Lady Pricilla’s temper, but the Bailiff who reported directly to her. ’Twas sure to set off a firestorm worthy of Hell, itself.

  Arnald squared his shoulders, brought himself to full height—equaled to that of his charming cousin. “I shall vouch for the fact that Lady Pricilla can hold her own. If you do not include her in your plans—”

  “But—”

  Arnald held up his hand to stay the interruption. “You are disrespecting insight she foresaw in the first place. Why hand her a position of such responsibility if you do not intend to include her in landing the culprit?” It was a lost cause, Arnald saw at once. The set in his cousin’s jaw and compressed lips said much.

  Oui, much like the moment when Prince had come up with the inspiration to find his “mysterious princess” by way of trying her lost-glass-shoe on every maiden in the kingdom. A fool’s quest that almost had him married to the wrong sister.

  Arnald blew out a frustrated breath. It seemed Prince had one other lesson to learn. The sisters were independent and fiercely protective of one another. His lordly cousin seemed to have forgotten that small detail.

  Someone should warn Lady Pricilla. Arnald spun for the door. Mayhap he could compel a more pleasant situation—rewarded with a kiss?

  He scowled. Likely not.

  Chapter 24

  Faustine sipped a cup of tea thankful to see Thomasine’s more relaxed features. “I am happy to see you faring much better, Sister.”

  “Oui. My dear daughter has finally broken through the worst of it.” Thomasine smiled. “Many thanks, ma chère.”

  “Bah. Much was due to her own desire for her beloved son and husband, I am sure.” Faustine tapped the teapot with her wand. The adhesive wrapped about it created a slight jar in the motion but nothing overt happened. She was relieved as much as pleased to see fresh steam rise from the spout.