She could not have borne it. ’Twas not her lot in life to marry and produce babies. The idea galled her. She glanced about her barren prison. A moot point now, however.
That this was her most dire concern in her current situation showed just how far she’d gone round the bend. DePaul had successfully found the one weapon with which to torture her, and wielded it skillfully. As surely as if he’d stabbed her straight through the heart with the same knife he casually tossed in the air.
Breath caught, she watched the wicked, wicked man slide the dagger back in its leather casing. He leaned down and stuffed the blade in his boot. “Not to worry, ma chère. You will find I love nothing more than indulging a woman in love.” He smiled and extended an elegant bow.
With a long, unreadable glint from those unerring black eyes he turned and slipped from the room, leaving her thankful for the full moon. The unmistaken grating of the key in the lock was deafening.
Pricilla sat a moment trying to gather her scattered wits. She would need every sound one. Moonlight glinting through mud-spattered windows muted the brightness, ascertained the chamber’s bare furnishings, greatly enhanced by the sparse toppings on the table, the chair. She snagged a piece of hay from her hair, tossed it to the floor. And what could one do with hay, save feed it to a horse?
She let out a frustrated sigh. Mayhap she could pinch him in just the right spot to, poof, drop him like a fly. The only problem with that was how one determined the right spot. Pricilla scooted from the itchy, makeshift mattress, and on one light slipper and one stockinged foot, made her way to the window.
One thing was for certain, once she made it out of this mess, she would ensure these cottages were cleaned up and prepared for other possible abducted victims. Tugging the other glove from her hand, she smiled grimly at her ill humor. She wasn’t dead yet, leastways.
The full moon showed white in the night sky. It also showed her trapped on an upper floor of a cottage with a decidedly dangerous drop to the ground. Silver beams reflected over ripples of a small inlet.
A dark shadow glided over the water in what she was positive was her ultimate demise. “Mon...Dieu!” she whispered, panic gripping her by the throat. The boat was small, being rowed, quite efficiently, without so much as a wrinkle disturbing the flow in which it waded. She spun from the window. If there was a way out, she’d best find it. Vite!
It was safe to assume that if one cottage wardrobe led to the sea, mayhap another one would as well, Pricilla reasoned. She turned the knob on the closet. Blast, no good. The wardrobe was definitely a wardrobe, filled with nothing but filth and darkness that sent a shiver over her skin and left her sneezing. Pricilla shoved her hair from her face, scattering hairpins.
“Hairpins,” she gasped. She crouched to the floor and managed to find two glinting in the silvery moonlit beams.
Ear to the door brought forth nothing but silence. Where was Monsieur DePaul? She jabbed one pin into the keyhole and jiggled it. Panic threatened usual nimble fingers and she fumbled. The pin pinged when it hit the floor.
She snatched it up, closed her eyes in silent prayer and took a deep calming breath. Nerves still frayed, but fingers firmly clasped to the pin, she tried again. She inhaled through pursed lips, a slow stream, then released the air in the same methodical manner.
Click.
She froze, stunned that it actually worked, her breath caught. For a moment, she daren’t move, listening for the slightest sound beyond the door. She could wait no longer and twisted the knob. Edging through the arch, she slipped into a darkened hall. Pricilla flattened her body against the wall to obtain her bearings. No windows allowed the moon to penetrate the gloom. Having come this far, she refused to let the darkness debilitate her. After a moment she detected the soft glow of a lantern. ’Twas down the stairs.
Below, the front door creaked, startling her. Steps sounded. The man was a fool. Lord knew when she would have a second chance, and she darted down the landing.
The whole of the bottom level was one large room, if one could call it large. The cottage showed years of unuse. The layout was similar to the cottage she, her sisters, and Maman resided in before the fate of Cinde’s shoe fitting Essie.
As Pricilla cast a gaze about, it became clear there was nowhere in which to hide. Panic sizzled through her veins. She ran toward draped windows. Easily managed with no furnishings other than one table and a few wooden chairs scattered about. Not so much as a scrap of paper indicated DePaul’s plans. Which meant no one would have a clue as to her whereabouts. Was Stubborn not her middle name? Refusing to give up, she peered behind the curtains.
Dismay filled her seeing full length windows. And with a moon bright enough to light Paris, and no way of knowing where the monster disappeared, made the spot a not so reasonable choice. He would determine her whereabouts in seconds.
The door opened, snatching the decision from her. Breath caught, for one awful moment Pricilla had the fleeting thought she’d lived her last moment on earth, never to see Arnald again. She slipped behind the heavy drapes, praying their bulk hid her form.
Luck was with her. He tripped up the stairs and she grabbed her opportunity, dashing for the door.
Too late! Rage bounded through the empty cottage with his screaming fury and charge back down the stairs. She’d left the door ajar upstairs. If only she’d closed it, she’d have made, at the very least, a narrow escape. But non, she was caught in the dead center of the room, finding herself face to face with her vile captor.
“So resourceful, Mademoiselle?” He sounded impressed, despite his fury.
“Monsieur,” she squeaked. Without allowing herself the process to think, she shoved the heel of her hand into Monsieur DePaul’s nose. The crunch resonated through the sparse room. She bit back bile, jumped from his reach. Only a swift widening of his eyes occurred before he dropped to the floor in a heap. She’d found the spot.
Pricilla looked at her hand astonished to see it still attached to her wrist. “It-it worked...” she whispered.
Roaring thunder filled Pricilla’s ears. She was fairly certain ’twas the blood rushing her head, so faint she felt. Shock rendered her motionless, fist at her mouth. The front door hit the wall behind, letting in cool night air.
She'd forgotten. DePaul—had associates. And all she could to was stand there, like a fool. A trap of her own making.
She glanced at the door. Surprise registered in his sharp gaze, the dead body at her feet. He rushed toward her leaving her no time to run.
“Oh,” was all she managed to squeak, before throwing herself into her hero’s arms.
***
Arnald wrapped Pricilla in a fierce embrace. Her slender body shivered in the causatum of her ordeal. He wanted to hold her there forever, but they had little time. He pulled away. “Are you unhurt?”
She hugged her arms about her body, her silver dress in shambles. He saw at once her dilemma.
He set her to her feet, yet her arms strangling him. He shrugged his coat from his shoulders and draped it over her shoulders, her arms falling from his neck. He tugged the lapels snuggly together. “Pricilla, I ask again, are you unhurt?” he barked, sharply. His rough tone brought her head up. While her eyes remained dry, she seemed incapable of speech. He shook her gently. “Tell me,” he demanded.
“Oui, I-I am un-unhurt...” she whispered.
Relief spilled through him so great, he almost fell to his knees. He settled for pulling her into his chest, and rested his lips in her tumbled hair. “You are quite remarkable, you know.”
“Don’t. Don't let me go,” she whispered.
“I see all is under control,” Prince bellowed from behind.
Arnald swept Pricilla up in his arms and faced his cousin. “We can offer our thanks to Lady Pricilla for the deed.”
Alessandro pushed his way through crowd at the door, shoving a familiar face to the floor. “I found theece barbarian in a skiff at the river, trying valiantly to escape.” His accent mor
e pronounced.
“Ah,” Arnald said, satisfied. “Roy, I believe?”
The bedraggled man’s sigh was a confirmation.
Prince snapped his fingers toward the open door. Two guards lunged forward. Arnald felt Pricilla’s flinch, her face buried in his chest. “Throw him in with the others,” Prince said.
“All are accounted for, my love. Let’s go home,” Arnald told her.
Epilogue I
Bold colors streaked across a painter’s sky from the family parlor's chamber windows. But Arnald was not interested in the weather. He set his brandy glass on the table and stood. “Don’t cry.”
“Cry! I’ve never cried in my life,” Lady Pricilla fumed. “I am enraged. I will not be coerced into marriage.” She paced the room with a fury that threatened the wear of the Persian rugs.
“But you are ruined.” He groaned. The argument sounded weak, even to his ears.
Loving this woman would not be an easy road, he resolved, but ’twas definitely the road Arnald preferred to journey. He pulled back his shoulders and stepped before her, blocking her determined gait.
She glared at him. “I am not so weak of mind that I need a man to rescue me from ruin.”
Her words sent his temper flaring. “Is that what you believe? That I wish to rescue you from ruin? I vow, you are the last woman on earth who needs rescuing,” he growled. “Rescue, indeed.”
The statement obviously startled her. But she narrowed a wary gaze on him, and waited.
Arnald grasped her by the upper arms and studied the flash of ire in her striking silver eyes. “Hell’s teeth! That is exactly your belief!” ’Twas a punch in his gut to realize how very delicate she was, despite her fiery countenance. Yet, he felt strength as well.
She struggled against his hold. He almost laughed, knowing such efforts were useless against his own. He maintained the hold, though his patience waned like thin strings, tautly stretched. She seemed, finally, to comprehend his intention of letting go, or rather lack of.
It took less than a minute. Her body became that of a statue. One resembling the marbled Aphrodite’s on the estate. Utterly still. Only Aphrodite’s lips were not molded so in irritation. The temptation to nibble them into a pucker...well, ’twould only have worked for a moment, regardless. Not so much as a flinch of her muscle moved.
Through clenched teeth she ground out, “I am not the marrying sort, sir.” He lifted a brow at the emphasis on sir.
He bit back a smile. “And what sort are you, pray tell?” He should strive to have her blushing more often. It was most endearing.
“Not the sort for...ba...babies and...such,” she mumbled, looking everywhere but him.
He gave her quick hard kiss. “I am not marrying you for babies, my love. The ‘such,’ however, is an entirely different matter.”
Her startled gazed swung back to him. Now he had her attention. “Your love?” she squeaked.
“My love,” he affirmed. He leaned forward; desperate to show her just how prepared for ‘such’ he was, until shimmering sparkles in the air surrounding them attracted his attention. “Be gone,” he snapped. The shimmers disappeared abruptly, upending his emptied brandy glass in a fit of temper. Lady Pricilla once more struggled against his grip. “Not you,” he said against her lips.
She pulled away and pierced suspicion-filled eyes on him. “I trust your Maman shall not be listening to our every conversation, henceforth. That would prove most unsatisfactory.”
He grinned at the admission she’d unwittingly made. “You’ve naught to worry on that score, love. ’Tis something we agree on, wholeheartedly.” Temptation gave, and Arnald nibbled her bottom lip. “She’s gone.” Letting the tip of his tongue touch her lips, had her quivering in his grasp. “About our betrothal...”
“I fear I don’t quite understand you, sir.” The words had her breath mingling with his, and he was forced to refrain from devouring that luscious mouth. He was fighting for their future, after all. “A man marries to ensure his name into the future. What other possible reason would you have for marrying me, if not for children?”
Her confusion was almost as endearing as her sudden awkwardness. “Why, the desire of spending the rest of my life with a woman with whom I find myself madly in love, of course.”
“Surely, you do not expect me to believe such obvious drivel.” This came forth in a disbelieving whisper.
“Perhaps not,” he sighed softly, releasing her. “But perhaps you would believe this?” He held out an open palm. The wait for her reaction to the soft, torn gloves resting there was excruciating.
“Where did you get those?” she demanded. Yet, a suspicious brightness glimmered in her eyes. Her efforts to hide tears, with a rapid blink, reminded him of her sister, though the lace curtains remained motionless.
Elated relief pulsed through his blood. “The hunter’s cottage. The day our adventure began. ’Twas left behind when you rescued me.
“Rescued you?” she whispered.
“Oui, you rescued my heart. It smells of jasmine. Of you,” he breathed, finally able to cover her mouth with his.
The Real Epilogue
Six months later
Ooh, the nerve of that son of hers. Faustine tapped the silver baton she held in one hand against the other. Surely, there was some kind of magic she could work to tempt Pricilla into giving her a grandchild. It had been six months after all. Why, the very idea of a young lady marrying and not wanting children right away...it...it was unheard of.
Unnatural.
Why, if Pricilla had not sported the larger foot, mayhap Esmeralda would have ended up as her daughter. That dear girl loved children.
“Faustine, ma chère. Sit,” Thomasine ordered. “You shall drive me batty with that incessant tapping. You are sure to muss up the repair job on your little stick.”
“My son,” she spat. “Why, I am tempted to turn him into a toad.”
“Gracious heavens, dear. What on earth for?”
“He told his bride, of six months mind you, that he did not mind if they did not procreate right away.”
“At least he said right away,” Thomasine said.
“Bah! The idea is ridiculous. It’s been six months. Just think, in three months time I could be enjoying the blissful state of grandmotherhood.”
“Mayhap, you should have refrained from eavesdropping all those months ago. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”
“But the cat has nine lives.” Faustine said. “What is the world coming to when a young woman can dictate to her husband she is not ready for children? ’Tis her lot in life, I tell you. Look at Esmeralda. She fawns all over little Edric. She happens to know her place. She should have married Arnald.”
“Non. She is much too congenial for my nephew. He needed someone strong and challenging like Pricilla. They are a perfect match. Admit it, non?”
Faustine wanted to growl. Fiercely deny the accusation. She could not. It was so. Her son and Lady Pricilla were very much in love. Thomasine was right, she thought resentfully. Reaching for her glass, she silently admitted, she should have resisted from listening in.
“Have some champagne, dear. We are celebrating,” Thomasine said, filling two flutes.
Faustine sighed and dropped into an overstuffed chair, her silver baton sliding to the floor. “What are we celebrating, pray tell?” A small prickle of sensation whispered over her skin.
“Prince and Cinderella are expecting once more,” Thomasine said with a winsome smile.
About the Author
Kae Elle Wheeler was born in Presque Isle, Maine. How she ended up in Texas, Colorado, then Oklahoma is as much a mystery to her as anyone. She graduated from the University of Central Oklahoma with a BA in Management Information Systems and a minor in Vocal Music.
In the big picture, she has not been writing near as long as some of her writing cohorts, but has already completed a number of manuscripts. She is published with The Wild Rose Press and self-published.
&nb
sp; An avid traveler, she’s been to Europe, Mexico, Canada and roams from one RWA conference to another, nationwide. She’s served several positions within the Oklahoma Outlaws RWA Chapter.
Kae Elle lives with her musically talented husband in Edmond, Oklahoma, has one grown daughter and one bossy cat!
http://www.klwheeler.com
http://www.kae-elle-wheeler.com
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@KathylWheeler
The Unlikely Heroine Page 19
