The Unlikely Heroine Read online

  The Unlikely Heroine – Book II

  Kae Elle Wheeler

  Copyright 2012 by Kathy L Wheeler

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The Unlikely Heroine

  copyright © 2012 by Kathy L Wheeler

  All Rights Reserved

  kae-elle-wheeler.com

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Kathy L Wheeler.

  Cover Art © romancenovelcovers.com

  e-book formatted by Kathy L Wheeler

  Other books from

  Kae Elle Wheeler

  The Wronged Princess – book i

  The Surprising Enchantress – book iii

  The English Lily (pub: The Wild Rose Press)

  Coming soon:

  The Price of Scorn – book iv

  Books by

  Kathy L Wheeler

  Quotable

  Maybe It’s You

  Lies That Bind

  The Color of Betrayal (pub: The Wild Rose Press)

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue I

  The Real Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “Tea, darling?” Queen Thomasine asked her twin.

  Ensconced comfortably in a wingback chair covered in rich red velvet and gold, Faustine, Cinderella’s famed fairy godmother, considered her sister’s features so similar to her own. Thomasine’s elaborately coiffed hair, piled high on her head, showed very few strands of silver one might not discern had they not peered too closely. Her patrician nose and tilted hazel eyes angled with her question. The strained lines about her usually smiling mouth were the only signs that indicated the fear gripping her. Not only was Thomasine’s beloved King and husband in early stages toward senselessness, but the birth of her first grandchild and upcoming heir to the throne of Chalmers was imminent.

  Faustine feared Thomasine’s notions toward Prince Charming’s young wife’s weak constitution were sound. The girl was like a beautiful, wispy flower that might wither in a harsh wind. Although Faustine found it adorably charming how Prince treated his lovely wife—like rare, fragile glass.

  “Oui, tea sounds perfect.” Faustine smiled, accepting the dainty cup. “Cinderella, she is faring well?”

  “Of course,” Thomasine said mildly. But her tone did not match her tightened lips.

  “You are worried, non? I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Mayhap, just a little,” Thomasine admitted.

  “Do not worry, ma chère. She shall come through fine, I vow. ’Twill not be long before Chalmers proudly hails its new heir.” She offered a reassuring smile.

  “If only my husband…” Her voice trailed, and she shook her head, “Merci, Dear. I pray you are right. But for such a frail creature—”

  “Bah.” Faustine threw out a wave of her hand dismissing the comment. “Mark my words, Thomasine. You shall have the finest grandchild in all the land. ’Tis just a matter of hours, I’m sure.” Faustine sipped her tea with a frown. “Would only that I could cherish such hope for my own son,” she muttered.

  “Ah, your conspiracy to maneuver attractive young women into Arnald’s path is for naught? You are a fairy godmother, after all.”

  “Young, old, married...it matters not. Alas, he fails to fall for even my most potent spells. Apparently, his powers of resistance outweigh mine to compel by some one-third.”

  “Your magic wand? It is still defective from Cinderella’s unfortunate mishap when she stepped on and broke it?”

  “Non,” she snapped. “My wand behaves admirably. In this instant the defection is derived entirely by my son.” She wiped the scowl from her face. It did not bode well for aging. “I have formulated something more elaborate to persuade the stubborn fool of his need to marry.”

  “And what is that, ma chère?”

  “His gift of mesmerism will not work on his true love.” Faustine smiled at such a clever plot she’d devised.

  While her own powers were the bequest of the Chevalier Joseph Pinetti, Arnald’s were inherent through his paternal line. In other words, his uncanny ability to compel others to his will was directly inherited from his father. The blackguard. Faustine inhaled deeply, quelling the surge of frustration.

  “Well, Dear, consider my services to your avail if need be. I owe you for your own, as you well know,” Thomasine said, absently.

  “Oui. I well know.”

  Chapter 1

  “Pricilla Louise!”

  Pricilla heard her name loud and clear. More precisely—exceptionally loud and clear. She ignored it. Everyone knew her duties as Land Agent of Chalmers took precedence, and though she couldn’t quite her put finger on it, something seemed not quite right.

  She shuffled through the papers until she reached Sebastian Landsome, her bailiff’s, reports. Tenants’ rents collected, solicitors met with. Efforts had not stopped there. She’d patted buoyant little children on their perky little heads, and placated the village vicar for Prince Charming and Cinderella’s absence in church due to their soon-to-be growing family. While few would hesitate to reprimand Prince for his lack of attendance at the local rectory, they certainly did not mind informing Pricilla of said lack of attendance.

  She was hungry, tired, and wanted nothing more than to finish out the schedules she’d promised Prince, and hand them over to his cousin and right hand man, Sir Arnald. She blew out a lingering sigh. Having a leisurely tray sent to her chamber sounded like heaven. La! To just eat, crawl into bed and devour a good and luscious horrid novel...

  One peek at her calendar promised no such luck. She tapped a tapered fingernail on the desk. According to tonight’s entry, the Royal Family was to enjoy the visiting Italian dignitary making the event a mandatory affair. The ormolu clock over the mantel showed the family’s standing supper was scheduled to begin in less than an hour, b
last it all. Pricilla pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, and inhaled deeply.

  She loved and appreciated nothing more than her position as Land Agent for Chalmers Kingdom. ’Twas generously offered when Prince and Cinde found one another. Especially, after Cinde’s glass slipper slid so easily onto Essie’s dainty foot. Alas, the three of them might not have become true sisters had the shoe not fit Essie. Pricilla chuckled at the memories. Despite Maman’s underhanded manipulations for a different outcome, all had worked out wonderfully.

  It galled Pricilla that her own foot, so much larger than either of her sisters, still had the ability to irk. In all fairness, marrying Prince Charming would not have suited Pricilla any more than it would have Essie. Much to Maman’s dire chagrin. Pricilla smiled at how Cinde quite out-maneuvered Maman’s little scheme in tying Essie to Royalty.

  Alas, Pricilla was profoundly aware of society’s expectations for women. That they were good for two things—marriage and babies. Irritation rippled through her. She, for one, had no use for either. Brains were useful organs, and she intended using hers to its full potential. Nothing less than a powerful act of magic would convince her otherwise.

  It had not taken long for Cinde to do her duty upon her nuptials to Prince, becoming enceinte with the first royal heir. Quite timely. ’Twas now nine months, and said child was due any moment now. Pricilla shook her head, wayward tendrils teasing her brow and plopped her chin on her fist.

  If anyone deserved happiness, it was Cinde. In truth, Cinde had not fared so well after Steppapa had passed from this world unto the next. Pricilla knew the label people assigned to her and Essie as the evil stepsisters. La! The label was not so undeserved.

  She pushed away the guilt for her part in Cinde’s adolescent misery, realizing in all honesty, past actions could not be altered. Only current actions were in her power. And she and Essie were making tremendous strides, day by day. To dwell on their youthful behavior, as hateful as it was, was pure foolishness. And, truly, Pricilla cherished her sisters, both of them.

  Pricilla dragged her thoughts back to supper. Alas, she could not deny her envy of Cinde this eve. She scowled. Cinde would most certainly manage to escape the family supper—all with the queen’s adamant approval.

  A persistent pounding on the sitting room chamber door ceased with an abruptness that startled Pricilla from her wool-gathering. The scattered reports before her shifted into focus. She glanced up.

  Copper curls and flashing green eyes peered round the door. “You’re not dressed!” Alarm tinged Esmeralda’s tone. “The Italian Ambassador is supping with us tonight. Queen Thomasine asked specifically we be on time.”

  “Oh, blast it all.” Essie’s gasp at her profanity made her wince. “Just give me a moment, would you?”

  “You know it takes long on forty minutes to orchestrate your hair. Might I assist? Elst send for Manette?”

  “Orchestrate?” Pricilla shot her a lethal glance.

  Essie’s hand fluttered out. “Dress it. Adorn it. Compile it. Manage it. ’Tis a mess.”

  “Oh, who do I care who manages it? Sir Arnald needs these schedules by morn. A moment or two more is all I ask. I’ve already sent Monsieur Landsome on his way. I must finish them myself.”

  Exasperation poured from Essie though not so much as a peep escaped.

  “What has you so excited about this supper with the Italian Ambassador, pray tell?” Pricilla, irritated, tried to concentrate on the papers before her.

  A light dawned and she glanced up at Essie, whose eyes fluttered in a nervous twitter. A slight current rent the air. “Ah. Mayhap Alessandro de Lecce is in attendance, as well?”

  Essie had an unfortunate affliction, poor thing. At the slightest provocation, albeit anxiety or excitement, her eyes took on an unnatural flutter. A definite downfall for Essie and Maman. ’Twas always a strong indication of her discomfort—signaling her distress in droves.

  “I have no idea,” Essie said quickly.

  Hah. The flux of air rose in its intensity. Pricilla gifted her with a knowing smile but held her tongue.

  Essie shuffled her feet. “You need to make haste—that’s all.”

  Her fluttery-eyed sister definitely had a crush on the beguiling Alessandro, elder son of Conte de Lecce. The queen had invited the family last year upon Essie and Prince Charming’s—faux—betrothal. Of course, it wasn’t fictitious at the time. But Pricilla was not so sure Alessandro de Lecce had not been the queen’s plan for Essie all along.

  “Hmm.” Pricilla studied her sister minutely before resuming her perusal of the documents. “Quit. Pacing,” she ground out, piercing Essie with her aggravation.

  Essie stopped, clasping her hands genteelly before her, presenting the picture of patience.

  Pricilla lowered her eyes back to her reports. “And quit staring at me.”

  Chapter 2

  Cinde’s absence from the all-important standing family sup made for a very long night indeed. News from the midwife clamored through the castle—particularly the dining room—just prior to dessert.

  Cinderella and Prince Charming’s new son or daughter would make his or her presence known somewhere in the vicinity of four-thirty in the morn.

  Queen Thomasine, in all her grace, allowed Essie and Pricilla their pardons from the table. They’d been summoned to Cinde’s personal sitting room to wait out the entire production.

  Well, after dessert, of course.

  Pricilla felt a touch of anxiety at Cinde’s undertaking, vowing silently she would refrain from putting herself in such a situation. Child-bearing was better left to those more adept at...at—a small shudder rippled up her spine. Well, she didn’t know what, she just knew, birthing a babe was not for her.

  Pricilla marveled at Her Highness’s poise. ’Twas said the king was in a losing battle with his wits. Over the course of the past few months, his presence had dwindled to almost nil.

  Through squinting eyes, Pricilla ducked into the sickroom. Why did they have to call it a sickroom? It made an oppressive atmosphere worse. Prince paced the outer chamber like a hunted beast. His fear spilled over Pricilla, leaving her unsure in what to say or do.

  Yet, during the next unbearable hours, and there would be many, Pricilla watched in wary resignation, pushing away her uneasiness. It threatened to suffocate her. Not unlike being confined in an enclosed, darkened space that spared no oxygen…perhaps resembling that of an airtight sarcophagus. She resisted the urge to run, screaming all the while.

  Essie sat beside her, back straight. Twisting fingers gave away her sister’s apprehension, but Essie frequented Cinde’s chamber with regularity.

  Pricilla was not jealous, she told herself. ’Twas just that Essie and Cinde were closer than she and Cinde. But somehow Pricilla could not quite constrain the stab of envy each time Cinde would ask for their batting-eyed sibling. Pricilla made her escape to an outer chamber, preferring the nearby window.

  An impending tension roiled thick in the chamber.

  Things would be fine. They had to be. Soon, Cinde and Prince would be holding the future in their arms, in the form of—Cinde’s scream ripped the semblance, wrenching Pricilla back to reality.

  “In all that’s God’s grace, what are they doing to her?” Prince demanded. He paced the sitting chamber with all the tranquility of a caged tiger.

  Pricilla glanced about and saw no one, save his cousin, Sir Arnald, to hail in answer to his question. Sir Arnald’s face could have been hewn from stone. He sat in silence. Light glinted from the gold of a ring he wore on the little finger of his left hand.

  Pricilla swallowed. “She is stronger than you know,” she said softly, though her doubts threatened to drown her. “She has endured much worse.”

  Prince glared at her, and the heat of a blush rose up her neck. Right—an evil stepsister. She winced.

  Prince paused, mid-stride, before the great windows. “This is all my doing,” he said. His anger, she realized, was directed at himself.


  Offering comfort to the future king, her sister’s husband, felt awkward, to say the least. Yet, with his cousin’s bout of silence Pricilla felt inclined to say something. She moved beside him and placed her hand over his. “I confess, that is so.” Shoving her own worry aside, she forced a smile through gritted teeth. “But women have survived childbirth through the age of time, Sire. Soon you shall be the proud Papa. Y-you s-shall see...” Her voice trailed off in a whispered prayer.

  He relented. Barely so. The stress must be quite fantastic on men, impelled to stand aside. ’Twas an enlightening thought. In that moment, it occurred to her how much Prince truly loved Cinde. Why, theirs was one of the greatest love stories of all time. Pricilla knew her destiny was not so inclined. Bah! Children in her future? Oui, as an aunt, something she could certainly adapt to.

  “Merci, Lady Pricilla. You are a great comfort.” He set his jaw. “However, I am the prince, non? I demand to be near her.”

  Pricilla glanced up quickly as the queen’s stately head peered through the arch. “Non. A ridiculous notion,” she snapped.

  “I insist on attending my wife,” he told his mother.

  Pricilla froze, wondering who would emerge victor of this contest. Both mother and son faced off, equally stubborn in stance and tone.

  “Men are not allowed. They are much too weak for this sort of event.” Yet, lines of worry creased her forehead. Pricilla’s fear careened to new heights.

  To Pricilla’s astonishment, Prince faced the queen, reminiscent of an errant child, hands fisted at his hips. Defiance emanated from his rigid posture. Bleak resolution covered the queen’s expression, terrifying Pricilla more than outright raged temper from Maman on her worst day.