The Unlikely Heroine Page 2

  Queen Thomasine disappeared in the room once more, but held the door ajar for Prince. Pricilla followed quickly lest someone decline her own entrée.

  Sheer black fear swept through her at the sight. She almost failed to recognize Cinde—her own sister. To see her writhing in such pain, grasping Essie’s hand—it was horrifying. Her dark, beautiful hair covered her face in a tangled mass. Suddenly, gratitude gripped her for Essie and Cinde’s deeply shared bond. The queen moved across from Essie and wrung out a damp cloth. With a tender touch, she started to lay it over Cinde’s brow.

  Prince’s grasp of Cinde’s pain had tears pricking Pricilla’s eyes. And she never cried. He snatched the cloth from his mother’s hand and did the duty himself. Her respect rose, ten-fold—as did her fear in the graveness of the situation.

  Air, she needed air. Pricilla backed from the claustrophobic chamber, fist at her mouth. Dear God, in heaven! Was it possible they would lose Cinde?

  Pricilla broke free of the cloistered room and ran for the windows. With trembling fingers, she struggled with the latch. It’s refusal to cooperate flooded her in a blinding wave of panic. Black dots swarmed her vision while she fought back gulping sobs and fumbling fingers.

  “Move aside.” His voice was deep, reverberating. In a matter of seconds, her hand was brushed away and a cool breeze bathed her face. She rested her forehead against the wood frame for several seconds and steadied her breathing. She’d forgotten the prince’s cousin.

  Sir Arnald stood uncomfortably close. She looked up...and up, to meet a gaze filled with concern. Dark piercing eyes, framed by furrowed brows, seemed to look through to her soul. Heat crept up her neck and she turned back to the open window.

  Awkwardness filled the silence. “She looked so—fragile. As if she were about to break into a million pieces.” She spoke softly, leaning her head against the glass.

  Sir Arnald didn’t fidget. He stood like a pillar. He was an attractive, man, tall and broad-shouldered. He had a strong straight nose and large burly arms. The temptation to burrow in the safety of such an embrace startled her—but she had no use for such a man. And after what she’d just witnessed? Merci, non.

  Pricilla cleared her throat. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. I fear my strong constitution was just an illusion.”

  “’Tis lucky I was available, then, Lady Pricilla.” Though she wasn’t looking at him, she heard a smile touch his voice, drawing a slight one of her own.

  Pricilla moved and planted herself in a chair. ’Twould not be long before Queen Thomasine would hail great parties in honor of the new child, she thought with renewed determination in an effort to remain positive. That meant dancing, and rounds of Maman’s constant matchmaking efforts.

  A sudden weariness blanketed her, and she propped her chin into an open palm, forgoing all ladylike comportment. Sighing, she stared into nothing. It seemed not so long ago, that she, Essie, and Cinde had formed their fragile friendship. Change was destined. ’Twas unfortunate one could not prevent the evolution of time.

  Mayhap she was not yet ready for change. She quashed a rise of subtle panic, forcing her thoughts elsewhere. Preparations for the harvest ball were already underway. The only thing that could halt the celebration would be something so abominable; it did not bear thinking about.

  The image of Cinde’s listless eyes and ravaged body in pain tore through her. The loss of Cinde, the new heir, or both, was horrendous. Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them back, irritated with her unusual loss of composure.

  These thoughts did no one good. Shaking her head, her vision cleared to present where she caught the blatant and watchful stare of Sir Arnald. Flaming heat raced up her neck, and she straightened quickly. Looking around the room, at anything—anywhere, but him.

  Well, one viable advantage to the night—Queen Thomasine had been able to convince Maman to retire early. Pricilla loved her mother but there was no question her presence would have been the last straw on an overloaded camel’s back.

  With determined effort, Pricilla forced her attention back to the discrepancy she’d discovered in the books. And the niggling doubt that something not quite right rested just below her nose. Surely, she had only to open her eyes to see it. The information she’d obtained on the month’s rents had her stymied. The urge to decipher the accounts further was not easily dismissed. If she had calculated an error the need to right it was critical.

  “Cill!”

  She snapped to attention at Essie’s soft call, full of impatience, no less.

  “How is she faring?” Pricilla asked.

  “She is tired, Cill. I admit, I am concerned. ’Tis a fine boy she’s delivered.”

  A boy! Cinde had a boy. Another prince and future king. Pricilla swallowed a lump of emotion at the implication. Her sister would be queen someday.

  “Hurry, she wishes to see us. Come quickly,” Essie urged softly.

  Pricilla ignored Sir Arnald’s undisguised interest, and tiptoed after Essie into Cinde’s plush chamber.

  Cinde lay against a mountain of pillows, face flushed, hair damp, from her long and tedious ordeal, holding her new son protectively to her bosom. A shock of black hair was visible from the blankets otherwise swaddling him. An overpowering gush of sentiment filled Pricilla.

  “He’s beautiful, Cinde,” she whispered, all previous resentments dissipating.

  “Certainment,” Cinderella whispered, smiling down at her bundle. “Soon he’ll be christened as Prince Edric Osmond Thorn IX. We’ve another Prince Charming in our midst, non?”

  Pricilla noted the weakness in her limbs as the midwife stepped forward to take the child. “Soyez prudente!” Cinde snapped.

  Hearing her usually meek and mild sister snap at the midwife had Pricilla hiding a smile. “The midwife will be careful, ma chère,” Pricilla assured her.

  “Oui, Your Majesty,” she agreed. She took him from Cinde’s arms and placed him gently into a nearby bassinet.

  “’Tis just that I am so very nervous,” she said with a small shaky laugh. “He shall be king someday. That is very intimidating, non?”

  A different attendant stepped forward and adjusted the coverlets. Cinde clasped Pricilla’s hand then reached for Essie’s. Pricilla was amazed at the weak grip.

  “I love you both,” Cinde said.

  Pricilla frowned at the fragility emanating through her tone.

  “I am so very thankful we found our way.”

  “We love you as well,” Essie told her, brushing away a tear. “You need not fret.” The fatigue in Cinde’s eyes worried Pricilla beyond reason. She was being silly of course. ’Twas only natural due to her exerted activity, but something else as well—something Pricilla found unable to define. Fear? Inevitability?

  “Get some rest, Cinde.” Pricilla squeezed her hand, slightly, terrified she’d crush her, and smoothed a stray hair from her brow. “We are here to watch out for you and your son. You need your rest, Sleeping Beauty.” Pricilla laughed softly, hoping to ease her disquiet.

  “Thank you both for being here,” she whispered. Her eyes drifted shut, dragging her into a much-needed slumber.

  Pricilla cast a glance at Essie to see if she sensed the same tendency. But Essie eyes were on Cinde, her smile full of hope and love for things to come. It was true; things had come a long way among the three of them. But still, Pricilla worried. Cinde appeared most weak and fragile. Far beyond her norm.

  “Come, girls,” Queen Thomasine whispered. “Our princess needs her rest.”

  Chapter 3

  Pricilla rose early the next morning, still unsettled over Cinde’s unnatural pallor. She’d slept fretfully, unusual dreams plaguing her through the night. Harvest yields that didn’t match up, Cinde’s trying ordeal, Sir Arnald’s prying eyes.

  She dove into work, refusing to dwell on how weak her sister appeared. Cinde had the very best of care and Pricilla would do well to remember that. She’d save her visit for after luncheon and concentrated on the
harvest issue.

  Most definitely, something was out of kilter, and she intended to get to the bottom of the problem. Hence, Monsieur Landsome’s frustration in digging out the past ten years accounting, though he’d carefully hidden his irritation. La! Control was so exhilarating. No wonder men resisted giving it up, she smiled.

  Pricilla tediously compared the notes from Solicitor Milburn to Monsieur Landsome’s tenants’ reports line by line, tapping the quill against her chin in rhythmic, absent beats. The discrepancies seemed to lie in the figures regarding the bushels harvested, compared to the additional help requested. How odd that labor had increased over the past ten years, yet not the bushels.

  “Monsieur Landsome, your assistance, s’il vous plaît,” she called out.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle?” Sebastian Landsome appeared in the arch of the chamber door, holding a stack of papers between ink-stained fingers.

  She’d long since ceased seeing his balding head, crowned by the mangy gray hair and pointed nose. His intelligence was what interested her. And as long as he kept his imperious views regarding women to himself, things ran smoothly enough.

  “Pen a directive to Monsieur Silas Huntley, the north tenant. Secure my interview with him later this morning.”

  “Très bien, Mademoiselle,” he said, and slipped from the room.

  Wearily, she rubbed her hands over her eyes and contemplated the situation. Surely, this was just a miscalculation on Monsieur Huntley’s part. She prayed that were the case. Usually, her intuition in these matters was precise, but with all the excitement surrounding the new heir, she knew her more attuned senses were being pulled in all directions.

  On impulse, Pricilla shoved away from her luxurious desk. A quick visit to Essie might add some clarification. The idea that she and Essie had managed to procure such unusual positions, with offices and assistants no less, begged a quick grin from her unwilling lips.

  Pricilla made her way down winding hallways lit by evenly spaced sconces covered in frosted globes. Even in the middle of the day, these hallways appeared gloomy and dank in this portion of the castle, and Pricilla had to suppress a shudder. Dark, poorly lighted spaces were not a favorite of hers. Rarely did she allow the fear to intrude on her pragmatic attitude. Once in a great while, however, they materialized like a ten foot ocean wave. She picked up her skirts, anxious for company.

  Disappointment stopped Pricilla when she reached Essie’s office chamber. Furious, urgent voices had Pricilla pausing at the door. What in the name of the heavens? She could not quite make out their words. In fact, discerning the other voice was quite impossible.

  An inclination to lay her ear against the wood was overwhelming. As luck would have it, the argument in question became more heated, more lively. So lively, indeed, there was no need to resort to such tactics.

  “Oh, for the sake of heaven!” This from Essie. “What would you have me do?”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” the mystery voice said, clearly impatient. Though muffled, the husky tones turned familiar. It was Sir Arnald.

  “Where are you going?” Essie demanded.

  Ooh! Pricilla jumped back from the arch. Just in time, too, as the door flung wide. Heart pounding and breathless, she smoothed palms over her skirts. Sir Arnald stalked through, eyes, hard and unyielding, he barely acknowledged Pricilla’s presence with a sharp nod before briskly making his way down the darkened corridor from which she’d just emerged.

  Feigning ignorance, Pricilla pushed into Essie’s plush office. “Bonjour,” Pricilla said lightly, taking in her sister’s flushed appearance. Most specifically, the fluttering eyes. Ah, she was distressed. The only question was how distressed. Such action, could at times, directly affect the weather.

  “Cill,” Essie started. “What brings you down my dismal hall? You rarely venture these corridors.”

  Pricilla eyed her sister’s flushed cheeks. “I thought I could use a spot of tea,” she said, then smiled sweetly, resenting Essie’s suspicious glare all the while. What did it matter that Pricilla rarely engaged in breaking from her own routine? Or that she rarely portrayed such innocent nonchalant behavior? How aggravating that Essie saw right through her demeanor.

  “Mais oui. That would be lovely,” Essie acquiesced. And, with a slightly trembling hand, tugged the bell pull for the maid.

  ***

  Frustration had Arnald sprinting from Lady Esmeralda’s office chamber in a rare fit of temper. His customary confidence in her accountancy of Chalmers was usually immeasurable. He’d admired, and was often astonished by, what he deemed absolute brilliance. Her head for numbers, absolute. But surely, her preoccupation with the new prince and heir had affected her typical astuteness. For lack of a better word, she was acting like a...a ninnyhead. He sighed. Well, she was naught but a woman, oui?

  He slowed his pace and took a slow, deep breath. This needed more logical thought, he chastised himself. He tapped his thigh. She didn’t say she didn’t believe him. She’d asked what he would have her do.

  And what, pray tell, could have the lovely Lady Pricilla lurking just beyond the door? Ventures to Lady Esmeralda’s office chamber were singularly sporadic, to say the least for Lady Pricilla. She most certainly stayed immersed in her land managing duties. Turning, he narrowed his eyes back down the corridor. Mayhap the two of them were into something illegal. Or worse, out to sabotage his cousin, Prince and Princess Cinderella? It was no secret the sisters had a precarious past between them. But all was thought to have been resolved—to all but their overbearing mother, perhaps.

  Arnald stopped. Could it be they were in league with some nefarious villain? The idea was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? A soft giggle snapped his attention to his surroundings. A young maid with soft yellow curls stood before him. “Oui, Mademoiselle? You have need of me?” he asked, frowning.

  She dipped a quick curtsy, cheeks tinged pink. Her eyes grew wide but did not stop her annoying giggle. He sighed. This had been happening too much of late. Maidens, servants of female persuasion, and matriarchs of all ages seemed to be tripping over their feet in an effort to gain his attention. His mother was overbearing in her own right, and he harbored suspicions she was wielding her powers for ignoble purposes. Since his cousin’s wedding, Maman had been relentless in casting a spell over him to fall at the altar atop some poor, unsuspecting woman.

  But Arnald discovered he was not without powers of his own. Gracing the young girl, hardly of an age worth consideration, he shot her a complacent smile and a piercing glance and waited. Patience, he reminded himself, grimacing inwardly.

  Another giggle escaped before she stammered a reply. “Puis-je vous aider, Monsieur?”

  “Merci, non. I have no need of help,” he replied with a quirk of his brow and another intent focus. It solidified his efforts. With an awkward, choked gasp she came to her rightful senses, and spun on a heel skittering away. With a quick shake of his head, his thoughts returned to more pressing matters.

  The sisters...should he voice his concerns to Prince? Without stronger evidence than gut instinct, he would look a fool at the least. And with the new heir preoccupying everyone’s time and thoughts, it did not seem prudent to vocalize his concerns until something more substantial presented itself.

  Non. He would investigate the matter himself, he decided, slowly retracing his steps. He paused before Lady Esmeralda’s office chamber. Perhaps there was something to be learned from the two in question.

  ***

  Pricilla waited impatiently for the servant to settle the tea service. Once she’d vacated, Pricilla demanded, “What are you about?”

  Essie’s defensive posture spoke much with her fisted hands and flashing eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.” Her suspicious glare had heat creeping up Pricilla’s neck. “Perhaps, you were eavesdropping, Cill?”

  “Of course not,” Pricilla shot back. “I just happened by. You weren’t whispering.”

  “Non. Non.” But Essie’s eyes fluttered in a telling
draft. The slight touch of cool air had Pricilla glancing toward the windows, but just as she suspected, they were tightly sealed. Her innocent-acting sister was up to no good. She knew her too well.

  Pricilla moved to the windows and ran a finger over the base before leveling Essie with a direct gaze. “Are you and Sir Arnald in a tryst?” Appalled by the question even as it spilled from her lips, an unfamiliar apprehension filled her. What if Essie’s answer in any way affirmed such a thing? Essie and Arnald? Impossible. The thought bothered her. Bothered her greatly.

  “Wh-what! Of course not! How could you ask such a thing?” Essie’s eyes batted in furious splendor. Always a tell-tale sign of fabrication. Her cheeks flamed enough to ignite the wood in the grate.

  Pricilla felt a little ill, even as relief flooded through her. “Well, something is amiss.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Essie sat down and poured steaming tea from the silver pot, gaze averted.

  Pricilla thought of Arnald’s dark eyes, brilliant in anger, when he’d burst from the chamber. Purposeful, yet poised. “Why not? He is very attractive, non?” Oui, very attractive, she grimaced. Unfortunately, the blackguard knew it. Her thoughts were taking a most distasteful turn. She cringed at the direction this vile discussion was headed.

  “I vow this is the most inane conversation we have ever happened upon. Where do you come up with such ridiculous meanderings?” Essie demanded, eyes stable once more.

  Somewhat cheered, Pricilla let out a very unladylike snort.

  Chapter 4

  Arnald paused beyond the slightly ajar door of Lady Esmeralda’s office chamber. A tryst? Had Lady Pricilla just asked Lady Esmeralda why she wasn’t in a tryst? He stifled a burst of laughter tinged with embarrassment. ’Twas an interesting question coming from one’s own sister. He’d seen no evidence in Lady Esmeralda’s actions. Why would Lady Pricilla feel the need to ask such a thing? It was a bold inquiry.