The Unlikely Heroine

by Kae Elle Wheeler

  The mark from her mother’s fingers burned and she rubbed over her chin. She very well should go back to her sisters, but Maman had just handed her the chance she’d been seeking. Since there’d been no word on Monsieur DePaul, Silas Huntley would have to suffice. Pricilla had questions, and to date, he was her only egress for finding answers. With DePaul missing, which was vexing in and of itself, her choices were limited.

  Pricilla scurried back to her chamber for her mask and the small sheathed knife Arnald had so generously bequeathed her. Well, not bequeathed, perhaps—loaned, after all he’d requested its return. She ran to the corner of the bed and pushed her arm beneath the mattress. The leather casing was warm and comforting.

  Standing, she shook out her skirts and considered the knife. ’Twas a bit of a quandary contemplating where to hide the blasted thing. She glanced over, catching her reflection in the floor length mirrored glass. She looked fabulous, but the adored silver gown she wore offered not so much as a speck of space in its form-fitted, tightly corseted ensemble. The mounds of petticoats, however...heat coursed through her. It would have to do. ’Twas not so conventional, but when had that ever bothered her before?

  Binding a knife to one’s leg sounded intoxicatingly sinful. Her lace garters were not near strong enough to hold something as heavy as a dagger, however. Even a small one.

  Moving quickly to the jeweled box atop the oak chest of drawers, Pricilla lifted the lid. Nothing. She slammed it shut. A thin leather strap would be the most secure, but where to find one? She spanned the chamber in a slow circle.

  Her chamber was elegant but not so different from any other with its massive bed and standing wardrobe for her gowns. And other than the chamber pot and a couple of landscapes on the walls, there was not much with which to work. Large curtained windows lined with lace were an option. A strip of lace?

  She stalked to the windows and considered the brocaded tasseled ties holding the drapes, weighed one through her fingers. It might work, she supposed, if somewhat cumbersome. Walking would be awkward, let alone dancing. Her gaze rested once more on the paintings...mayhap? She lifted one edge.

  “Ah, oui,” she breathed. It took considerable effort in the blasted confines of her corset but she managed to wrestle the smaller of the two paintings to the floor. Darting back to her jeweled chest, she pulled out a small pair of sewing scissors. Ha! She knew they would come to good use one day. She deplored sewing.

  Snipping carefully, Pricilla drew a long piece of twine up in triumph.

  She grinned. Now she was prepared for anything.

  ***

  Despite the warm and balmy evening, Arnald felt this portion of the castle always held a deep chill, the dust covered stone floors, abominable. Maman should put that magic wand to better use than having unsuspecting women tripping over their feet to get to him.

  He crossed the threshold of the small chamber lit by a single sconce. A large oak oblong table littered with varying sized beakers and glass jars stood at the far end. His mother was quite the chemist. ’Twas a scary thought, indeed. The only window in the room was open and unreachable near the high ceiling. The sound of the ocean crashing against rocks unseen came in loud and rhythmic.

  There she sat, in a plush, faded chair of indiscriminant hue due to the low lighting. “Darling, whatever are you doing here? The ball is in the west gardens.”

  “Maman,” he bowed. He leaned forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I thought I should find you hovering in your old haunt. Will you not be attending the ball?”

  “’Tis still early. I shall be there. I may be needed.”

  “Hmm. Where is your wand?”

  “It’s right—” Her dark skirts swished as she maneuvered round the small space. Arnald smiled at the scowl on her pert features while she checked beneath the table. “Ah, here it is. It rolled beneath the chair.”

  He eyed the awkward angle critically. “Can you not have it repaired?” he asked.

  “It works almost perfectly,” she snapped. She took a deep breath. He supposed he’d tried her patience enough. “Did you have something specific, or is this tête-à-tête strictly for entertainment purposes?”

  His Maman was clever. If he did not keep control of this assembly, she would flay him. “How many women did you concoct that silly spell on, Maman?”

  “You should know me better than that,” she sniffed.

  “Oui,’tis why I ask. What spell did you cast over Lady Pricilla?”

  “Bah, I would not venture to—”

  Blast genteel etiquette. He cut her off. “Do not bother me with your fabled tales, I know you too well.”

  She sighed. “I only set out to help with young women who might find you irresistible.”

  “Please, Maman, the serving maids? Silas Huntley’s wife?”

  “Silas Huntley’s wife?” she choked out. She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts, then pulled up abruptly. Eyes narrowed on him, she said, “Darling, perhaps you should explain your meaning in regards to Lady Pricilla?”

  And just like that, the control slipped from his miserly grasp. He prayed the low lighting hid the heat rising up his neck. Who knew such a topic would be so difficult to broach with one’s mother? Gathering resolve, he strove for a stern tone. “Could your damaged baton have caused any inconsequential results?”

  She stood and with a graceful stride moved to the wood table. She picked up a volumetric flask, taking a sudden intensive interest in the solute contents. “What sort of inconsequential results? I fail to understand your meaning, mon cher.” Her nonchalant demeanor fooled no one. She poured a measure of liquid into the nearby evaporating dish.

  “Your efforts in which to make someone...uh...fall in love with me...” This was deplorable. He could not believe he’d resorted to a conversation of this nature.

  His mother glanced up quickly, brows drawn. “Darling, making someone fall in love with you is beyond the reach of my powers.”

  She looked truly puzzled. He swallowed. “Pardonnez-moi?” Surely, he had not heard correctly.

  “Is she in love with you, darling?” Her glance turned intense, her voice much too hopeful.

  “What? Non,” he said darkly.

  “Mayhap, you are in love with her?” she ventured, slyly.

  The question caught him off guard. He swallowed. He rather thought he might be. The subject suddenly became much too personal.

  ***

  The lighted terrace spilled onto the largest garden near the pond proudly exhibiting Eros. Lanterns littered every known path in a warm glow of soft flames. Centered in a large clearing of the lawn, the orchestra strummed the night air with works from Handel, Vivaldi, Mozart, and Glück. The Chalmers’ servants had out performed themselves, equipping the area with wooden boards for a simulated dance floor. Clear skies ruled, allowing a myriad of twinkling stars to shine through as if specifically ordered for the occasion.

  When Lady Pricilla finally appeared from a side door on the terrace steps, arm in arm, with Lady Esmeralda, Arnald expelled his held breath. The feeling she might feign an excuse not to show quivered through him in relief at the sight of her. In love with Lady Pricilla. The thought slammed through him as she stood there in the spotlight of moonbeams, glorious flaxen curls illuminated, piled high on her head. Her silver half mask did little to hide lush full lips, or a determined chin. He wondered how anyone could fail to recognize her.

  Without a second’s hesitation, he started for her. Several days had passed since the opportunity for one of their lively exchanges. Surprise stunned him momentarily. He’d missed their animated bantering.

  “Monsieur...” He heard the sigh of an unseen miss but he stalked past, singled toward specific prey.

  Of course, she would choose not to enter by the traditional route, opting instead to slip in unobtrusively, believing no one the wiser. His lips twitched at the obtuse thought she’d be unobserved.

  “...a dance, sir, s’il vous plaît...” He twisted round
another feminine obstacle.

  There was nothing unobtrusive about her gown. Striking silver, moonlight shimmered in every turn and fold in the mounds of fabric, swirling about slender thighs. Every muscle below his belt responded.

  “...perhaps later, sir...”

  Small capped sleeves left her graceful neck and shoulders bare, displaying a shocking amount of bosom. He had a strong urge to strip himself of his coat and cover her. No one should be privy to that sight but he. Long soft white gloves donned past the crook in her arms would have him fighting off suitors all evening. But fight, he would.

  The night held magic. The question that bothered him was what kind of magic? Had Maman spoken the truth? Was the attraction Lady Pricilla tried to hide, not due to inadvertent meddling? The knowledge sent him reeling.

  This night was his. This woman, he would possess.

  He paused before her, reached for her gloved fingers. He touched his lips to their covered warmth. “Lady Pricilla, may I claim this set?”

  The scowl on those lovely lips tempted him beyond measure. Only, Lady Esmeralda’s company kept him on an etiquette tether. “How did you know it was me?” Lady Pricilla said, tartly.

  “You are the only one not falling over your feet trying to garner my attention. You will pardon us, Mademoiselle?” he said, with a short bow to Lady Esmeralda.

  Lady Esmeralda’s response was a wicked smile toward her sister. “Of course, my lord. Mayhap, Cill will portray a more congenial attitude in your esteemed company.”

  Arnald grinned back and snagged “Cill’s” arm, dragging her away.

  Her lack of protest of his hold was suspicious, but one used such advantages when presented. They were most rare.

  “Have you had any success in determining the culprit behind the crates we stumbled upon, my lord?” Ah. It seemed she had reasons of her own.

  Suppressing a groan, Lady Pricilla’s soft voice and spoken words forced a pained smile.

  “Look about you, Lady Pricilla, ’tis a night of romance and enchantment.”

  “Spare me your charms, sir. Romance and enchantment, indeed,” she said, sharply. “Many of the women in attendance appear to be lodging daggers in my direction. ’Tis fortunate for me they hold nothing in their hands save a flute of champagne.”

  Arnald let out an irritated sigh. There was nothing for it but the truth. It must be said. “My lady, orders by way of Prince Charming strictly prohibit your further involvement with what we happened upon in those caverns.” He tried to keep his voice light even when the very thought of her trying to insinuate herself deeper into danger angered him beyond words. “I much prefer dancing to talking, besides.”

  “’Twas only a question, sir,” she said stiffly, snatching her arm from his. As luck would have it, the set ended on Telemann’s ‘Trio Sonata in C minor.’ Lady Pricilla dipped a short curtsy. “Merci, my lord, but I believe I shall pass. Enjoy your evening,” she smiled, offering nothing but polite formality.

  Spinning on one dainty slipper, she left him staring helplessly after her as she made her way through a host of minglers.

  Chapter 36

  Blast! The man was a menace to her staid judgment, Pricilla chided herself. Mayhap his Maman had cast some wily hex over her. What other explanation had her stuttering like a...a ninnyheaded fool? The night air misting her skin should have administered a soothing cool, instead, left her feeling as if she’d just scrambled from the fires of Hades.

  Pricilla strode for the safety of the trees weaving a haphazard path through an enthusiastic crowd clamoring for the next set to begin. A vital need to catch the breath that seemed to have deserted her became overwhelming. There were so many people. A singled-minded, determined purpose had her sights on the trees. She could not breathe.

  Isolating herself from the thick of the crowd, Pricilla leaned against a tree and stared up into the star-filled night. She should be furious with him, for surely he was the one who triggered Prince’s sudden attack of antiquated behavior. She’d worked hard in her position as Land Agent. She blinked back tears of frustration. How could she be attracted to a man who probably considered for her lineage and...and who knew what other vile, sinful things. But were kisses really so vile and sinful? Reliving moments of his heated mouth, urgent demands, and gripping embrace had a heady sensation of need pulsing through her. She gasped, shoving away that particular avenue of thought where nothing but trouble lay.

  “Signorina, might I have this dance?”

  Startled, Pricilla looked up. Right into the fatherly gaze of Conte le Lecce.

  ***

  Well, she’d bested him this round, Arnald conceded. What made these sisters so skilled in their exits? Princess Cinderella’s could not be topped, of course. Her race for the ballroom doors at the stroke of midnight was legendary. But Arnald preferred matching wits against Lady Pricilla any day.

  He was much too sophisticated to run a frustrated hand through his hair, but it did not lessen the temptation as his gaze followed Lady Pricilla’s forge through the crowd. Her stature was too petite to see the top of her head clearly. Non, he followed her path by means of the parted mass.

  Strings plucking the start of the next set prompted Arnald out of a frozen stance and he darted after her.

  A moment too late.

  The Conte had bested him, as well. Well, she was safe enough for the time, he supposed. But she would not escape him the whole evening, the night was young.

  Dressed in black breeches and royal blue waistcoat, Conte de Lecce cut a suave figure of a man despite his age. Arnald eyed the man’s skillful guide through the surrounding couples. The longer he watched, the more aggravated his ire. ’Twas disgraceful. Why, the man was old enough to be her father.

  “Monsieur, a dance, s’il vous plaît?” The giggling, shy countenance surprised him momentarily. Irritation clouded his brain slightly before common sense plowed through.

  “’Twould be my extreme delight, my lady,” he bowed. He struggled against a roll of his eyes when she almost swooned, but he her caught her arm before she dropped to the ground. Scowling, Arnald worked their glide toward the bâtard twirling the one woman he would soon claim as his.

  “You hold a most unusual position, Signorina,” The Conte said. “As Land Agent.”

  She gave him a bright smile. “Merci beaucoup, Signore,” Arnald heard her respond before they swung away.

  “Hell’s teeth,” he hissed under his breath.

  “Excusez-moi?” His partner gaped, eyes wide and fear-tinged.

  His hero status would be tainted for certain. He mentally saluted Maman. He grimaced, ignoring the young miss in his arms as he spun her through the hoard of dancers, desperate to keep Lady Pricilla in sight. Moments later, when the music ended, he saw the Conte leading her toward the refreshment table.

  He started after her when another, urgent tone reached him.

  “Maman, s’il vous plaît,” Lady Esmeralda pleaded. “I beg of you, reconsider this action.”

  Arnald turned at Lady Esmeralda’s obvious distress. The shift in the wind current threatened the flames of the thousand lanterns. Arm clasped by her mother, he feared the damage to Lady Esmeralda’s delicate bones. Arnald cast a quick glance in Lady Pricilla’s direction. The Conte was harmless enough. Extracting Pricilla would have to wait a few moments. He’d demand his thanks for saving her sister in due time.

  “Esmeralda, find your sister, vite,” he heard Lady Roche snarl in a low hiss.

  With an inevitable sigh, Arnald stepped forward. “Bonsoir, Madame. Mademoiselle.”

  “Ah, Sir Arnald. ’Tis lovely to see you. I cannot convey how pleased I am in your attentions to my dear Pricilla.” Lady Roche released the vise on her daughter’s arm and proffered a meaty hand with a smile—a smile that struck him not unlike a nest of coiled vipers. Stark finger imprints glowed on Lady Esmeralda’s pale skin. “And where might my eldest daughter be, pray tell?” She cast a cursory glance over the gardens.

  “Dancing
the night away, my lady,” he said. Arnald maneuvered his position between Lady Esmeralda and her mother. “Perhaps, you would do me the honor of taking a turn about the dance floor, Mademoiselle.”

  Lady Esmeralda closed her eyes. Most likely to still her uncontrolled, battering lashes. “Merci,” she whispered.

  “Esmeralda,” Lady Roche snapped in warning.

  “Oui, Maman,” she responded, walking away. The grasp on his arm was desperate.

  Arnald led her to the makeshift dance floor. “S’il vous plaît, sir, we must find my sister. Immediately.”

  “Nonsense, Lady Esmeralda. Surely, we can spare a moment for you to collect yourself. Forgive me for saying so.”

  She lifted bleak, tear-filled eyes. “I fear not, sir. We’ve no time to waste.”

  The orchestra screeched to a halt, the crying scream of a lone violin string protesting its misery.

  “Oh Dieu! I fear it’s too late.” Lady Esmeralda’s prayer sent a wave of dread over his usual steady composure.

  “What is it?” he asked. He stared at her, truly puzzled, until a call for the crowd’s undivided attention quieted the flowing hum.

  “Whatever it is, it cannot be good,” she whispered. “Where is Cill? She’s always the one to handle Maman.”

  Arnald felt the hair on his nape raise. He had a sudden urge to throw Lady Pricilla over his shoulder and run for the trees. He cast a glance where he’d last seen her, but she’d disappeared.

  “Monsieur?” He looked down where another nondescript female clamored for his attention. With a fixed look at her, she lowered her gaze and skittered away.

  “I am pleased to announce...” Lady Roche bellowed in dramatics worthy of the London stage. She moved, upstaging the maestro before the orchestra.