“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, we are not moving in the wrong direction. I know the layout of this terrain like the back of my hand.”
“Of course you do,” she demurred. He was an arrogant twit, she decided. How very tempting to let him lead them astray, but as he’d so delicately pointed out, they were under attack. Men were the most stubborn of creatures. Therefore, if he would not listen she would manage to set him straight a different way. She spun on her heel for the opposite direction.
“Just where do you suppose you are going?” Arnald demanded.
“You desire shelter—I resolve to get it for you.”
Chapter 7
“Where could Pricilla have gotten to?”
Essie gave her mother a blank look. “What do you mean, Maman?” Essie dipped a cloth in cool water and pressed it to Cinde’s forehead. Fear gripped her. How she wished Cinde would awaken.
“She was not at supper, ma chère,” she said, examining her nails. Claws, Essie thought.
A rustling of skirts drew Essie’s attention across the large chamber to the ceiling-to-floor windows. Queen Thomasine stood, hands clasped at her lower back, staring out. Maman’s bland tone, lacking any concern over Cinde’s dire state, boiled through Essie.
“She had an appointment with the northern tenant this morning,” Essie fired sharply.
“But, Darling, ’tis growing late. Surely, she should have returned by now, non?”
“Maman, could you not carry this conversation at a more appropriate time and place?” Essie marveled at her ability to snap softly at her mother, thusly, but Queen Thomasine’s presence gave her an undue courage.
“’Tis time to send for the surgeon, Esmeralda, dear.” Maman’s words seeped through the fog that was her brain.
“Non! I will not allow it. He will kill her.” She cast a desperate glance about. “Where is Prince? He should be here. He will not allow it.”
“The prince is not allowed in the sickroom, child,” Maman chastised.
Queen Thomasine moved to Essie’s side and draped an arm across her shoulders. “I fear we may have no other choice, Esmeralda.” The queen’s words were gentle, yet her message clear. She was taking Maman’s position?
Essie gaped at the queen. “Oh, you cannot, Your Highness.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “She would never leave her child. The surgeon will bleed her. Cinde cannot afford the loss of more blood. She has lost much, already.”
Essie dipped the cloth again, wrung it free of excess water, and placed it on Cinde’s forehead, effectively freeing her from the queen’s hold. She felt a fierce clutch on her arm. They were willing to strip her from the room and kill Cinde?
“Esmeralda, ’tis time to leave.” Maman’s stark command was adamant, but Essie refused to adhere.
Maman wanted nothing more than Cinde’s expiration. Essie just knew it. It was up to her to keep Cinde safe. She jerked her arm from Maman’s grasp as if it were afire.
“Cinde, Cinde. It is imperative you wake, darling. S’il vous plaît,” Essie begged. She pulled the cloth away and touched a palm to Cinde’s burning forehead. So hot, it sent terror surging through her. “Why will she not wake?” she implored to the midwife. Essie knew she sounded the hysterical female. She felt the hysterical female.
She set her jaw. They would bleed Cinderella over Essie’s dead body.
“Prince! Prince!” she called out, disregarding the understood silence of the sickroom.
The door bounded against the wall from the force of his entry. Relief poured through her. Prince would ne’er let anything happen to Cinde.
“Everyone, out,” he commanded. Essie remained rooted to the floor, lips compressed. She would not be leaving. He could try and make her.
“Darling, I am afraid it is time to send for the surgeon,” the queen directed to Prince. “The fever has gripped her.” The concern and sadness emanating from Queen Thomasine tore through Essie. The queen’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. Yet, Essie remained steadfast in her vigil; her hand slid down to Cinde’s limp cold fingers.
“No!” Essie said softly, determined.
“The child needs medical attention, you fool.” Maman did not fare well under pressure. ’Twould be a wonder if they did not demand her head.
“Maman, you and Lady Roche, disperse, if you please. You shall remain, Lady Esmeralda.” Prince’s eyes never swayed from Queen Thomasine or Maman.
“Son, you cannot hope to accomplish in what the midwife has already failed,” Queen Thomasine whispered.
“The midwife shall remain as well, Maman.” He took her hand and led her to the door of the chamber, closing it softly in her face.
Essie turned to the midwife. “What can I do to save my sister, Madame?”
The midwife looked from Essie to Prince, bewilderment and terror written across her stark white features. Her fate was in their hands, and the fear on her face said she knew it. Her gaze settled on Essie. “We shall have to c-cleanse her—t-thoroughly,” she choked out, mortified, no doubt, at having to utter such words before the future king.
Chapter 8
Queen Thomasine paced her sister’s opulent chamber. The clock striking ten did nothing to calm her strained sensibilities. She glanced up quickly to the opening door. “Where have you been? I’ve been beside myself with worry.”
“My apologies, Sister. There was a small altercation below-stairs. It seems two of the upstairs maids were in a scrap over the direction of my son’s affections.” Faustine frowned. “That seems to be happening much of late.” She waved her hand in the air as if to dispel the unpleasant memory. “Alas, a fairy godmother’s work is ne’er done, non?”
Thomasine could only stare at her, mouth agape. Finally realizing how ridiculous she must look, she managed to clamp it shut.
“Now, Dear, what is it you need?” Faustine brushed imaginary lint from her shoulder before raising her gaze.
Thomasine shook her head, shocked by Faustine’s mild and unconcerned manner. “My new daughter is near death and all you can speak of is the servants’ dissention over Arnald’s affection?” Thomasine was furious with her sister. Non! She was furious with herself, with the abominable circumstances. She never lost her composure. Yet, that was her voice, shrill and full of panic.
“Darling, calm yourself.”
“Calm my—” Thomasine inhaled deeply and said softly. “Faustine, is there naught you can do for Cinderella? I fear my son’s devastation if the worst should happen.” Thomasine dropped into a nearby chair, surprised by the tears dampening her cheeks. She barely registered the comfort of Faustine’s arms. “What am I to do? I could give him the world. But ’tis not the world he wants.”
“Not to worry, dear. I’ve already begun. But the process is delicate.”
Chapter 9
The sun sinking in the horizon matched Arnald’s spirits. It was quite a stab to his ego to find himself marching after a strong-minded, single-willed chit who thought she knew everything. After a tug-of-war of his senses, he decided he would let her have her head if only to prove she could not know everything. But the small forge in the trees ahead had him stifling a groan that would have done justice to a dying bear.
A hunter’s cottage, just as she’d predicted.
“See?” she threw over her shoulder.
“Not so very decorous, my lady,” he sighed.
Lady Pricilla stormed forward like a general leading his troops to war against the Spaniards with nary a care for enemy fire. She had not a lick of sense. He grabbed her arm before she rushed into some unknown danger, pulling her behind a nearby tree. In a low voice, he demanded, “One moment, s’il vous plaît.”
Arnald studied the small structure from their hidden vantage point some thirty meters ahead. Tightly closed shutters on a Tudor-styled structure showed the small house sadly in need of paint. A single nail held the end of one gable, while the other end swung in the light breeze, dangling from the rafter. Other than that, it appeared sturdy enough—and
deserted.
“What do you see?” Lady Pricilla asked from behind. Soft breath whispered across his neck. He closed his eyes, wishing for a force of strength he was sure he did not possess, willing her to step back.
She didn’t. Mayhap he was losing his powers.
With darkness fast approaching, he searched the far reaches of his mind for a stratagem. None came forth. If he demanded she wait while he investigated the cottage she would be right on his heels. He considered his options—and his companion. He turned to face her in the growing dusk. Her eyes were wide and...trusting. Surprise riveted through him, he lifted a hand to push back a wayward strand of that flaxen hair. If his usual compelling notions did not apply to her, mayhap a more traditional one would work. He narrowed his eyes on those full lips as he recognized the danger of what he was actually contemplating. He was certain to lose this match.
Arnald leaned close to Lady Pricilla’s ear and let out a soft deliberate breath. Her shiver of awareness was his cue. “My lady.” He paused, breathing in the irresistible fragrance of jasmine. “Mayhap, you would be so kind as to wait here?” He spoke softly.
“But—”
“S’il vous plaît,” he whispered, drawing one fingertip along her jaw. He suppressed unquenched desire that threatened his control. He wanted to taste that succulent mouth but settled with brushing his lips along her jaw. Smooth as silk. Knowing he shouldn’t carry it too far was different than being able to actually stop. He worked his way to the lobe of her ear, and suckled gently.
She gasped. It managed to bring his attention back to his dishonorable tactics.
“It could be dangerous. I would ne’er forgive myself should something dreadful happen to you.” Another shiver spoke that she was not so immune as she pretended.
That thought quickened his pulse. Skin, so soft to his touch, had him fighting further urges to explore. Unfortunately, now was not the ideal time to dwell on such thoughts.
“You’ll wait, then?” Her hair brushed his cheek with her small nod. “I shall signal you once I feel ’tis safe,” he whispered. Unable to completely resist, he touched his lips to hers, sealing her promise. He lingered there for an eternity unable to draw away. The tip of his tongue touched her lips. Her sharp gasp forced him to pull back, to remember safety and shelter were first and foremost, her cooperation imperative.
Her eyes widened with shock. Not without force of effort, his arms fell to his sides. “This is not finished,” he said harshly.
One last glance about and he hurried to the cottage. If he survived this reckless escapade, ’twould be nothing short of a miracle.
He stopped, placed his ear on the door and listened. Nothing sounded but the natural rustling of leaves stirred by a soft breeze; humidity filled the air with the nearby sea. The knob turned easily beneath his hand, and with caution he pushed it open. Hinges protested, but he stepped across the threshold.
A crash overhead warned him too late. His last fleeting thought heralded him as a failed hero. A sorry man unable to protect the most interesting woman he’d come across in some time as darkness swelled over him.
He slumped to the ground.
***
Pricilla watched Arnald quietly make his way to the door of the cottage, resentment grinding through her at his high-handed tactics throughout this entire ordeal. In fact, the whole debacle of a day made it very difficult for her to hold a civil tongue. Screaming like a banshee? And how dare he...take such liberties. Never mind the flutters that sent her heart pounding faster than Essie’s eyes. Firm lips that trailed hers like velvet, arms so bracing. The only fear was falling was in love with the cad. She sucked in a sharp breath, pressed her lips tightly together.
That blackguard. Had he no sense of shame? Pricilla could take care of herself. Oh, for such an opportunity, she’d show him. He’d tricked her. She knew it through to the depths of her bones. Just consider all those ninnyheads that tripped over their own feet vying for his unworthy attention!
But that heated breath against her skin had sent shudders of prickling awareness over her skin, down her spine. Ridiculous. It was just the combination of the setting sun and shade of the trees that dipped the temperature in the atmosphere. She ran her gloved hands over her arms to generate warmth. She just needed to keep a clear head. How hard could that be?
The hushed woods certainly did not help with ones nerves. Pricilla peered round the tree. Not even the chirp of a bird or the brush of a rabbit sounded. Letting out a pent up breath, she waited as Arnald reached the door and pushed it forward. How could one discount the havoc of such inviting kisses? She touched her fingers against her lips. ’Twas not so disgusting as one might imagine.
Mayhap there was something to Cinde’s ideals of magic. Bah! Pricilla refused to bestow merit to an overblown ego, despite the undo assurance she felt with his presence. There was still the little issue of his relentless tyranny. A resounding crack broke the deafening silence of the forest, jolting her attention.
The loud thud from the cottage shocked Pricilla into motion. Without a care for her person, she sprinted from her hidden place behind the tree.
An unfamiliar voice froze her in her tracks. ’Twas not a good time to demand answers before knowing what she was up against. She retreated quietly.
“And what ’ave we ’ere, pray tell?” The raspy tone raised the hair on her nape.
Arnald must have surprised him. She peered round the tree, careful to keep her light blue skirts from swinging into view. Where was he? And how long should she wait for his signal?
The fast approaching twilight made it difficult to see the door of the cottage, but seconds later a lantern appeared followed by the man’s face. The soft glow created a ghostly, hollow effect that raised cool bumps over her arms. Where was Arnald? Alarm grazed her as she strained to hear his familiar sarcasm. Nothing.
Mayhap the ruffian was alone—but for Arnald. The eerie face and light disappeared inside the cottage, plunging her into darkness once more. ’Twould be just like Arnald to secure an opportunity to exhibit her stupidity to confront an unknown knave. Once she got her hands on him she would kill him for terrifying her in this infantile manner.
Risking fate, Pricilla edged closer to the cottage. Mayhap, she would hear something more useful than uneducated vernacular.
Uneducated...vernacular? She swallowed past the large lump wedged in her throat. Her slippers were silent on the dirt floor of the forest. She kept to the perimeter of the trees. Her goal: a clearing just to the side of the house. Leaves crunched gently underfoot, and she cocked an ear to the nearest shutter. It was closed but she identified shuffling noises, followed by heavy grunts. Still, naught from Arnald—unless it was he who grunted like a boar out of breath.
“Yer a stout ’un, mate. I give ye dat,” the man rasped. Whatever the man was doing could not bode well. Then it hit her. Mon Dieu...qu'a t’il fait? Oh, God, what has he done? Arnald. He’s killed the Prince’s cousin.
“Dat ought to do ye, ye hulk a sac o’ taters.” She heard the clap of his hands, as if he were brushing them together after completing a tiresome task.
Oh, non. Pricilla stood on the tips of her toes trying to peer through the shutters. ’Twas of no use, however, they were clasped tight. Heavy steps pounded through the structure, heading right for the door. Pricilla ducked in the brush just as it swung open.
The scary creature hazarded a glance round before slamming the door behind him. He wound his way down the same path he’d ventured from, disappearing into the night. A path she and Arnald had failed to notice. The only thing she heard in the resounding silence was the erratic hammering of her heart.
Pricilla hesitated long enough to ensure their unwanted guest did not return for something forgotten. With the absence of the intruder’s voice, the unnerving quiet blared. She manipulated her way through the brush and up three steps to a rotting stoop. She dare not shake out her silk skirts.
She turned the handle. The hinges gave way with a creak
that sent an echo through the night. Her blood pulsed so fiercely, she thought she might faint. She crossed inside. Blackness startled her in its completeness. The stirrings of panic had her fingers tightening on the doorknob. “Sir?” Pricilla angled her head and listened.
Nothing.
“Sir?” Alarm had her voice rising two unnatural octaves. “Arnald!” she hissed.
And then she heard it—a slight groan, like an animal in pain. The noise came from her left. Finding him in this pitch-blackened room would be impossible if she couldn’t even force herself to delve into the darkness. The oppressive gloom almost suffocated her. Hesitating only a second, she drew the door open wide for what light she could gather. The slight reflection against a glass lantern caught her eye. Her luck held further when she spotted the flint beside it.
It took two tries to finally light the wick with her fingers trembling so. She blew out a slow breath. Never had she appreciated light more than this moment. With a steady inhalation she grabbed the thin, wirehandle and picked her way through the shadows toward the painful grunting. Her approach slowed to the targeted room. She lifted the light above her head and peered through the door. “Arnald?”
“Mmm.”
“Oh, my,” she gasped. Sir Arnald sat slumped against the wall with some disgusting handkerchief stuffed in his mouth. Truly, a sight to behold. And, one, she was certain she’d ne’er see again.
Chapter 10
Pricilla charged across the room, shock and fear rippling through her. “This is not a good situation, sir,” she said. The words spilled from her in a breathy rush.
His grunt of aggravation prompted her, “Oh.” Of course, he could not respond. The dirty cloth was stuffed in his mouth—a remarkable feat. Where were his hands? The silly man seemed to be hiding them behind. Postured in defeat, he leaned against the wall, knees pulled to his chest.
The Unlikely Heroine Page 5
