Excerpt of The Unlikely Heroine by Kae Elle Wheeler

"Lady Pricilla," Arnald called out in that annoying, deep resonance that had the maids fighting over who should win the privilege of cleaning his private privy. Oui, she'd heard the gossip, and found it disgusting.

Pricilla could not remember having ever been so furious. Not even when Prince had the grandiose idea of trying Cinderella's shoe on every maiden in the kingdom when the blasted thing fit Essie's dainty foot, but in truth belonged to Cinderella. Further highlighting her own larger foot. And, that was an infuriating moment, to be sure.

Her stomp down the gravel path would have been infinitely more satisfying had she not felt every pebble through her inappropriate, yet adorable blue slippers. How dare he insinuate she could not handle Francois DePaul, she fumed. "How dare you insinuate my ability in handling Francois DePaul?" she yelled over her shoulder.

From the sound of it Arnald was making sure progress in overtaking her pathetic attempts of escape. She stiffened her back and walked quicker. The sun bore down through her flimsy bonnet. Perspiration gathered at her nape and brow.

"Hell's teeth, slow yourself." Arnald snagged her arm, and pulled her to a halt. "Would that my Mamán's little hex worked on the likes of you," he muttered.

"Excusez–moi!" she sputtered. "Release my arm at once, you–you bâtard." She tried to jerk free but he held fast.

"You little fool. He will eat you alive." His fierce countenance tripped her doubt, but fury overrode it.

"I am an agent of the Court! He would not dare," she said bravely. But for all her words, it felt false.

"It matters naught to his sort," he said harshly. "You are a woman."

"What do you mean, ‘his sort'?" None of this made sense to Pricilla. She was Land Agent, and as such, the tenants were accountable to her, woman or no! That included Francois DePaul. She fisted her hands at her hips. "My notes state that he is practically Silas Huntley's right hand man. Why should I not confront Monsieur DePaul with my concerns, pray tell?" Exasperation complete, she watched the play of emotions cross his face, fascinated.

He shifted from one foot to the other, then ran a hand across his forehead. "The man is the worst of libertines. Surely, you have heard—"

The sound of an ear–splitting pop had Pricilla flinching, and before she could blink, she was thrown to the ground on her back. Arnald's large, muscled body covered hers—quite completely from head to toe.

"What in blasted he—" she started. But Pricilla was unable to complete her sentence due to Arnald's mouth descending on hers in a hard, silencing kiss. Was that his tongue touching her lip? It was. Her mouth parted in shock. Then his tongue touched hers, melting her insides like fresh butter in direct sunlight. She felt his breath, his heat. She froze, fingers digging into his shoulders. Hard, unrelenting shoulders.

He lifted his head. "Quiet," he said softly.

She could not have spoken had she wanted, for she had ne'er felt the like. Shock rendered her speechless. But slowly, awareness crept in. The pebbles she'd felt through her flimsy shoes were now poking her backside. Along with her untenable position. "Get off me, you big lout," she hissed, pushing at those strong shoulders. She suddenly didn't care a fig that the stabbing pebbles became more painful as she struggled to wriggle free. If anyone happened upon them, her life as Chalmers Land Agent would be ripped to shreds.

"Quiet," he said again, breath touching her neck. Despite the heat, her skin prickled in response. His face congealed in a pained expression. "Someone just shot at us."

"What! Do not be ridiculous, sir. Mayhap you are suffering from the heat. We are agents for the king."

"And kings have been overthrown, my lady. ‘Tis the oldest known war to man," he grimaced. He glanced round. Apparently satisfied with what met his eye, he shifted to her side and leaped to his feet. She had no choice but to accept his outstretched hand.

Bonnet askew, Pricilla ran shaking hands over her skirts in an effort to gather her frayed nerves. She was dismayed to find the pretty blue frock covered in dust, even sporting a slight tear. Why, it looked as bad as the ones Mamá had forced on Cinderella in their earlier childhood days.

"Who on earth would. . .would shoot at us? Shooting! With a. . .a musket?" she sputtered. Pricilla watched him brush the dirt from his trousers, no worse for wear, before answering.

"Oui. A hunting mechanism, if I am not mistaken." He grabbed her arm, and pulled her none too gently, toward the shelter of the trees.

Pounding hooves over the hard ground had her wrenching her head over her shoulder. "Our conveyance. You must go after it."

"Did anyone ever tell you, you speak loudly for a gentlewoman?" Amusement touched his lips, infuriating her. "It's much too late to go after that sad species of horses, besides." Speaking the obvious ignited her ire further.

"But how shall we get back?" Arm still imprisoned in his death grip, Pricilla felt certain she would be sporting a bruise on the morrow.

He shoved her behind a large oak. "Let me worry of that."