The Unlikely Heroine

by Kae Elle Wheeler

  Two minutes later, he decided, once he got his hands on her, he would throttle her—thoroughly. How was one supposed to keep a chit out of harm’s way when said chit was so bent on independent destruction? Arnald fumed.

  The muted crash of door-hitting-wall vibrated. Arnald bolted for action inside the wardrobe. He would have to save his lecture on keeping out of sight for a later time. Footsteps pounded the cottage floor just beyond where he stood. ’Twould seem there was indeed another individual with whom to contend. “Damn. Just what we did not need,” he growled under his breath.

  “You stupid fools.” The cultured accent caught Arnald by surprise. He froze. DePaul? The idea that Lady Pricilla set out to confront the bâtard that very morning choked him in a sudden wave of sheer black fright.

  Where the devil was she? It was clear, she’d escaped the wardrobe. But how? And why? The woman had absolutely no common sense. Dawning light blinded him. Surely, she could not believe he was in league with those imbeciles. But instinct told him exactly that!

  He glanced about where not even a shadow could be seen in the lightless gloom. Without a doubt, their situation became ominously more perilous. In a quick move, Arnald shoved the same crate Lady Pricilla had somehow managed to maneuver, barring the entrance. A lack of common sense? Oui, but she had brains too. One had to hand one’s credit due.

  Fear clenched Arnald’s gut. Chalmers was in trouble. The question was how far and how deep the tentacles reached. Smuggling was a hanging offense, whether lace or spirits. He grimaced. He feared there was more yet to discover. First things first, however.

  Lady Pricilla’s well-being.

  Concentrating on the subtle hums, nothing resembling the ocean penetrated the walls of the wardrobe—just the muted, angry murmurings beyond the door behind. Arnald focused—became one with the gloom and felt his way in the dark. Mon dieu, another crate, but closed. Mustering strength, he pried the top from its snug fit to wedge beneath the wardrobe handle. It would not stop their pursuers but ’twould slow them down.

  Muffled scuffling indicated DePaul lashing out to one or both of his underlings with a booted foot. Since no tell-tale grunts erupted, Arnald had an inkling they were, likely, still out cold. A renewed sense of urgency gripped him. Lady Pricilla’s determination to meet with DePaul had his blood pulsing in vehemence.

  God above, he had to get her to safety. Arnald forced back his mounting rage, inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes, and focused—let his other senses settle round him. A faint, yet unmistakable, fragrance of spilled brandy, and earthy dirt mingled with—salty sea air?

  None of it completely disguised the soft floral scent Lady Pricilla wore. That certainly explained part of the situation. Following his nose, he reached the back of the wardrobe to experience the soft stir of sea air teasing the hair on his scalp. An easement of sorts fell over him, realizing she’d located an escape and grasped it.

  Without much time, he worked his way toward the draft using the wall as a guide. His hand brushed sacks comprised of jute, the texture rough beneath his fingers. He lifted one experimentally, testing its weight. They were light; a couple should serve his purpose.

  Hefting two of the twined burlaps over his shoulder, he edged his way deeper in the closet.

  Luck was with him. Lady Pricilla failed to latch this door as well. Mayhap, his assumption was wrong, and she did not encompass him with those dirty scoundrels. He had a feeling it was too much to hope for, however. One tentative step past the door found, what must have been, an ancient portal to the sea. He placed one hand out, feeling for the wall. No rails, either. “Damnation,” he prayed, softly. Let her have made it to the base safely. He refused to give voice to the alarming words, yet they echoed soundly through his mind.

  Strategic placement of the sacks would at least serve as a warning. The steps were steep and hazardous.

  Thank the saints, she had the lantern. He started the slow trek downward.

  ***

  The lantern offered little more light than a step or two preceding Pricilla’s meager steps though the passageway. Really, she abhorred confined spaces. She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. Oppressive, bleak, black holes—and this one definitely qualified. She concentrated each measured breath with each carefully placed foot.

  She could not make out the end of the tunnel. Only an eerie wind ruffling her hair kept her from tipping a scale from hysteria to insanity. The thought of her once elegantly coiffed hair should have had her screaming at the indignity of how it now must appear. Instead, intense direction-finding proved to set one’s mind of navigating an Acheronian Tunnel of Hell, making one’s image of fallen hair somewhat less of import. With one hand on the stone wall to guide her way down a treacherous stairway, she cringed at the gritty dampness.

  Terrified the mounting panic would suffocate her, she fixated on that careful placement of each foot before the other. Sir Arnald, surely, had a reasonable explanation. She blinked back tears in a sniff that bounded off the stone surfaces, mocking her every effort.

  She grasped for anger—difficult when her lips still tingled from the pressure of his mind-altering kiss. Promises beyond a mere kiss flooded through her. ’Twas beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Or had thought she’d ever want to experience. Yet, here she was, in dire straits, running for her life, and all she could think about was how utterly safe she’d felt in his presence.

  Distress tugged at her insides. It was unspeakable, the disloyalty to one’s family. Worst of all, were her own traitorous lips begging for more. She groaned. She must get to Prince. Put the matter of his cousin as a possible conspirator in his hands.

  Conspirator. The thought made her nauseous. What probable reason had she to suspect Arnald in the mysterious goings on? If true, he would hang for certain. Her foot slipped, spewing unsettled gravel. She caught herself, clinging to the stone wall. Pricilla rested her forehead on the cool stone and inhaled deeply.

  ’Twould never have occurred to her that Arnald was involved with those...those miscreants. Infuriated in the duplicity of both his underhanded treachery and artificial kisses, Pricilla vowed to see him to hell. Next assembly, indeed.

  She reigned in her thrumming pulse and pounding heart with more measured breaths, then with concerted effort, resumed her trek.

  One advantage regarding fear, she decided, was the lack of harboring on one’s abject obsession of desolate tunnels. She squinted into the darkness. Still, nothing.

  Panic simmered just beneath the surface. How was she to get back to the castle once she made it out of this maze? She swallowed the debilitating thoughts. ’Twas to no good benefit. Essie knew she’d gone to see Silas. She would have Prince calling out the dogs. Oui, she and her sisters watched out for one another nowadays.

  The inclination to run as fast as her legs would carry her must be tempered with patience; time was not her friend on these treacherous steps. ’Twas no secret to anyone, however, that she and patience were not on a given-name basis. She could tumble to the bottomless pit and be left for dead, for—forever.

  Non! She must quit thinking in terms of death and black holes...

  The curve on the ancient wall went on, hair fluttered against her brow. Was it her imagination or did the damp air grow more pronounced? Fresh? Pricilla heaved deeply.

  Pausing, she caught a distant, yet distinct sound. She cocked her head trying to pinpoint its range. Was it vermin scrambling ahead, or one known snake threatening from behind?

  The faint echo shooting through the dank corridor could have come from either direction, but instinct had Pricilla pressing forward. She’d put her odds on the snake from behind. The lantern swung precariously from her hand casting skewed ghostlike-shadows dancing over the cavern walls. One misstep and all would be lost. If it were vermin ahead they would enjoy a tasty dinner laid out on a stone table.

  Behind? Worse, she feared.

  Chapter 12

  Prince sliced through the folded note with a blunt fi
nger and read quickly. “Lady Esmeralda,” he said softly.

  Essie glanced up from where she sat across the room in a chair next to his sleeping wife. One hand clasped Cinderella’s, the other rested across Cinderella’s forehead. “Oui?”

  “I fear the news is not good,” he said.

  She looked up questioningly.

  “’Tis your other sister.”

  “Cill?” Confusion touched her pert features.

  “She has been missing for many hours, it seems.”

  “Non, non.” Esmeralda shook her head smiling. “She only left to speak with Monsieur Huntley earlier today.”

  Prince frowned. “Huntley. What need had she to speak with Silas?” Her hesitation did not go unnoticed.

  “I told her not to go alone.”

  “She confronted him? Alone?” he said incredulously.

  “Non. Non. She surely did not, Your Highness. I know for a fact that Sir Arnald went after her.”

  He took her affront as a good sign and drew in a deep breath. “Went after her,” he repeated. “Mayhap you should explain, Mademoiselle?”

  Esmeralda smoothed the hair from Cinderella’s brow, not meeting his eyes. “Well...she was concerned with something she found in her accounting of the records.”

  “Why did she not come to me, pray tell?”

  “’Twas much in the way of timing, Sire.” She gave a small shrug, lowered her voice. “Cinde went into labor. Became ill...you... understand, sir.” Lady Esmeralda said earnestly, warming to her story. “Cill was determined to do the best possible job. She is a woman conducting business traditionally handled by men, after all.”

  Prince paced the chamber, trying valiantly not to succumb to temper. This was not the news he wanted dispensed to his wife upon her awakening. “Go on.”

  “She viewed the records over ten seasons past and found, what may be considered, a...um...minor discrepancy.”

  “What kind of discrepancy?” The conversation was frustrating, yet he dare not raise his voice. He stopped and gazed down at his sleeping wife. She was so lovely. If anything happened to her...well, it could not be borne. “You!” he barked to the nurse in the corner. “Stay near my wife. Inform us immediately of any change.”

  “O-o-oui, S-Sire,” she stuttered.

  “Come,” he demanded, and led Lady Esmeralda to the adjoining chamber. “Now, kindly explain.”

  She sat primly in a straight-backed chair, and fluffed her skirts before heaving deeply. She glanced up with shrewd emerald eyes. “She wanted to be sure of her facts before informing you of any undesirable information. So she dispensed a note to Monsieur Huntley requesting an interview and set out to meet with him earlier this day. ’Tis all there is to the situation, Sire.” Her nonchalant tone aggravated him. She stood then, ready to dart back to Princess Cinderella’s bedside.

  “One moment, Mademoiselle.” He almost smiled at her bristled posture. “What of Arnald? What do you mean he ‘set off after her’?”

  Lady Esmeralda frowned. “He cornered me on her plans, within moments of her departure. Browbeat the information from me, if you will.”

  It was actually something of a relief to know that Arnald was looking after Lady Pricilla, albeit an interesting turn of events. He glanced to the windows at the darkening sky. His lips fairly twitched. It appeared Arnald would be joining the marital ranks before long, whether he chose to or not. Prince rather reveled in having one over on his cousin for a change.

  “’Tis something I fail to understand, however,” Lady Esmeralda said slowly. “Sir Arnald insisted the interview would take an hour at most.” She shook her head as if some random silly thought occurred—one that would certainly not qualify. Confidence restored, she asked, “Are you quite sure she is not somewhere about the castle, Sire? Who, pray tell, says she is missing?”

  Prince handed her the note.

  “Ah,” she said, smiling. “Queen Thomasine states that ’tis Maman who is concerned.” She shot him a conspiratorial smile. “’Tis not so unusual for Cill to avoid her.”

  Of course, that made perfect sense. Most avoided Lady Roche, if at all possible. The woman was an annoyance.

  “I am quite certain things are fine,” Lady Esmeralda consoled him, handing back the note with a comforting pat on his shoulder. “She shall turn up soon enough. Never, you fear, Sire.” With that she darted back to his wife’s side, leaving him agape and shaking his head.

  Chapter 13

  Every ounce of restraint Pricilla could summon to keep from tripping blindly down the last of the precarious steps had her nerves taut and primed to snap. But as the sea air became more prominent, the more it pulled at her. With frantic effort she fought that urge to bolt toward freedom just beyond reach, lest she lose her balance in the interim. The flame in the lantern flickered wildly.

  Determination kept her moving forward while stuffing the panic so near the surface. She was certain Arnald could not be far behind. Not that she’d heard him. His quick reflexes and graceful moves showed him for a sleek and powerful hunter. Non, it was the hair on the nape of her neck standing on end that told her how close he fared.

  A blood-curdling scream ricocheted through the narrow passage, sending Pricilla hurling forward, landing hard on her knees. She sucked in a breath at the pain. The lamp crashed, plunging her into total darkness. She stilled, terrified. Panting and shaking through the sting, she fought to regain her senses.

  “Arnald,” she whimpered, surprised to find she fought back tears. What would she tell Prince? Mayhap nothing if she did not pull herself together. She reached out tentatively for the wall, welcoming the damp salty air. Surely it could not be far from an end to the passage. Arnald may have perished in a fall, but his cohorts would not be far behind.

  A breath of terror touched her ear, choking away any articulate, reasonable sound she sought to make. A large palm clamped over her mouth.

  “No need to worry, Lady Pricilla,” Sir Arnald whispered against her neck. “I am here to save the day.” Relief and indignation overrode her terror in that moment, and she bit down, hard. He hissed and let go.

  “Save the day? I feel it my duty to remind you, sir, the day is long since gone.” Her voice squeaked as both fear and liberation assaulted her. Despite his discomfort, she sensed the curl of his lips.

  “Keep your voice down, my lady. Sound carries exponentially against the stone.” His husky resonance and warm breath titillated her. A second later, he hustled her to her feet—and not by any stretch of elegance either. He snagged her unceremoniously beneath the arms as if she were but a feather. Glass crunched below their feet. With her hand in his, he charged the way out.

  She could only hope.

  ***

  Arnald was so angry, yet so reassured when he caught up to Lady Pricilla, he did not know whether to beat her senseless for leaving him behind, or to kiss her silly for allowing them headway. So he did neither, concentrating instead on the fresh air guiding them from a potential, very effective snare. Her heavy breathing was testament to the nerves she valiantly strove to disguise.

  Still, Arnald moved forward at a steady and unrelenting pace. He had no way of knowing who had succumbed to his trap, and who may have already set out on their trail. Those behind had the advantage of knowing the pitfalls of the passage, and more likely had sense enough to have procured an unbroken lantern. He’d wager Maman’s magic wand on the fact.

  He slowed, drawing Lady Pricilla up close with just the pressure of his hand. She seemed to understand and stopped, the heat of her body seeping through the garments he wore. He edged her close to the wall.

  “Why do we stop?” Lady Pricilla’s whisper felt like golden embers of a simmering fire against his shoulder, her fear flagrant. Footsteps pounding their way behind had him daring to answer naught.

  Arnald felt her stiffen as the sound echoed round. He gave her hand another quick squeeze hoping both to reassure, and remind her they were not alone. There was no way to fathom what fate lay beyo
nd the dampened corridor. He started forward, tugging her along. “Stay close,” he whispered, and felt her nod.

  Arnald was amazed at the depth of her composure. Only two other women came to mind with as much poise in such a situation—his maman and Aunt Thomasine. Fine company, he’d wager. Scuffled steps penetrated his beleaguered brain, prompting a quicker pace.

  The passage widened as he followed the winding path. The ground smoothed beneath their feet, pebbles kicked about in their course. He was almost certain Lady Pricilla let out an unladylike word or two. Those slippers could not be comfortable under such grueling activity.

  Abruptly, an invigorating wind cooled his face. He stumbled to his knees into the exposure of starlit skies. Slivered moonlight offered an enchanted view of a sand-covered beach, dotted with the shadow of caves. Surf crashed against his destination and Lady Pricilla, his backside.

  Another moment in time would have had him reveling in her softness, using the situation to romance his prickly companion. But duty called, and he scrambled to his feet, hauling Lady Pricilla to hers. He scanned the open landscape. The tide was low and their only hope lay in the caves lining the ocean.

  “Come,” he said. “I know this area. We shall hide there.” He snagged Lady Pricilla’s hand and dragged her off in a dead run, heedless of naught but their lack of protection.

  “Sir! My skirts,” she panted, stumbling.

  “Grab them. We’ve no time to lose,” he threw over his shoulder.

  ***

  Pricilla knew that, of course, but did he have to her treat with all the finesse of a lumbering boar? She could feel the whisper of danger as surely as the wind on her nape. What good would she be when she landed flat on her face? Still, she did the only thing one could in such a situation—she picked up her feet and flew.