The Wronged Princess - Book I Page 16

  "Oh, my. I do believe you to be angry, oui?" she twittered.

  "Angry, madam?”

  "Now, sire, you would not dare to threaten such a dainty creature? A woman this small in stature, mind, could not hope to create so much as a bustle of concern." Arnald laughed. He stood with folded arms across his chest and shoulder against the doorframe. His lofty wit was annoying at best and did not help Prince's usual collected attitude.

  "Humph. You are telling me, because she is so small, she could not cause havoc?” Prince dare not take his eyes from the woman before him who had stood and begun a pace about the room. He had the distinct feeling she might evaporate into thin air. A handy trick these women were able to execute at the snap of a finger.

  "That is neither here nor there, nephew."

  Prince drew his fiercest scowl. "You dare to taunt me, madam? I am the future king."

  "And I am your elder, you will address me with respect.” She actually snapped at him. "Now, dear, you must let your confidence guide you."

  Confidence? Guide him? "I feel the most sudden urge to meet with my own mamán," he muttered.

  "Oui, oui. I suppose you must.” She plopped down in the one chair, planted an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm.

  Arnald moved to her on bended knee. He clasped her small hand in his. "What is it, Mamán? You are distressed, non?"

  "Dear boy." A tender touch to his head had Prince compelled to look away. "Naught what with which you could help.” She pulled her hand away. "Be gone, both of you. We shall speak soon enough."

  *****

  Cinderella hid in the shadows of the darkened corridor praying her light colored frock would not draw the attention of Prince and his cousin.

  But, alas, luck was not with her. At least not good luck. Prince strode from the chamber, Sir Arnald fast on his heels. Surprise lit his eyes when they landed on her. His slow smile ignited a pulsating fire through her veins. She dare not dwell on the pleased expression. It did not bode well, at all.

  The stick in her hand started to vibrate with a thrumming energy. Reverberating up her arm making its way through her entire body. Before coherent thought rationed through her brain, she held it out—freezing the two men quite immobile. Horrified and shocked by her actions she looked at the stick, dumbfounded, not sure at what she'd accomplished or why? Mayhap, she could make them forget they'd seen her?

  Her hungry gaze raked over Prince. Then a positively evil thought took hold. She could test the theory. Of course, if he did remember she would be mortified, humiliated and would generally end of absolution of an untarnished reputation. Her sisters and she had already stacked enough bad deeds against them to have them drawn and quartered—a feat fatal to any commoner. But somehow in the moment she could not seem to make herself care. She just wanted to touch him. Just once more, before the inevitability of his and Essie's impending nuptials.

  Was that so terrible?

  Of course it was, the prim practical voice in her head screamed even as she stepped toward him.

  But one kiss, who would know besides she? Loud silence filled the passageway. One more step found her in touching distance. Spicy soap assailed her senses, and before she could stop herself, Cinderella closed her eyes, tipped up on her toes and touched the corner of his mouth with her lips. The feeling of floating on air enveloped her. Heart pounding furiously, she lowered her heels, opened her eyes. Stepped back. There was a lovely firmness contrasting with velvet softness. She brought her fingers to her mouth.

  Time suspended, holding her prisoner. She’d never acted so indecently. She stared at him as if he were Eros, come to life, yet he remained still as the statue, itself.

  "Nicely handled, my dear."

  Startled, Cinderella jumped back, the stick clattering to the floor.

  "Ah, there it is. I wondered where I’d misplaced it."

  Shamed burned through her. Her deplorable behavior fastened her in place.

  "Oh, Fairy Godmother. I am…I—" Cinderella took another step back.

  The distinct crack of wood had her gasping for air. Oh, no. No, no, no. She'd broken the magic stick. This could not be happening. Hands flew to her flamed cheeks. She waited for Prince to snap out of his frozen reverie. Denounce her very life. But not so much as a flicker of his eyelash fluttered. She dare not move. "Oh. I…I…" Her voice croaked in the horror.

  Fairy Godmother's dainty palm came up to halt Cinderella mid-sentence. "Did you break it, do you think? My wand, dear? Thank the heaven’s you found it. ’Twould not do for it to fall into nefarious hands.” She dipped forward and swiped two distinct pieces from the ground.

  “Oh, my,” Cinderella whispered. She had definitely broken it. She was too stunned to cry. "I shall—shall...” An audible gulp was impossible to mask. Resigned, she squared her shoulders. ’Twas time to pay the piper. "I shall turn myself in, of course. ’Tis only fitting I should be locked up. The dungeon would be preferable to the gallows, however. Is it possible…you could recommend…I would be most grateful…I…I imagine I there are friends in the dungeon. Or, mayhap, Marcel…I am friendly with mice. They are not so terrible, you know. He…is not…so—"

  "Cease your prattling, dear child. It is not as dire as all that. Worry naught. I shall handle matters from here. Do you think you can manage your way back?"

  Cinderella did not think so, but she could not seem to form a coherent sentence to convey the information.

  “Run along, dear.”

  “But, I need to tell Essie. He…she…they…” Cinderella flung out her hand unable to put sound to the word ‘betrothed.’

  “Let us not mention this little incident further, hmm?”

  "But—“ she choked at Fairy Godmother’s stern gaze. “No…no, of course not." She stammered while heat burned her face. She swung on her heel. Then stopped, and asked over her shoulder, "Prince? Arnald?"

  "Not to worry, child. These spells never last long. You handled things magnificently, if I must say."

  Pressing her luck was not an option. She ran for the cover of darkness—never mind the lack of ladylike etiquette, or the fact that she had no inclination, whatsoever, on how to find her way back. Or the many questions she’d had for her elusive Fairy Godmother, once she’d set eyes on her again.

  Perhaps another time, she promised herself. And fled for safety.

  Chapter 30

  Something very strange was going on, Hilda decided. She could not quite put her finger on the what, but ’twas there all the same. Her first inklings were prior to the picnic. She trailed the three girls to the parlor, studying Pricilla in particular. She was quite pleased with her soft rose gown. The maid had dressed her hair in fabulously high curls leaving wispy tendrils to frame her face. Hilda had to restrain from clapping her hands in glee.

  Alessandro de Lecce would be fighting for her favors this evening, and Hilda looked forward to guiding his efforts. With Esmeralda all but married off, ’twas downright miraculous this opportunity for Pricilla had been afforded. And she had every intention of grappling the advantage. A mother had a duty to her children's future, after all. Not to mention the side effect of securing her own.

  She pondered Cinderella through narrowed eyes. That child remained every bit the nuisance she had since the day Hilda had been forced to marry Charles. Somehow, the chit had manipulated her way into the queen's generous affections, no matter how erroneous. Short of death, there did not seem much Hilda could do to alter the situation.

  Hmm, death. Alas, ’twas a dilemma. But if Cinderella should somehow manage to get herself locked up somewhere with no one the wiser…well, that would be most convenient, would it not?

  Hilda ushered her daughters through the door snagging Cinderella's arm before she could slip by. One small squeeze served to remind the child of her precarious position. After all, she did seem to have difficulty remembering her place in the family hierarchy. The fear in Cinderella’s eyes assured her point had been well and truly received.

&nb
sp; The opportunity to back her threat with words was circumvented by Queen Thomasine’s pointed address, unfortunately.

  “Hilda, my dear, would you care for sherry or claret this evening?” Queen Thomasine’s tone was mild, her gaze innocent.

  Slowly, she released her grip, and cleared her throat. “Claret would make a divine diversion, your highness.” Hilda nudged Cinderella’s precedence into the drawing room. Cinderella might have made her escape now but the night was young. Other opportunities were sure to emerge.

  Her eyes followed Cinderella’s gait to the settee before the windows where she lowered herself with an anomalous air. The frock she wore in a misty moss was downright infuriating. Hilda was not fooled in the least. The soft green should have made her appear washed out, but somehow managed the reverse. The soft tone enhanced her olive complexion, upstaging Esmeralda’s pale skin and flickering eyes.

  If they were not more cautious, Prince might see fit to retract his promised betrothal. Non, he would dare no such a thing. The scandal would make him a laughingstock. He would lose all respect. Regardless, Hilda refused to chance that happening. She trusted no one.

  “Merci,” Hilda said, accepting the claret from the servant’s tray. Her eyes narrowed on Alessandro’s understated maneuvering toward her errant stepchild. He lowered himself next to her—shamefully close. Why, the little vagrant was out to cull Pricilla's prize. Heated rage roiled through her.

  Her heart stepped into an erratic rhythm that had her wanting to clutch her chest, breaths coming short and rapid. She made a concerted effort to calm her agitated facilities. Enough was enough. She vowed adamantly to achieve that one-on-one tête-à-tête this very eve.

  Hilda sauntered her way closer to the settee. The noble Conte de Lecce's son stood quickly to offer her his place, heels clicking with his formal bow. "Ah, merci, young man.” With a pat of her hand, Hilda gave Cinderella a bright smile. Hilda’s pleasure grew tenfold at Cinderella’s undisguised blanch. "Cinderella, my dear, you look absolutely stunning," she said.

  Cinderella dropped her eyes to her lap with a soft, almost indistinguishable reply. "Merci, Stepmamá."

  "Your daughter, she is lovely, no, Signora?" Alessandro smiled.

  "Oui, your compliments are well received, sir.” The erratic tempo soared once more through Hilda, leaving her almost faint.

  Hilda glanced up quickly and caught a silent communiqué between Pricilla and Esmeralda. Mayhap she would have a word with Pricilla as well. As the favorite of her two girls, Pricilla could always be depended upon to further the family's edict. It would have to wait, however. The risk was too great to permit Cinderella’s attendance with Alessandro de Lecce so close at hand with his unpredictable infatuation.

  Chapter 31

  Cinderella tried her best. Honest, she did. She sank deeper in the coverlets pulled to her chin. It did little to dispel the chill in her grand chamber, though she was so tired. Sleep felt hours away.

  ’Twas a miracle she’d managed through supper. The little bites of food she'd barely wielded on her fork somehow made it past her lips. But the fear of choking, or worse, was too great to struggle much more than one or two attempts at best. Even though she hadn't really seen her, she knew Stepmamá had kept a very close eye on her. Suddenly, she'd wanted nothing more than to be ensconced in her own little corner, in her own little chair back in the cottage where her imagination let her be whatever she wanted to be. Invisible, and at times, obscure.

  Enduring the painful supper had seemed infinitely preferable than what waited her beyond. Stepmamá had plans, of that she was certain. She could not have administered even one more swallow had Stepmamá been seated within her sights.

  And when Pricilla leaned over, she thought she would die. “What did you do with the magic stick?” Pricilla demanded.

  A nervous start jerked Cinderella. She caught Essie’s frown from across the massive table. It was obvious Essie could not comprehend their low tones.

  “Well?” Pricilla whispered.

  “I-it broke,” Cinderella whispered back, stuttering.

  “Broke!” Pricilla’s high pitched muffled squeal had Cinderella wincing and several heads shifting in their direction. The one bright spot were the flags of red spotting Pricilla’s cheeks.

  Cinderella’s burned too. Pricilla shoveled a mouthful of food to hide her embarrassment, while Cinderella knew trying to eat would only draw more attention once she started to asphyxiate. She settled for a sip of water instead.

  Pricilla lifted a glass to her lips to hide her mouth. “You knew I did not want to return that stick, yet.”

  Stubborn resolve set Cinderella’s jaw. “There was no choice. It wasn’t ours,” she snapped behind her own glass.

  “How did you know who it belonged to?”

  Cinderella had no answer for that, but found herself saved by Essie.”

  “Pssst.”

  Cinderella’s head came up quickly. Essie cocked her head indicating the end of the table.

  “Mamá is watching,” Pricilla hissed. “We’ll speak later.”

  The knots in Cinderella’s stomach clinched as new waves of qualms flummoxed her. Mayhap she should just find the dungeons on her own, lock herself away in their depths. Or mayhap Pricilla and Essie would lend their assistance by stashing her there and throw away the key.

  Non. She let out a sigh tugging the covers to her chin. She would be on her own this night, Stepmamá had ensured that. In earlier days, hope might have lain with an appearance by Fairy Godmother but Cinderella had sealed her fate once she’d stepped on that silver baton.

  Despair settled over her like the heavy blanket already weighing her down. Essie would marry Prince. She blinked back weary tears. He would never know his mysterious princess stood feet away watching every sordid detail, she thought glumly. The thought made her so very tired.

  Perhaps, she just needed to see things from a different perspective. Luck had been with her after supper. For now, here she laid, snuggled deep in her bed with nary a word from Stepmamá, just a few side glances Cinderella had managed to meekly endure. It, of course, had been tense and uncomfortable, but Cinderella was certain she'd been successful in hiding her anxiety.

  ’Twas a blessing, at least, Stepmamá had not demanded a solitary audience with her. Cinderella knew she would never have come out ahead in that clash. Squashed like a bug, she'd be.

  She closed her eyes and focused on the silence in the chamber. The sheer hush would unnerve even the bravest of souls. She shuddered beneath the heavy covers. Everyone knew she was the least brave person in all the land. ’Twas her last thought as the draining fatigue finally claimed her.

  *****

  A prick in her arm from Marcel’s teeny claws and frantic mew startled Cinderella to a sitting potion. Disoriented and out of sorts she fought to still her pounding heart when she heard the creak of the door. "Essie?"

  "Essie, indeed," Stepmamá cackled.

  Terror ripped through Cinderella, rendering her immobile. Alas, it would seem her audience with Stepmamá inevitable.

  With solemnity of the corridor, Stepmamá hadn't even bothered to lower her voice. Light from a flickering candle she held gave her robust face an eerie mask-like quality straight out of a horrifying medieval epic.

  Stepmamá edged closer to Cinderella's frozen form until she towered above her. "You have managed quite a feat, have you not, my pretty, turning my dear Esmeralda from the bosom of her family.”

  Cinderella's response was an audible swallow. "I...I could never do that, Stepmamá. Essie would ne’er allow it.” If she could not save herself, mayhap she could prevent Essie from some hazardous misfortune.

  “Essie!” she spat. “How I despise that shortened version of her name. But ’tis not the reason I seek to speak with you, my dear.” Stepmamá set the candle on the bedside table.

  Terror stuck in her throat, muting any response.

  “I see how you have lured the affections of the Conte de Lecce’s son."
/>
  The venom in her accusation tripped Cinderella into subtle action. “Non. Non. ’Tis not like that at all…” She shook her head sidling to the edge of the bed. But Stepmamá would not be mollified.

  "You little twit! You have never ceased to amaze me with your vile manipulative skills. You have turned my own daughter from me and you shall pay.” To Cinderella’s surprise, Stepmamá sauntered away, her aim toward the dying fire in the hearth. "There is no one to save you now, is there, sweet?"

  Oh, non. There wasn't. Ceasing her opportunity, Cinderella slid down the side of the bed her feet hitting the ice cold floor. Mayhap, she could make it to the door.

  ’Twas too late.

  Stepmamá whipped round in time to see her. Cinderella chose her only other recourse and dropped to her knees, diving beneath the bed.

  "Auck!" she screamed. "You little sorcerer. Out with you, do you dare to disobey me?"

  Cinderella could only thank the heavens and the Queen for her massive bed. Stepmamá raised the skirt. Cinderella could not make out her features for the darkness, but they were etched in her mind from years past. The fierce anger of bulging eyes, quivering chin and cheeks flush, veins protruding from pulsing temples were forever ingrained.

  "Come out, child.” Her voice took on a cajoling timbre, but Cinderella was fooled naught. Freezing to death fared better than the alternative. "I only wish to talk, oui?"

  The bed skirt dropped and complete darkness surrounded her, both comforting and disconcerting. She could not even make out the flickering light of the candle, only the rustling of Stepmamá’s night rail touched her ears. Cinderella followed the noise about the chamber, praying she would leave her be. But, non. She moved near the grate again. Marcel twittered nervously. His presence did not offer much comfort at this juncture. But at least she was not entirely alone.

  “Stay clear, my sweet.”

  When the scrape of metal tapped the hearth a foreboding of horrifying magnitude surged through her body. Before Cinderella had time to consider how deep Stepmamá’s depraved malevolence went, the skirt on the bed flew up from the opposite side. Cinderella scurried across barely missing the stroke of the fireplace poker. It snagged the edge of her nightgown, slashing the delicate fabric.