The Unlikely Heroine

by Kae Elle Wheeler

  Candlelight spilled from the opening. Arnald cocked his head listening for signs of distress. With Lady Roche’s departure, came relief. All he discerned now were soft murmurings.

  “Ah, Cousin, there you are,” Prince said from behind.

  Arnald started.

  “You have an irritating flair of disappearing at the most inopportune moments. I thought I would expire from the monotony of supper. I should like a word, s’il vous plaît.” Prince glanced at the open door and lowered his voice. “But not here. Let us meet in my office chamber.”

  Five minutes later Arnald followed Prince’s purposeful stride through the arched doorway of the grand hall. The fire in the grate hardly managed to strike the chill from the air. This interview should prove painful as the fraudulent missive he’d administered to Prince earlier loomed like a swinging pendulum over his head.

  “Brandy?”

  “S’il vous plaît.”

  Prince splashed rich gold spirits into two tumblers and ambled over. Arnald took the glass, throwing back the entire contents in one gulp. Silence roared through the room. Yet not long enough.

  “Your note indicated, strongly, that one of the prisoners was more than ready to openly converse. When I confronted him, however, he scarcely talked sense.”

  Arnald smiled. “Well, prisoners are likely not accustomed to meeting Royalty in the flesh.”

  “Non. I suppose not.” Prince dropped into a winged-back chair and swallowed a leisurely sip of his drink. “So, Cos, would you care to enlighten me as to the real purpose behind that useless note?”

  Arnald froze. “As a matter of fact, I would not. I believe I shall leave those explanations to your wife and her siblings,” he replied mildly. His cousin, however, refused to let the matter lie.

  “Mayhap, our unwanted guests would answer my questions more readily with your presence,” Prince said.

  No doubt.

  “One, I believe, seems to be sporting quite the broken nose.”

  Holding back an impatient sigh, Arnald met his cousin’s smirk with one of his own, ignoring the obvious innuendo. “Do you think it wise for you to keep traipsing to the dungeon?”

  Prince’s glare hardened, demanding Arnald’s sudden respect. “There is a threat to all I hold dear,” Prince ground out. “Not only will you accompany me, you will apply that special will of yours to ensure my questions are answered.”

  Arnald considered this bit of information in silence. His cousin had truly come into his own. Arnald nodded slowly, and said, “Oui. But do not be surprised if my ‘special will’ does not produce your desired results.”

  “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Flickering candlelight did not lend much in the way of help down stone steps, in Arnald’s humble opinion. In fact, Chalmers greater depths were somewhat reminiscent of another passageway he’d maneuvered only a day or so prior. He shuddered to think what Lady Pricilla had suffered knowing, now, her intense dislike of dark enclosed spaces.

  His cousin was right in steering Lady Pricilla clear of the danger that lurked. He cherished that beautiful neck of hers too much to risk. The realization struck with such blinding force, he stumbled.

  “Watch yourself,” Prince said, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck as if he were nothing more than a wayward puppy.

  “Leave it be,” Arnald growled. He forced his concentration on the steps before him. He’d do Lady Pricilla no good with a broken neck. He didn’t worry that Culver or Tom posed any threat to Prince. His surprise had been in learning Prince’s awareness of his powers of compellation. Such power had cause to create serious mistrust, and Arnald’s desires had never included taking over his cousin’s kingdom.

  “Guard, the door, s’il vous plaît,” Prince ordered.

  “Oui, Sire.” A burly guard issued a stiff bow and turned the key. The metal clang reverberated off cold rock.

  Prince lifted a nearby torch, lighting it with the wall sconce. Arnald followed Prince and another guard down a different tunnel. Its narrow enclosure had the two of them dipping their heads.

  “Here ye be, Sire,” the guard said. He unlocked the cell and stepped back allowing their passage.

  When they caught sight of Arnald, the two cowered against the wall. Culver’s once white bandage, now gray, served as its own beacon of light. Arnald took a measure of delight in their recoiling stance.

  “How fares the nose, Culver?” he asked.

  “I’ll live.”

  Aware Prince’s gaze swung from Culver back to him, Arnald held Tom’s and Culver’s fear in the palm of his hand. Both bastards were lucky to be alive and they knew it.

  In a low voice Prince addressed Arnald. “Why have you never confided your unusual...uh...powers...for lack of a better word?”

  “And have you lock me up and lose the key?” Arnald quipped.

  “I wouldn’t have, you know.” The seriousness of his cousin’s demeanor cut through.

  “Non, I suppose not. But I would not have you doubt my allegiance in any way. And in that—”

  “—say no more. I understand.” He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Now, about these reprobates...”

  Twenty minutes later, Arnald followed Prince up the uneven concrete stairs.

  “I’m sorry, Cos. They know no more than we.”

  “’Tis obvious DePaul is a cover for our real target.” Prince said.

  “Oui, but who?” Arnald agreed softly.

  Chapter 30

  Morning streaked through the windows of Thomasine’s sitting chamber in a flash of brilliant pinks and orange sunlight. It promised to be a fine day.

  “She is quite bold, Thomasine,” Faustine said. She examined the crack in her silver baton. Frowning, she rewrapped the sticky adhesive and gave it a little shake. The French doors flew open and a nearby potted plant tipped over. Oh, dear.

  Thomasine pulled her attention from the needlepoint in her lap and glanced about. “Is Esmeralda here?”

  “Ah, non, ma chère.” Faustine shoved her silver wand in the cushions.

  Thomasine flung a hand out to the servant, “See to the doors, s’il vous plaît. And dispense with that plant. There is dirt on the floor.” She pierced Faustine with a hard glare. “Bold? Who?”

  “Hilda, dear.” Faustine picked up her heated chocolate. It smelled magnificent. “I fear she made an untimely visit to her stepdaughter last evening.”

  “That’s ridiculous! What of Manette?”

  “She was found unconscious. Drugged, I suspect. Laudanum is handy and quite efficient.”

  “Oh, my,” Thomasine gasped.

  “Surely, there is something we can do.”

  “Oui. But ’tis a delicate situation. I cannot fathom Cinderella’s reasons insisting her inclusion. What a wicked woman.” Thomasine shivered. “Is there nothing you can do to alter her behavior?”

  “My powers are limited in that capacity. Inherently strong traits are difficult to dominate. My powers only allow guidance enhanced by one’s personal desires, as you well know. ’Tis the reason Cinderella and Prince’s true love worked so divinely. Have you perchance spoken to your son of the matter?”

  “Bah, he is not reasonable when it comes to his princess’s requests.” Thomasine drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “’Tis our duty to protect Cinderella. I shall post guards outside her door until we can determine best how to deal with Hilda. The woman is an annoyance, non?”

  “Mayhap, we can marry her off to one of the foreign dignitaries?”

  Thomasine let out a resigned sigh. “Unfortunately, to fob her off on another country would justify a declaration of war.”

  Chapter 31

  Pricilla paced her spacious chamber. Sheltered and protected as a woman, indeed. The very idea set her teeth on edge.

  There must be something she could do to find out who was behind the exaggerated labor in her figures. If only to prove to Prince she should be taken seriously in her position as Land Agent. She paused b
efore the window and looked out, unseeing. The most reasonable explanation connected all to the crates she and Arnald had stumbled upon in the old hunter’s cottage. Oui, and the long ones in the caverns.

  With that latest debacle, she feared Arnald would ne’er let her from his sights.

  Quill in hand, Pricilla tapped it on the windowpane. She might not get away with an interview in the dregs of the castle, but her position as Land Agent offered other opportunities. ’Twould be nice to mull over the idea with someone trustworthy. But Essie would not only run straight to Prince, worse, Arnald. La! The most likely place to find her once-level-headed sister was the nursery, tormenting hardworking servants.

  She dropped her forehead against the frame and mulled over the situation.

  There was the upcoming harvest ball. Hmm. The idea had merit. After all, tenants, their underlings, and serfs from miles around would be attending. She moved to her desk and glanced at her calendar. The ball was scheduled within the week. That did not leave much time to devise a detailed plan. But it was something.

  Lips pursed, pace resuming, Pricilla considered her options. If she failed in this endeavor, ’twas certain she would be relegated to the brainless position of someone’s wife, destined for a life of nothing more fulfilling than adding to the expense of the court. By way of procreation. That was all well and good—for some.

  Pricilla stopped, crossing one arm under her breast, now tapping the quill against her lips. She never had managed that interview with Monsieur DePaul. Intuition screamed his involvement, but how was she to prove it. There must be some way to speak to him. She did not give a care what Arnald said; DePaul could be handled.

  She was certain she would have no problem raising her knee in his soft parts, if it came to survival. Those maneuvers Prince had taught Pricilla and her sisters would probably ne’er be needed. But she had them, should the occasion ever arise. Lunging for a villain’s eyes or an elbow in the ribs would take care of any over-zealous ardor. The element of surprise would always be in her favor. She smiled grimly. After all, she was but a woman. And how many women knew tricks to survive unwanted advancements.

  A frustrated sigh escaped. In lieu of the recent finds she and Arnald happened upon, Pricilla had a feeling what freedoms she was usually afforded would soon be revoked, if they weren’t already. She moved to the window once more letting the morning air cool her face. Perhaps some brilliant notion would strike before the day was out.

  One could only hope.

  ***

  “Je suis désolé, Mademoiselle, b-b-but I c-c-cannot.” Sweat gleaned from Sebastian Landsome’s shiny bald head. The effect made his hair protrude like the seedhead of a dandelion—ready to disperse with the slightest shift in air current.

  Pricilla closed her eyes, praying for sustained patience. She, indeed, had the brilliant notion of procuring her bailiff’s assistance in escaping the confines of her office to speak to DePaul. So far, he’d been most uncooperative. “Monsieur Landsome, must I remind you, you report to me?”

  “Non. Non, I do not forget, Mademoiselle,” he said quickly, shaking his head. The constant nervous rubbing of his hands was grating the last of her patience. Why, he could hardly be referred to as a man. Certainly not a hero like...

  She latched onto a healthy dose of anger. “I repeat, sir, there is a large discrepancy, and I intend to unravel the source. With or without your aid.” She narrowed her eyes on him. It was an unfair tactic she used all too oft. “Unless, of course, you are privy to...” she let the accusation trail.

  Sebastian’s already bloodless face drained of color, so stark white, she feared he might faint. Mayhap she carried her scheme too far, she thought. A smidge of guilt tripped through her. “I-I would ne’er...” He gasped for breath.

  Leaping from her chair, she strode for the mulled wine on the sideboard and poured the poor man a small glass, and after a slight hesitation dashed another snippet. Handing it to him, she soothed, “Now, now, Monsieur. I am quite aware of your allegiance to the crown. I just need to speak with him, ’tis all.”

  “They would have my h-head,” he stammered.

  Pricilla stilled. “Who, sir?” she queried. He was quite disturbed.

  “P-P-Prince Charming and his c-c-cousin, S-s-sir Arnald.”

  Disappointment coursed through her. Was it too much to hope for such loyalty?

  “Of course, sir, forget I mentioned it. Let us move on to other matters,” she gave him a condescending pat on the shoulder and a jubilant smile, and moved to her chair behind the desk. She let out a sigh and rubbed her temples.

  “’Tis my understanding Monsieur DePaul has disappeared, regardless, Mademoiselle,” he said, after a quick swallow.

  “Disappeared?” Pricilla frowned. “When did this occur? And why was I not kept abreast of the matter?”

  “I only heard myself, my lady, upon my throng with—”

  Pricilla leveled her bailiff with hard glare. His face flamed with acute dread. “Your throng, Monsieur? May I inquire with whom?” She was so angry she scarcely managed the words past the fury lodged in her throat. But she knew the answer.

  Clasping her hands on the desk, because rage had her tempted to tear the chamber to shreds, Pricilla took in slow measured breaths. “I presume you are referring to the assembly with Prince Charming, Sir Arnald, and the tenants?” she asked coolly. Control gained— momentarily.

  “Oui, my lady,” he whispered.

  “I see.” Pricilla stood and moved to the windows, searching for an unattainable calm.

  “If I may say, my lady, Sir Arnald was quick to def—”

  She cut him off. She had no desire to hear another word. “—that will be all, Monsieur. Pray, enjoy the rest of your day. We shall convene again after the Harvest Ball.”

  Heavy silence fell over the chamber. She turned to the bailiff, and waited expectedly.

  He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but then nodded slowly. “Oui, my lady.”

  The door closed with a soft click behind him.

  Chapter 32

  “I refuse to sit in this room another day,” Cinderella stormed. “You cannot keep me confined like...like the common thieves you have locked up in the dungeon.”

  “Blast! Who told you about them?” Prince asked, stunned.

  “Oh, Dieu,” Cinderella groused under her breath. Inhaling deeply if only for the appearance of sustained patience, she swung from the vanity looking glass and faced her husband. “There are guards posted outside my chamber. Explain, s’il vous plaît.”

  Her heart melted at his helpless gaze, but she refused to give in. He pushed a hand through his dark hair and sat. “I only seek to keep you safe.”

  A nervous flutter tripped Cinderella’s stomach. Had someone mentioned Stepama’s untimely visit? ’Twas not possible, she reasoned. Only Cill and Essie knew, and they vowed their silence.

  She rose and moved before him. Dropping to her knees she clasped his large and all too capable hands into hers. “My darling, I know how you feel, for I feel the same. But we cannot hide from life, or protect it from danger by locking it away. I will perish behind these walls. Would you have that for my life?”

  Breath held, she watched the play of emotions fleet across his face. The temptation to give in was strong, but common sense held out. This was for the rest of their lives and it was important.

  He expelled a pursed stream of air. “I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”

  “True love cannot be lost, non?” Cinde pulled his hands to her lips. “This love story does not end here, my love.”

  In a swift move that left her breathless he had her planted on his lap, his mouth devouring hers. Cinde reveled in the warmth and safety of his arms. She smiled against his lips. “So you’ll allow me to attend the Harvest Ball?”

  “How can I deny you anything?” he whispered.

  Chapter 33

  Pricilla felt as if her head were about to explode. Staring at the ceiling by moonlight fai
led to inspire any sort of workable strategy in managing an interview with the elusive Francois DePaul. Not a moment’s peace all night. She glanced over to the windows where the sun peeked over the horizon. She rose and dressed as another day without a clever stratagem raced by. Resigned, she ventured down for breakfast.

  Though still early by court standards, the informal dining room, in lush reds and golds, was filling quickly. The sideboard held an array of fresh fruits, eggs, meats and breads. Pricilla wanted none of it, but ’twould look odd if she ate nothing.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted Sir Arnald. Of course, he was in fine form, looking as if he’d enjoyed a spot of fox hunting and caught the blasted fox, personally. Damp hair curled at his neck, appearing as if he’d relaxed in the infamous waters in Bath, as well—all before the first meal of the day. Good heavens, her fantasies had run amuck.

  She ignored him.

  “Bonjour, Lady Esmeralda,” Sir Arnald said. “May I offer you a croissant?”

  “Oui, s’il vous plaît. Bonjour, Cill.”

  Pricilla scowled and turned to the sideboard. The thought of swallowing a single thing threatened her constitution.

  His smile toward Essie was genuine and...annoyed. The man reeked of potent masculinity. It bothered her immensely. More than the anger simmering beneath her well-practiced reserve.

  How she could be so attracted to such a scoundrel—’twas beyond the scope of her understanding. Especially, in light of the secret assembly Sebastian had let slip.

  She’d rather have a sword stabbed straight through her heart than fall at his feet like one of those insipid maids he claimed his Maman waved her magic wand over.

  “Will you be joining Lady Pricilla and myself in breaking our fast, Lady Esmeralda?”