A night that started out full of magical promise had taken a deadly turn. Arnald knew if he lost sight of Lady Pricilla, the chances of seeing her alive again were slim. DePaul was the worst sort of ruffian, the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.
He ran for the forest, stopping just long enough to nab a lantern from a post. He spun quickly, knocking a lanky youth no more than six and ten, on his bum, blemishes, prominent in a stark white face.
“Forgive me, sir,” the stripling panted.
Arnald stilled. Dread, made him ask: “What did you see?”
“The woods, sir. He be real dead, sir.”
The hair on Arnald’s neck stood on end, pushing away any pretense of composure. “Kindly quit saying, sir. Sir. Did you say ‘he’?” Arnald prayed it was ‘he.’
“Oui...oui, sir—” He stopped abruptly.
“Where?” Arnald barked, wincing when the boy flinched. Inhaling deeply, he gentled his tone, pulled him to his feet. “Lead me to him, lad. Vite, mais calme. ”
“Oui, s—” He turned and fled into the trees.
To the young man’s credit, he was quiet and swift. Fragrant, damp earth filled Arnald’s nostrils as he followed the boy down a narrow path. ’Twas not long before he veered rightward, forging his way through a patch of thick bramble.
But it was the light Arnald held that caught the glimmer of silver, elevating his terror to the heavens. Wind stirred tendrils of thread like the dangled remnants of a torn spider’s web. Squeezing the delicate fabric in a fist, he shoved through the brush, plowing into the lad who’d stopped.
The sickening drop of fear would live in Arnald’s nightmares for an eternity. He crouched to the ground and lifted Lady Pricilla’s lone jeweled slipper in a shaking hand.
Lodged next to the dead body of Silas Huntley.
***
Arnald’s rapid departure snapped Prince into action. But a distinct click sounded from behind. Prince turned and faced Alessandro de Lecce delivering a breathless Lady Esmeralda from an energetic turn about the floor.
“Oh, my,” Lady Esmeralda breathed, a delicate shiver racking her body. “I fear some poor animal has met with a bad end. Either that or the violin is definitely due for restringing.” Her quaking laugh hinted at desperation. Prince knew that was not an animal. He would stake Aunt Faustine’s cracked baton on it.
A delicate press of his wife’s hand brought her doe-brown eyes to his in silent question. Her gaze shifted to his cousin skirting the dancers to the forest. He knew the moment she spotted Lady Pricilla by the sharp intake of her breath.
“What is it, Cinde?” Lady Esmeralda asked softly, her gaze following Cinderella’s.
Prince willed his wife to keep silent. Lady Esmeralda would be difficult to contain when he assembled his rescue efforts. But contain her, he must.
Lady Esmeralda let out a gasp, eyes taking on a sudden flurry. “We must go after them. Cill is in danger, I know it.” She spun on a dainty slipper, prepared to follow, unmindful of the peril of the situation.
But assistance came from a surprising source when Alessandro de Lecce stayed her with a firm grasp to her arm. “Allow me to offer my services in your stead, my lady.”
Prince almost smiled at the ladylike struggle she exerted, but de Lecce proved quite capable of handling the awkwardness with a gentle, yet steely, smile. With her arm still in his grip, Prince acknowledged the respectful incline of his head.
“I would offer my services, por favore, Sire. What may I do to help?”
Chapter 40
Arnald froze at the sound of a horse’s soft whinny. Blast, time had run out.
“Sir?” The lad whispered.
“I need a horse,” he whispered back. “And, quickly.”
“Oui, sir.”
Once again, Arnald followed the lad through the trees. They stopped on the far side of the forest.
“How—” Arnald started, but decided the question could wait, thanking the stars instead. He would recommend him to Prince for a position at Court. Soon, he would wield his own entourage with Otis, and now...
“Me friend, Gilles, and me, sir. We jes’ wanted t’ watch the festivities, sir...”
Arnald thought it more likely, to steal a kiss from a, hopefully, willing maiden. “What is your name, lad?”
“Henri, sir.”
Arnald slipped his ring from his finger and pressed it into the Henri’s hand. “Take this to Prince Charming. Tell him what you’ve found.”
Arnald wasted no time. He ducked low and kicked the flanks of his horse. He knew the most obvious place for DePaul to hide Lady Pricilla was the hunter’s cottage she and he had happened upon. But ’twas also the most obvious reason not to take her there.
“Then where?” He whispered to the trees. Never had he felt so desperate, helpless—terrified. The thought of ne’er kissing those full lips, or goading her into another argument drew him upright. If Maman’s silver stick would not cause her to fall at his feet, then by the saints, he would fall at hers.
He just had to find her first.
Arnald paused and listened to the night, eyes closed. A hooting owl and the drone of beetles were the only orchestra playing now. It did not take long for his patience to actualize. He heard the pounding hooves in the distance and prepared to follow. Before he could set a steady pace, his path was blocked by one Alessandro de Lecce.
“Ah, hell,” he bit out. “What are you doing here?”
“’Twas me or Signorina Esmeralda, I fear.”
Suppressing a groan, one had to acknowledge the truth in that. “I see your point.” Arnald turned his horse.
“The prince, he is pulling together his troops and will soon follow. Have you an idea where Signorina Pricilla has wandered? These young women, they are headstrong, no?”
“That’s putting it mildly, my friend. My concern is the coast. ’Tis imperative we stay clear of sight,” Arnald said in low voice.
de Lecce nodded.
Carefully keeping a discreet distance, Arnald and Alessandro steered their mounts to the edge of the trees. Arnald suspected as long as DePaul remained astride a horse, most of the damage to Lady Pricilla would be her pride. He could only pray.
DePaul was a dead man, and most likely knew so.
“What do you suspect, signor?”
de Lecce was surely unaware of the smuggling operation he and Lady Pricilla discovered, and Arnald saw no reason to enlighten him. After all, there was still the question of DePaul’s superior contact, and the matter of the ‘overnight adventure.’
The man made no reference to either, to Arnald’s relief. In fact, he seemed quietly thoughtful.
“He needs her alive to guarantee his freedom,” Arnald said. “His best escape is by water, no tracks. Land is too risky. Unfortunately, there are many places along the coast for DePaul to hide.”
“Who is this DePaul, and why should he abduct, Signorina Pricilla?” He pronounced her name Pree-cee-ja.
Just then, Arnald caught sight of DePaul cantering past the path to the hunter’s cottage, his plan suddenly clear. Escape by sea would lead him down river, by way of Tolouse. From there, ’twas only a short trek to the Mediterranean—where all hope would be lost.
Arnald grimaced. The problem loomed before him. Arnald shot a glance toward de Lecce, unexpectedly grateful for his presence. The pull of de Lecce’s lips was a sign he’d witnessed the urge of the man’s horse.
“Several cottages in dire condition line the coast,” Arnald said softly. “My fear is that DePaul has a skiff ready to spirit Lady Pricilla away.”
“Skiff?”
“Small boat.”
“Si, we must reach her quickly, then.”
Arnald opened his hand where moonlight glinted off the fragile threads he still held. If the bâtard touched so much a hair on her head, the man would welcome death before Arnald was through with him.
Ten minutes later, the hairs along Arnald’s nape turned to hackles. The wily bâtard had done it.
He’d slipped through the trees and from their sights, and it had only taken a moment. Meaning one thing to Arnald—DePaul must have realized he was followed.
He and de Lecce split their efforts as Arnald rushed for DePaul’s small home. Frantically, Arnald ripped through the sparse domicile. But the moment he entered, he knew Pricilla was not there. And found nothing to enlighten his search. So DePaul had resorted to one of the smaller shelters. There were only a few, but ’twas enough to impair their efforts.
If they failed to reach her in time Arnald would never forgive himself. It occurred to him, he would become a man widely traveled, for he would not rest until he’d located her and killed DePaul with his bare hands.
No one abducted a defenseless woman. Most especially one he loved and intended to spend the rest of his life with.
Loved. Mon Dieu! Helpless pain tightened in his chest. He leaped on his horse and spurred him forward.
Chapter 41
The stench reached her first—before the pain in her arm, the pain in her head—the repulsive pungency of unwashed bodies. Touching her ears was the rhythmic slap of leather against an open palm, keeping slow metronomic time. That’s when it occurred to her—no clashing of symbols, no stringed sonata filling the air, no fluted trills. The orchestra had quit. Had the ball ended so soon?
Pricilla pried open protesting eyes, having to squint against a stark lantern flame. When the soft mewing of a cat sounded she realized it was she. Her cheek felt swollen and bruised. She raised a gloved hand to her throat...Why did it hurt so? She struggled to a sitting position on a bed of hay. She began to run hands over her arms staving off the sudden urge to scratch when her stained glove caught her eye. She stripped it away, horrified as Silas Huntley’s dead eyes seared her memory.
“T’sk, t’sk, ma chère. You are full of delightful surprises, I must say.”
Startled, she glanced up quickly her head reeling with the pain. Francois DePaul was taller than her, only just. Where a cruel twist marked his lips, the words he spoke were like velvet. He stood a few feet away tossing a handsome leather case in the air. He caught it, repeating the motion, over and again, his black eyes never wavering from her.
It took a moment for the knowledge to sink in. Gasping, she slapped a hand to her thigh. Her bare thigh. Cringing, she lowered her skirt. Her skin crawled with the knowledge of what he’d seen...mayhap touched. The bodice of her frock was torn, held together by a single thread, exposing one breast. She pressed the delicate fabric in place with the other still gloved hand.
“How long...” she hissed. To her dismay, it came out more a frightened whisper rather than fury. Had he stolen her virtue as well as her pride?
“Not long enough for me to have my way with you, Mademoiselle, I regret to say. There is plenty of time for that once we are away, however.”
Lifting her chin, she glared at her captor, inwardly, swearing vengeance. She tugged her gown over exposed ankles.
“I shall savor you...slowly,” he said with an oily smile.
Heat flamed her face. She sucked in a shallow breath and took in the sparsely furnished room. “Where...where am I?”
The knife stilled in his hand. She froze at the small change in stature. The highly charged atmosphere, already perilous, shifted to something truly sinister. He pulled the dagger from its sheath where moonlight glinted from it like an evil wink, and sauntered toward her, his steps deliberate, menacing.
“Now what would that matter, ma chère? We shan’t be here long.”
“They shall come after you, you know.”
“’Tis what I am counting on.” Deranged laughter filled the room. “I have you, non?”
“And my blade,” she muttered.
“Oui, and your blade,” he agreed. “A lovely piece.” The look in his eye told her he did not speak of her knife.
Dread slithered over her body in terror. Leaning forward, he drew the sharp edge alongside her cheek in a sickening caress. She flinched but refused to back away.
“We leave by boat...” he pulled a timepiece from his dusty coat. “...in a matter of moments. Enough time for me to ravish you—”
Panic rose in her throat.
“The trap will be set for the prince and his men. You are but the lure. In the meantime, I vow, there is always time for making love to a beautiful young woman.”
“Arnald will kill you.” Surprise flowed through her with the confidence she placed in those words. They spilled from her in a deadly calm. Every fiber in her being knew this monster would die before the night was through. Whether she did as well, remained to be seen.
“Ah. You assume he will escape his doom. ’Twill please me greatly to inform you of your fate,” he grinned. “The plans are already in motion, you see. Once Prince Charming is dead, my obligations are complete. You, ma chère, are the accolade of my efforts. Over the next few days, we shall become quite...intimate.” His eyes grazed to where she held her torn bodice. “You may hide behind your hand now, but do not doubt where you shall belong.” He licked his lips as if he could taste her. “If only for a few days, alas.”
“A few days?” she whispered.
“Oui.” He shrugged, rested his cheek against hers, breath fanning her ear. “Once we are free of France, you shall fetch me a fine price.”
Mon dieu. Both, hot and cold fear fused her body. She forced herself to breathe. To faint would be handing herself over without a fight. And to take her, he would have to kill her. DePaul wrapped a calloused palm about her nape. She closed her eyes, praying for divine intervention. Or Satan’s help. Either would do.
“Monsieur, s’il vous plaît,” she rushed, trying desperately to think. “Would not the price be greater f-for a v-virgin?”
“Oui,” he agreed, voice husky. “But mayhap I care naught. Mayhap, I selfishly relish the notion of enjoying you for myself first.” His tongue lashed against the lobe of her ear. Black spots swarmed her vision.
By the grace of God, something tapped the window, diverting his villainous contemplation. ’Twas far past the contemplation stage, she feared. He jerked away, and darted to the window. A frown marred his brow at what he did, or did not, see.
She blinked back sudden tears. She’d rather die than allow that bâtard taking her in the manner of which he spoke. Though, she’d rather he die.
At least he’d not seen fit to bind her hands. Lips pressed together, she struggled to remain calm. Certainly, since he’d gained possession of her weapon, he most likely thought her less than a threat. She smiled grimly. A large oversight on his part, she would make sure. A distraction was what she needed and the only one at hand seemed to be her mouth.
He turned from the window and faced her. It left his expression in the shadows. “How did you do it?” she asked.
“What, pray tell, Mademoiselle?”
“How did you render me unconscious? I don’t seem to have a lump on my head.” She ignored the throb pulsing in her cheek.
His teeth flashed in the darkness. “I am a Frenchman, Mademoiselle. I abhor marring a beautiful face, unless absolutely necessary.” He lifted one shoulder. A trait she was truly beginning to loathe. “I pinch just the right place on the neck, poof, and down you go.”
“But my cheek and the pain in my arm...”
“Ah, that could not be helped. Je suis désolé. When I foisted you over my horse. The pommel, you see.”
“Oui. Draped like a sack of onions.”
He grinned. “You smell much nicer than a sack of onions, I assure you.”
“And, Silas?” she whispered.
“Ah, Silas,” DePaul grimaced. “Your accusations of embezzlement did not sit so well, I fear. I so admire your intellect. He stirred up a hornet’s nest, non?”
“You killed him?” She choked out the words.
“’Twas inevitable, regardless.” He gave another nonchalant lift of his shoulders and took up the lantern from the only table in the room. “Silas outlived his uselessness.”
“B-b-but he had a wife. What of Sophie?
“It was you? Who shot at Sir Arnald in the forest,” she accused.
“Non. My aim was for you. Yet, somehow I cannot regret my failed attempts, however.”
“Me!”
“Enough,” he said, and spun for the door. “Prepare yourself, Mademoiselle. We leave shortly.”
“Stop! What are we waiting on, Monsieur?”
He paused, the lantern in hand, seeming to weigh the decision of how much to say. Another shrug of his shoulders, he said. “I’ve one last shipment to deliver.”
“Shipment?”
“My road to riches, Mademoiselle. ’Tis you who shall help me achieve my goal.”
“Me? How am I to—” Pricilla looked about the small room in panic. Black powder...you are dealing arms...but how? W-why?” But she was afraid ’twas all too clear. He was somehow planning to usurp the sovereignty. “You shall ne’er get away with it.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Such brilliance. And, in a woman, too. Ma chère, I may yet fall in love with you myself. ”
“We are not at the same cottage?” she said, desperate to keep him talking. How would Arnald find her? Because, she knew in the depths of her soul, he would search until he’d found every bone in her body.
“We are not. But I suspect your lover will first look for you there.”
Lover. Her faced flamed. “Do not be ridiculous, sir.”
He studied her for a silent moment before he smiled again. “You cannot fool me. I see the passion flare between the two of you.”
“I-in l-l-love,” she stuttered. “W-we are n-not...” Pricilla buried her head in one hand. But once the accusation had been made, she knew ’twas undeniable. She was in love with Sir Arnald—a man who had women falling before him in droves. And she might ne’er see him again.
A quiver shook her body over the desolation of such a fate. A fleeting moment where he’d swept her up in his steel-banded arms just to keep her silly slippers from cave waters came unbidden. Followed swiftly by the humiliation he could not possibly feel the same. Oui, he’d said he wanted to marry her—but, of course, that was out of a staid sense of duty.
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