Arnald raised his head. Her voice carried all the way to Madrid he’d vow. He narrowed a gaze on her. What in the name of saints was she up to?
“...the betrothal of my daughter, Lady Pricilla, is to be married.”
What? Pricilla had said nary a word. Lady Roche must be forcing her to someone’s hand! Arnald felt sick at the realization. He’d waited too long. He cast his gaze desperately about. He had to stop her.
“The bridegroom gallantly allowed me to...”
The atmosphere burned with the searing blaze Arnald leveled his future bride’s Maman. No one would be marrying Lady Pricilla but him. She belonged to him.
Lady Roche’s words faltered. “T-to Sir Arnald.”
The sudden rush of blood to his head made his vision swim. Lady Roche had just announced his engagement? Relief mingled with sudden understanding—he was in love with Lady Pricilla. He had to concentrate to keep his knees from buckling. He vaguely acknowledged Lady Esmeralda guiding him through the throng of sudden well-wishers determined to find his new betrothed.
“We must find Cill,” Lady Esmeralda pressed.
Stunned, Arnald struggled to pull his thoughts together. Blacking out before the court would cost any perception of control. Would that Prince would love such an ending. He tugged Lady Esmeralda up ignoring the instantaneous havoc surrounding them. “Did she know?” he barked following.
She leveled him with a steady gaze, not a whiff of breeze uplifting. “About Maman’s announcement?”
“Oui.” The word choked out.
“Non. Cill would have lured Maman to the dungeons herself and lose the key,” she assured him, glancing wildly about. “Mon, Dieu, where can she have made off to?”
Chapter 37
Mayhap Arnald’s Maman really had cast some dire spell, Pricilla thought again. She dashed a gloved hand across her face and pulled herself upright. Frustrated, she scanned the crowd for something more productive to focus on, like...locating Silas.
“Mademoiselle, your beauty steals from the glorious full light of the moon.”
“Excusez-moi?” Startled, her hand flew to her chest where her heart threatened to burst through to the ground.
“The gods have truly seen fit to smile upon me.” His voice was throaty, suave, sophisticated. One she failed to recognize. It sent warning chills over her skin. She edged her way back toward the crowd she’d so effectively manage to distance herself.
His cover was complete. She could barely make out his form in the darkness of the trees. He stepped forward quickly, bowing deep from the waist. “I most certainly would not survive another moment without my arms about you, ma chère.”
Those warning chills turned to alarm like a knife across her nape. “’T-tis not p-possible, Monsieur.” Taking her arm, he successfully impeded her flight into the crowd. “We’ve y-yet to b-be introduced, you see.” Every breath in her body screamed at disallowing this stranger to sense her fear. But it was there in each stuttered word.
Intelligent, amused, midnight eyes gleamed from his mask, reflecting the moon. She was not reassured. His black hair gathered at the nape was held by a velvet queue. ’Twas not difficult in imagining an eye patch to complete the picture of a rogue pirate, for all the risk he portended.
“Ah, but this is a masked ball, non?”
Pricilla swallowed, at a loss for words. It seemed fate had other ideals in store, nipping her plans for escape.
“Introductions are not necessary on an eve such as this, oui?” he smiled.
“Ah, Signorina, he is correct, no?” Relief hit her with the newcomer’s familiar voice. “A masked ball is for mystery and intrigue. But you are indeed wise to realize danger can hide anywhere for a young woman, no? Allow me,” the Conte de Lecce said graciously.
“Merci, Signore,” she murmured. Pricilla felt as if her head were swimming as the Conte saw to the formalities. This unexpected suitor unnerved her.
“Lady Pricilla, may I present Monsieur Francois DePaul? Monsieur DePaul, Lady Pricilla, Princess Charming’s lovely sister, si?” His heavy accent pronounced it ‘see-ster.’
Pricilla swallowed the gasp that almost slipped loose and lifted her hand. Surely, the shock was written all over her face. “Monsieur DePaul,” she demurred. The whispery kiss to her hand made her want to scrub with soap. By the miracle of saints, she did not squeak out his name. But DePaul was missing, non? Pricilla cast an anxious glance about. Where was a hero when one was in desperate need?
“Will the gods continue to smile upon me when I ask for your hand?”
“M-my hand?” There it was—a definite squeak.
“For this set, my lady,” he chuckled as if he read her thoughts. Her cheeks flamed in acute embarrassment, making the night her most beloved friend.
“Oui, Monsieur. That...that would be lovely.” This was what she’d yearned for, non? How else was she to procure an interview with the mysterious DePaul?
Yet, Pricilla still hesitated. It was the gentle push on her shoulder from Conte de Lecce that had her toppling into Monsieur DePaul’s open arms. Every instinct demanded she run as fast and far for safety. He swung her into a dance on the very edge of an exuberant crowd.
She breathed, deep, reached inside for restraint. Panic would do her no good. She searched for something to say, to lessen the awkward silence. What could he do in the midst of so many? “I-I wonder, Monsieur, have y-you perchance seen Monsieur Huntley?” Her breathless tone had her inwardly cringing.
“I understand he is somewhat under the weather this evening,” Monsieur DePaul responded smoothly.
“Perhaps I-I shall convey my sentiments to his wife?” Pricilla summoned a brilliant smile and made for a subtle escape.
His arms tensed about her effectively stilling that notion. “I’m most certain she remained at his bedside to nurse him,” he replied.
Yet, just beyond the monsieur’s shoulder Pricilla spotted Sophie Huntley tapping a foot in time with the lively rhythmic percussion. Her fingers tightened.
“Is something amiss, Mademoiselle?”
“Non, non,” she tried to say, but the words were whispered and unheard over the playing orchestra. She shook her head unable to meet DePaul’s gaze, focusing on his chin instead. Monsieur DePaul’s lie was beyond blatancy. It portrayed a man who cared not a fig that she knew or not.
And where was Silas? His absence from the festivities left an eerie dread crawling over her. Mon Dieu! She had to get free. Pricilla unclenched her jaw and handed the monsieur another winsome smile. “Ah, oui, perhaps I shall send a basket of goods in my stead.”
“A wise choice, Mademoiselle,” he acquiesced.
Overwhelming panic stole the breath from her as he spun round, careful keeping to the perimeter of the other swirling couples. When she stumbled over her own feet, his hold tightened and steadied her. He would not be letting go, she realized, even as the music ended on an unusually strained note.
Sir Arnald’s warning regarding the danger this man represented loomed all too real. A scream lodged in her throat, but something of her fear must have shown. In a fleet-footed maneuver, DePaul’s unrelenting hold had her pressed into the edge of the forest. Stern hands gripped her face, rendering her immobile. Fear forced out coherence of sound except the blood pounding in her ears.
Heated respire touched her lips so close he was. She closed her eyes and swallowed back bile, unable to draw in a breath. “May I offer a word of advice, Mademoiselle?” He would have to be dead to not feel her shiver of fear. “If you wish to keep your beautiful head attached to your delectable body, mind you keep your voice to a minor shriek, oui?”
Reptilian eyes promised a fate she would ne’er forget—if she happened to live through it. DePaul’s fingers loosened and drifted down her cheeks, to her upper arms, clasping an iron hold. The knife attached at her thigh burned hot and heavy, yet retrieving it presented a great dilemma.
“One sound, Mademoiselle...” he whispered against her lips.
She nodded mutely, her understanding all too clear. A second later he dragged her through the trees.
***
Arnald glanced toward the tables laden with food. “Do not worry for Lady Pricilla. No doubt she and the Conte are enjoying a lavish snack. He was leading her to the refreshments, only moments ago.”
“Well, she’s nowhere to be seen now. I highly doubt she’d harbor such a subtle reaction had she’d heard Maman’s pronouncement.” Lady Esmeralda’s worry sliced through him like a knife.
She was right. Arnald pulled up to full height and glanced round, suddenly irritated. Finally, giving up any pretense of calm, he pushed a hand through this hair.
“She would go that far to avoid marriage—to me?” Arnald started forward then paused, fixating on various couples preparing to dance as an Italian overture pierced the air. Lighthearted laughter reached his ears, and the procession of a minuet began in dedication of the Conte de Lecce and his two sons’ presence.
“Sir?” Lady Esmeralda’s voice prodded.
A deep breath did not help, but he’d already risked his pride speaking with Maman and forged ahead. “Why? Why will she not marry me? I am cousin to Prince Charming. Truly, excellent bloodlines, if I say so myself.”
Her quick gasp, covered by her hand, offered a painful reminder of the delicate balance between etiquette and bluntness. “My apologies, Mademoiselle, I fear I’ve embarrassed you.”
“Non. Non,” she choked.
His eyes narrowed on her. “Are you...laughing...my lady,” he demanded, stunned. The embarrassment shifted, making him thankful for cool air and the cover of night.
“You wish to marry her? Cill?”
His gaze followed the dancers, the wine-induced, flirtatious interchanges more pronounced as the eve grew late. Something odd resonated through the atmosphere he could not pinpoint. Arnald turned back to the issue at hand. He’d ventured out on the limb this far, how hard could the final drop be? He faced Lady Esmeralda. “Oui,” he scowled, preferring annoyance to turmoil. “I wish very much to marry her.”
“Forgive me, sir, but you appear somewhat angry about the fact. My sister can be quite stubborn as you, no doubt, have discovered. You shan’t be able to intimidate her into marriage. Maman or not, I fear.”
“Mayhap, you have some advice to offer?”
He waited with a semblance of patience, knowing it was a complete and fraudulent front. He resisted the urge to shift his feet, or shake her shoulders for an answer. Lady Esmeralda tapped her chin, appearing to mull over his request. He cast a gaze over the exuberant crowd. The free-flowing champagne was working its magic as the hum of chatter floated over the music.
He stilled, realizing what difference permeated the air. Not one matron looked his way. No cheeky maids or simmering damsels commanding his attentions. No woman, of any age, paying him any mind.
An unexpected brisk wind whipped through his hair, startling him. A quick glance toward Lady Esmeralda proclaimed its source. “Lady Esmeralda, is there a prob—”
The click of snapping heels had Arnald quickly donning a blank expression. Hells teeth, what next?
“Signor.” Alessandro de Lecce was all that was proper. So much, that Arnald began a focused intent on him. Lady Esmeralda’s sudden exhilaration made him pause. Arnald drew in a deep breath. There would be no advice forthcoming now.
“Sir Arnald.” de Lecce’s inclined head offered respect, but Arnald suspected mockery. With great aplomb de Lecce shifted his attention on Lady Esmeralda. “Signorina, my h-arms await jour company.” It could not be helped, Arnald’s gaze lifted to the heavens. A prayer for the patience to endure.
“Pardonnez-moi?” Lady Esmeralda’s breathy response was a surprise, indeed.
“He is asking you to dance,” Arnald smirked. Her blush, even in the soft lighting, was pronounced. She remained as frozen as one of the pond statues.
“He’d like this set...” Arnald repeated, slowly. Lady Esmeralda’s crush was all too clear.
“O-oh, oui,” she stammered, eyes blinking furiously. “Of course.”
“Until later, Mademoiselle,” Arnald said with a short bow. On their departure, he scanned the couples, searching for the flaxen curls of Lady Pricilla, still nowhere to be to be seen.
Left to his own devices from gushing women, Arnald decided he’d prefer clarification from one woman in particular. Maman should be able to tell him, quite pointedly, why women suddenly failed to fall at his feet. His gaze spanned the outer reaches of the crowd, a sense of dread settling over him. He could not see Maman, but an iridescent glow hovered above so he knew she was about. It comforted little.
The Prince and Princess of Chalmers sat on the rising enclave near Aunt Thomasine and Uncle Osmond. The King’s appearance was a rare sight indeed. Perhaps the princess could direct him to her elusive sister.
“Well, Cousin, you seem quite restless. Is the ball not all you had desired? By the by, our felicitations on your engagement. You took us quite by surprise.”
Arnald studied Prince carefully, discerning any trace of sarcasm. Non, his words appeared genuine. “Did I?” he murmured.
“Oui,” the Princess agreed. “Neither Cill nor Essie uttered a single word. And, ’tis beyond Essie’s capability to keep a grand secret such as this,” she smiled. “Mayhap, you surprised Essie, as well, oui?”
“The announcement surprised many,” he said. Him, most of all. But no matter, this would work to his advantage. She was quite stuck with him now. The thought cheered him.
“Where is the blushing bride-to-be?” Prince asked. There was no mistaking the sarcasm this time.
“I was quite wondering the same,” Arnald frowned, gazing about. His eye caught a fleeting reflection. He squinted in the distance, trepidation sweeping through to his bones. ’Twas not the moonlight shimmering in her skirts he spotted through the trees that set his pulse racing in sickened alarm. Non, It was Francois DePaul’s fierce grip latched onto an unwilling Lady Pricilla, dragging her within the depths of the forest. “Hell’s teeth,” he said, inclining his head toward the trees.
“Beg pardon, Cos?” Prince said darkly, following his gaze. “Blast.”
“I believe you best pull your fiercest troops together, Sire. It appears my betrothed is in dire need of our services,” Arnald threw over his shoulder, headed for the trees.
Chapter 38
Webbed branches obstructed all but small streams of the full moon. Pricilla would not consider herself whimsical by any means. But truly? A darkened forest in the dead of night? Surely, such flustered even the stealthiest of constitutions.
But as DePaul tugged her deeper into the forest, she soon lost all sense of direction. Not that it mattered. She fought his hold to no avail. His grasp kept her upright, even when her feet slipped beneath her.
Panting, she tripped over the root of a tree and bruised her knees upon her undignified landing. One slipper skidded into the inky darkness. Pricilla stripped off her mask and threw it aside. Her poor, beautiful gown, she wanted to moan. She was too frightened for any sound to choke out. The knife. She grabbed her thigh. It was there, still strapped beneath her skirts. It offered a modicum of reassurance.
Tears pricked the backs of her lids, and she sat back on her heels trying to appraise the situation in a logical manner—assess her locale—find her shoe.
A sliver of moonlight highlighted the menacing grin DePaul tossed her way. “You wished to speak to Monsieur Huntley?” he said softly. “I live to serve, Mademoiselle.”
Something sifted over the atmosphere that pricked her skin like a thousand tiny needles. Confused and terrified, Pricilla froze. “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît, m-my slipper,” she whispered.
His demonical laugh sounded softly. “Do not worry, Mademoiselle, you will not need it.”
Shaking, she heaved a swell of air then released it slowly, trying to establish some semblance of balance. Sniffing loudly, she patted the ground round her. What did it matter if she cried like a bab
y? Who besides this fool was there to witness such feminine hysterics?
She let out a quivering sigh, tears never falling. Crying had never come easy for her. The dress she wore, most likely a loss—and that was worth crying over. She barked out a laugh. She must be as mad as he.
Crawling on her knees, Pricilla ignored DePaul and worked her hands in a circle where she made contact with something akin to a branch, Non, more like an...an arm...with a hand. A clammy hand. Gasping in horror, she jerked away.
“Oui, Mademoiselle, I see you understand? If you do not cooperate, you see your fate,” Monsieur DePaul said.
Wet warmth seeped through the silk of her glove, coinciding with a dread so horrifying there were no words. Wind rustled through the trees, mocking her in an eerie murmur. The picture before her too appalling to accept as true. Silas Huntley lay on the cold ground before her, eyes wide.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Monsieur Huntley? Sir, might I be of some assist...” Her whisper trailed as reality dawned. Silas could not hear—would not hear—ever again.
Dead. He was dead.
In a stilted, thick fog, Pricilla’s gaze lowered to her white, silk glove. A glove that was no longer silky or white. So incongruous was the thought, she choked on a hysterical laugh. Squeezing past the lump in her throat, she stared at her hand as if it no longer remained attached to her body, now covered in dirt and...and...a black thick substance that could only be... She gulped in a gasped breath, unable to quell the bloodcurdling scream.
DePaul’s hand clamped across her mouth, his arm encased her neck with bruising force. “Ah, ma chère, I fear that was not wise.” DePaul’s sensual tones cut through the thicket—just as all faded to black.
Chapter 39
The short piercing screech that scorched the night rippled the nerve endings up Arnald’s spine.
The Unlikely Heroine Page 17