“I asked you a question, sir.” She reached deep inside for strength, but her voice came out a timid whimper. Panic crawled over her skin, squeezing the oxygen from her lungs.
As the chase delved deeper into the cave, the air grew danker. Every step heightened the shadows that danced amid the walls. And with each passing chamber, Pricilla struggled to breathe, strived to resist tearing the clothes from her neck.
She needed air—now. The cold walls seeped into her fingertips. She stopped and bent over, gasping for air. ’Twas as elusive as the stars. Were they to die in this—
“Lady Pricilla, come.”
Why was his voice so far away? Pricilla tried lifting her head but it felt so heavy. She was vaguely aware of Sir Arnald’s swinging arm in the same lyrical modulation he’d used earlier when he’d bid Otis to set down the light. If she didn’t feel as if she were about to expire on the spot, she was certain she’d be irked seeing the knave doing exactly as Sir Arnald suggested. Without question.
But Otis went straight to the rocked wall, lowering himself as gently as you please. She could not imagine the implausible feat of ever doing the same. ’Twould ne’er happen, she might just as well be dead. Her hands felt damp and clammy, her head spiraling, the walls closing in.
“Lady Pricilla?”
The swaying lantern faded in and out of her vision. Odd, how her knees seemed unable to support her weight. Iron vises gripped her arms, stealing the last vestige of her strength. Sliding into darkness—was much easier to handle.
***
“Lady Pricilla, come!” Arnald spun round in time to see the hard-headed, courageous, determined Lady Pricilla stop and lean onto the wall. She looked as if she were about to—
“Hell’s teeth.” Arnald dove, snatching her up just before she hit the hard stone surface. “Otis,” Arnald called softly. “Pray sit for a moment, si’l vous plaît. Close your eyes, sir, and take a much needed rest.”
“Oui, sir. I wager, I be a mite tired.”
Cradling Pricilla to his chest, heart pounding, he said, “I’ve got you.” He looked toward Otis, who sat as commanded, eyes shut. Arnald placed two fingers to her neck and felt the faint pulse. Relief poured through his veins. “You surprise me, Mademoiselle. And here I thought you invincible.” Her lack of response had him wanting to shake her, at the same time, kiss the life into her.
“Cill!” Her body lurched with the physical wrench and sharp tone. “Look at me.”
Pricilla blinked.
“Look at me,” he whispered, again.
She raised her eyes to his. “I’m f...fine,” she stammered.
He let out the breath he’d been holding with a small smile. “I’ve no doubt, my lady. Take shallow, slow breaths.” He smoothed her cheek with short, warm strokes. Her breath steadied, mimicking the caress of his fingers.
“Mayhap, you should explain?”
Lady Pricilla closed her eyes, seeming to concentrate on the steady contact.
He waited. And...waited. When he thought she wouldn’t answer, she said in a barely audible voice, “I-I do not care for...for confined spaces. Closets, tiny chambers, narrow passageways, caves...” A delicate quiver rumbled through her to him. He fought an instinct to tighten his grasp.
“Is there an exacting cause?”
Again, her lengthy pause forced his patience.
She struggled against his hold, fighting to sit. With reluctance, he set her aside, her skirts pooling over their legs. While the sheen in the fabric shimmered in the soft glow of the lantern, he had a feeling, after their wild adventure; in the light of day those stripes would appear more gray than white. He kept a clasp on her hand somewhat cheered by its warmth.
“I don’t remember much, I’m afraid. I was very young when Maman’s marriage to Cinderella’s Papa was—encouraged. Seven, perhaps, possibly younger. Cinde and Essie are the same year, you see. One less than mine.” Her hand tensed beneath his, and she inhaled deeply. “I fear Maman has never been quite stable. Though, I’ve never admitted it before now.”
A chill, quite unlike any he’d ever remembered suffering, squeezed his chest.
“She would bar me in the closet. Conceal the cracks with some sort of overlay. I vow, there was not a breath of air to be had. I would cry, of course. Screamed my bloody head off, in fact.” He saw the self-deprecating lift of her lips and wanted to pull her back into his arms; promise that no one or nothing would dare hurt her as long as he lived.
In that moment, she glanced over. He felt a tinge of heat creep up his neck having been caught unguarded. But in the low light, how much could she really see? “I would likely kill her if she hurt you,” he said softly.
Luminous eyes narrowed on him. “I’ll not fall for your mesmerist tactics, sir.”
Relief filled him in a rush with her spirited comment, though she’d failed in raising her voice above an undignified whimper.
Before he could come up with a suitable response, she continued, her pitch quickly returning to its normal vibrancy. “Why is he,” she pointed a slender finger in Otis’s direction, “guiding us further into the bowels of this dank hell?” ’Twas a smooth change of subject she’d managed.
He grabbed it with both hands. “Mayhap you can offer a better way in keeping an eye on him?”
Beads of perspiration hovered above her lip. The temptation to blot them away was too great and he swiped a thumb over the moisture. Her swift intake of shocked air against his skin set him afire. He fought for control.
“Indeed?” she whispered.
Arnald quickly lowered his hand, mortified by its slight tremble. She did not seem to notice.
“What spell did you cast upon him, and what did you mean by a ‘trance-induced’ state? And...and who shot at us?” Despite the calm demeanor she’d conveyed the entire day, her voice rose with each question. He heard the panic edging in, in rapid, successive breaths that escalated with each drawn.
“Pricilla, darling, you must breathe.” He took her by the shoulders and gave her quick shake. “Are you to swoon with vapors?” When she stiffened, he knew his words had had the desired effect. Lady Pricilla did not swoon, and certainly not with vapors. “Do you think we might move on, my lady?” Thoughts of the rising tide pierced his lust-filled brain.
“Oui, we must move on,” she nodded. “B-but, I d-do not recall g-giving you l-leave in use of my Christian n-name,” she muttered. “And c-certainly not d-darling.”
“Ah, your impudence is a good sign, I vow.” He assisted her to her feet and grinned. She was his darling, he decided. “I didn’t ask your leave? A slight oversight on my part, I fear.” He would not be asking. He would take.
Chapter 16
“I am not so certain, Maman.” Prince frowned at the clear glass bottle he held. A dark brown concoction that surely tasted as vile as it looked. He tilted it back and forth. Blessedly, no residue clung to the glass.
“’Twill bring her peace,” his mother insisted.
’Twas the kind of peace it would bring that concerned him. His gaze moved to the bed where Cinderella lay in a semi-conscious state. Her beautiful dark eyes listless as a savage fever ravaged her body. Nothing resembling that fateful night when she’d swept into his ballroom and into his heart, when she’d lost her glass slipper in her rush to disappear, changing his life forever.
“My darling, things are quite desperate. Faustine spent hours perfecting the dosage.” She clasped his hand, her urgency clear.
“Aunt Faustine is always dreaming up something. What makes you believe this will cure my wife?” The words choked out. To toss it out the window was tempting, but he dare not. He feared it might be his last hope.
“Do not wait so long to decide. I beg of you,” she whispered, pressing something warm and solid into his other hand.
Prince watched his mother slip from the chamber without a sound, terror strangling him. He opened his hand. The Bloodstone! Things were desperate, indeed. Its powers, so strong, were hoisted for balancing a
body’s inner rages and turmoil. But it must be used sparingly, else risk the contrary. The green jasper stone was dotted with the bright red of blood. Could it work for her? He squeezed his hand round it, eyes closed, head raised toward heaven in a silent prayer, for what words he needed stuck in his throat.
He looked again at the brown liquid, fingers trembling. What if it was too much and she expired from the potion? Yet, what if she had nothing, and still perished? How could he survive life without her? Would he ne’er dance the night away again? Celebrate and laugh when the clock struck midnight, knowing she was not as mild and meek as some claimed? Mon Dieu...how he loved and cherished his princess. He would ne’er find another. He dropped to his knees in a desperate prayer.
Perspiration beaded his upper lip, and he swallowed. Yet, what choice had he?
None.
He’d ask no other to do this duty. If she were destined to die ’twould be by his own hand. Had Maman brought the stone for his dearest princess or to bring him comfort? Perhaps they were both in need.
He rose. “You, Midwife!” he barked. The croak that emerged came out cracked and hoarse. “Hold her shoulders, whilst I administer this damned tonic.”
Chapter 17
Arnald maintained a sharp gaze on Otis. What an excellent pupil he’d sported for trance-inducement. A true follower all the way. No matter how sharp-tongued Lady Pricilla cut her teeth, Otis obligingly did as compelled, without a speck of trouble. Which begged the question, who wanted him—or them—dead, and why? The ‘what’ seemed fairly obvious based on the crates stashed in the wardrobe of the hunter’s cottage.
He stole another glance toward Pricilla—he was certain he would have trouble referring to her as Lady Pricilla after this ordeal. He was relieved to find her breathing steadier—nothing like the frantic gasping when she’d collapsed at his feet. Non. This was due, more likely than not, to the twisted passages snaking toward water. He could taste the slight tang of salty sea. The good news was the dry ground beneath their feet. They were still above the incoming tide.
“Lord in sweet heav’n,” Lady Pricilla whispered. “Air. I feel air.” She lunged forward. He placed a hand out to stay her, however much he was inclined to agree.
Otis hung a hard right. “Well, guv’ner, here ye be,” he said, looking quite pleased.
Arnald stopped, shocked at the sight before him.
“Oh, my,” Lady Pricilla gasped.
“My thoughts exactly,” he grimaced. The chamber was lined with crates from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Arnald studied the contents carefully for anything that might help their cause. He fingered a piece of twine left dangling alongside one of the containers. He tugged, surprised to find its equivalent in length to that of a cow’s leg. “When is the next shipment date, Otis?”
“Ah, guv, ’twould be tonight, it be.”
“Merci, Otis. Perhaps you’re a bit tired? I’ll take the lantern whilst you sit and rest your feet a spell, take a small doze.” Arnald could see his soothing tone taking immediate effect. “Just hand the lantern to Lady Pricilla, Otis. She shall be happy to assist you.”
The lift of her brow told Arnald exactly how happy she was to help. Like the perfect puppet, Otis held out the lantern to Pricilla’s outstretched hand.
“Merci, Monsieur,” she said softly, ever the proper lady, torn skirts and all. She moved quickly from Otis’s reach once she had possession of their only light source.
“Rest now, Otis. You’ll not hear a word mademoiselle and I speak from this point forward, oui?”
The answer included his large bulk sliding down the wall, all but nodding off already.
“How long will he doze?” Her practical tone cut sharp across the cavern.
“As long as I need him to,” he replied. He skimmed the crates with a hand, testing the snug lids on a few.
She moved next to him. He’d almost forgotten the floral fragrance that now assaulted him full-force.
“How do you do it?” she asked.
Arnald shot her a quick look. He knew his first real panic in over thirty years. She regarded him with steady, unblinking eyes. He shifted his gaze to the sleeping Otis. “What might you be speaking of, Pri—my lady?”
“Come now, Arnald. It occurs to me, we are much too familiar to stand on such formality.”
“Familiar?” He quirked a brow, tempted to further the familiarity of such prickly feminine charms. The dimmed light could not completely disguise her blush, but her gaze held his, unwavering. Several urges threatened to overcome him—one, to kiss her senseless, but he suppressed it with an irritated breath. If she didn’t fall over him like the others, he could well imagine her reaction to his searing touch. If—when—the opportunity presented itself, he would savor the sensations like a fine vintage wine.
The sting of her hand landing across his cheek was only imagined, but he felt it, just the same. He glanced at the hand clenched in the folds of her skirt. Non, she would not hesitate to swing.
He took the light from her, lifting it toward the low ceiling and considered the crates, their long and narrow length. Though barely discernible he recognized the distinct scent of sulfur.
“You evade the issue, Monsieur.”
He inhaled deeply. Definitely, sulfur, possibly coal...
She snatched his free arm. “Do not insult my intelligence, sir! You know of what I speak. You cannot deny it.”
Arnald pulled his attention from the crates to face her fury. Fire flared in the depth of silver eyes, leaping out. It touched his pulse like flint to powder. The throb at his neck pulsed through his body in a rush that deafened him. Difficult as it was, he set a deliberate glance at the hand clutching his sleeve. She dropped it quickly, as if she held burning embers and folded her arms across her chest. Impatient staccato toes tapped the ground.
“Just what is it you imagine I evade, pray tell?” Of course, he knew exactly to what she referred. She wanted a confession to the powers he held. But that was a closely guarded secret. Even Prince remained unaware of its full extent. Only Maman knew the magic he could wield, but it was something of which they never spoke.
Pursed lips challenged his efforts to remain bland. Before he could stop himself the words tumbled forth. “My abilities allow me to sway others to a degree,” he said slowly.
“Oui. Of that, I was aware.”
She knew? His puzzlement must have shown on his face.
She threw out a hand. “The women.”
“Ah, the women,” he smirked. “That was not my doing.”
“Pardon?”
He turned back to the crates. Their contents made their situation more perilous by the moment. “My dear Maman’s handiwork, I fear.”
“You are blaming your innocent Maman! That is low, even for you, sir. You expect me to believe she is the cause of women falling at your feet?” Impatient indignation filled the air.
Well, what else had he expected? Her to dither and pawn? Flutter her lashes in outrageous flirtation? He almost laughed aloud.
“Innocent as a lamb in wolf’s clothing,” he muttered, stealing an irresistible look. She was luscious.
Outright disbelief marred her features, but he stayed her argument with an open palm.
“Lady Pricilla, mayhap we should table this discussion for a more appropriate time. In case you have forgotten, we have other pressing matters at present.” He cocked his head toward the sleeping Otis. Her gaze followed as he’d hoped.
She gave pause, obviously debating which subject held more curiosity before asking, “What are we to do with him?”
He let out a soft sigh of relief. “We shall endeavor to keep him amongst us. I vow he will prove useful.”
“I suppose he will. Now, about your Maman—”
“That shall have to wait,” he ground out. A persistent little thing, wasn’t she? “I insist we collaborate on a strategy of some sort, my lady.”
“You, sir, are the most arro—”
“—How do you feel about ma
rriage, Lady Pricilla?” he interrupted blandly.
What a delightful sight she made with her mouth dropping open. Such an invitation—scowling, he lifted her chin with his forefinger, effectively closing it for her. “I fear we’ve not much time to set our trap.”
She nodded, speechless.
***
Blasted hell. Marriage! Pricilla wanted to scream. If the blackguard was trying to shock her, he had certainly succeeded. Once they escaped this damp cavernous prison, she’d grab the first sword she came across and lop off his too attractive head and...and hand it to him on a silver platter if he preferred.
“’Tis imperative we are ready for them.”
Ready for whom? She had completely missed every word. Where was a magic stick when one had need of one? That little prize had escaped her clutches months ago. It dropped Prince right where he’d stood. With such a handy possession Arnald would not have stood a chance.
“—Otis should provide the perfect distraction,” he was saying.
Pricilla leveled him with a glare, but he tipped his lips in response, further spiking her ire. Oh, how she would love to wipe away that smirk. Her fists tightened in her skirts.
“—so, I shall return shortly.”
That brought her up. “Return?”
“You’ve heard nary a word, have you?” he sighed.
Holding back a groan, she prayed the dim light hid her blush. Surely, this day would end soon. What an understatement. The hour alone proved the day most surely gone. Wood scraped rocks, snapping her attention. Sir Arnald’s as well. “A-a boat?” she stammered to him. Both a blessing and a nightmare, depending on its occupants. Based on the crates they’d discovered, she doubted they’d welcome them with open arms. Arms? She glanced at the crates, then Otis, then Arnald, realizing the contents of the crates and the position it placed them.
The Unlikely Heroine Page 9
