THE HEIRESS
EPISODE 38
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Duke Francis’ study smelled the way it always
did, with the faint scent of woodsmoke and
leather filling the air. A fire roared happily in
the hearth, in stark contrast to the icy panic
coursing throu-ghIsabelle’s veins. But she
refused to let that show,
refused to allow the
foreign prince the satisfaction of seeing how
unnerved he had made her.
So she sniffled into his handkerchief, playing
the part of grieving daughter and confused
fiancée.
“I shouldn’t have acted the way I did when we
last saw one another,” Leopold said, inching
his chair closer to Isabelle’s. Tension wound
around her spine, her ears straining for any
noise of a squabble from the second door, the
one that led to the hallway where Sam was
hopefully standing guard.
Leopold’s proximity
had awakened the terror that had haunted her
sleep for days after their last encounter. As a
result, she was unable to keep her wary eyes
from tracking his hands, ready to dodge or
fight or both if he made any move towards her.
She knew that he could not kill her, not if he
wanted Kentshire. For that, he’d have to marry
her first, and to marry her, she’d have to leave
this room alive. At the very least, she had that
one rea-ssurance. But whether she would leave
this room free or as a captive remained to be
determined.
“I was rude and far too brusque,” Leopold
continued, staring down at the palms of his
hands. Isabelle couldn’t help but wonder how
long it had taken him to perfect that
semblance of innocence as he continued. “But
you must un-derstand, I’d heard the most
terrible rumours while I was abroad. I was so
caught up in brokering deals with the
Ardalonians that I didn’t have the time to write
to you and dispel whatever doubts you were
having about us. I’d hoped that the horrible
things I’d heard weren’t true, but when I snuck
into Highcastle and you treated me like
some…some enemy, I snapped.”
Isabelle fought the angry snarl that rose to her
li-ps at the way he was addressing her, as if
she was some lovesick fool of a girl who
would easily excuse him for his prior actions.
But, she reminded herself, that was exactly
what she was striving for.
She wanted him to
believe that she was still the easily-
manipulated girl she had once been. The
foolish little girl who had fallen for him and his
wildflower crowns and love poems, clever
feats of camouflage to blind her to the
monster lur-k-ing behind his handsome face.
“What I mean to say is that I’m sorry, Isabelle,”
Leopold said, reaching for her hands. She froze
un-der the touch of his cool,
calloused fingers,
only for Leopold’s eyes to dart to her ba-re ring
finger.
“Your ring…” he started, anger and annoyance
flashing in his dark eyes before he blinked his
mask back into place, his expression pained
as he looked up at her. Once again, Isabelle
wondered how he was so skilled at schooling
his features. Perhaps it was a prerequisite for
the title of crown prince
“I removed it when I learned of Julia Andover,”
Isabelle said, speaking only when it became
clear that Leopold wouldn’t fill the silence any
longer. His fingers twitched, releasing her as
he leaned away.
“Julia?” he repeated. She took some
satisfaction from having caught him so wrong-
footed, but his stony emotional shutters had
slammed back into place, hiding whatever he
was thinking. Let him think she was jealous,
let him doubt whether she’d sent him away
because she wanted to rule Kentshire on her
own or because she’d learned of his lover.
The
more he was preoccu-pied in doubting her, the
better chance she had of talking her way out of
this.
“Julia Andover, ninth Countess von Tarlsburgh.
Who is she to you, Leopold?” Isabelle
repeated, folding her hands to hide their
shaking as her heart continued its staccato
beat in her che-st.
“Julia Andover is a friend, nothing more,”
Leopold said, his annoyance returned. “But this
is ridiculous, I’ve come here to discuss our
engagement and you’re-”
“Why do you think I wouldn’t leave with you?”
Isabelle cried,
refusing to let him steer their
conversation where he wanted. She buried her
face in his handkerchief once again so he
wouldn’t notice her crocodile tears.
“I hated Highcastle. All I wanted to do was
leave, until the other girls started whispering
about Julia Andover and her lover, the prince of
Germania,” she lied, sobbing. “Have you any
idea how foolish I felt? Wearing your ring while
the rest of them whispered about your lover
behind my back?”
She sniffled, watching him out of the corner of
her eye. Leopold’s brows were furrowed,
clearly flummoxed.
Good, Isabelle thought.
“You said-” he finally began, but she cut him
off.
“I know what I said!” she sobbed. “But how
was I supposed to leave with you, wondering
about her? How was I supposed to ask you
about her with the ever-present palace ears
listening,
while you were rushing me to leave?
You made a fool out of me, Leopold! How was
I supposed to forgive that? I couldn’t, so I lied
about some stupid law and sent you away!”
Isabelle fought to keep her hands from
clenching into fists as she prayed that her
sham of an explanation worked. It was shaky
at best, but it was the only thing she could
think up on such short notice.
With a sigh, Leopold rose to his feet, raking a
hand throu-ghhis hair as he paced before her.
Swallowing, Isabelle didn’t dare dart a look
towards the door. She couldn’t give him any
indication that she wanted to escape, not if she
wanted to maintain her guise. Instead, she
remained seated, calming her fake sobs and
following the prince with hurt, heartbroken
eyes.
“You should have just asked, my love,” Leopold
said finally, sinking to his knees before her. He
took her face between her hands and it took
every ounce of Isabelle’s willpower not to
shove him away.
But he was believing it.
“Think of all the trouble you could have spared
us,” he said. “All the things I’ve had to do to
get you back here.”
The hairs began to rise on the back of
Isabelle’s ne-ck.
“You broke my heart,” she whispered, forcing
down her dread as she brou-ght her hands up
to rest atop his. The feel of his cold fingers on
her face flooded her mind with thoughts of her
father, freezing to death despite the stifling
heat in the next room.
All the things I’ve had to do to get you back
here…
“Then allow me to fix that,” Leopold said.
Distracted by the shadow of an idea just ba-rely
taking shape in a corner of her mind, Isabelle
realized too late that she’d provided him with
the perfect opening. When she didn’t speak,
frantically thinking of some way to wrench
back control of their conversation, he
continued.
“I can help your father,” Leopold said, still
gazing into her eyes.
Isabelle froze.
All the things I’ve had to do to get you back
here…
“How?” she asked, her voice little more than a
whisper, even as her mind screamed in
protest, finally seizing upon that shifting,
shadowy thought.
“I know what ails him,” Leopold said, releasing
her to fish something out of his cloak pocket.
The vial sparkled in the firelight, a caramel
coloured liquid sloshing beneath the stopper.
Desperation drowned whatever semblance of
control Isabelle had attempted to maintain over
her emotions.
“Give it to me,” Isabelle said, unable to keep
herself from lunging for it. But Leopold backed
away, holding it out of her reach.
“Marry me, my love,” he said. “And I will heal
your father.”
Time ticked to a halt as Isabelle’s mind
emptied of every thought, save for one.
All the things I’ve had to do to get you back
here…
Leopold had done this to her father.
Isabelle’s ruse crumbled.
She leaped for him, thankfully unencu-mbered
by skirts as she flew out of her chair. Surprised
by her sudden motion, Leopold huffed as her
shoulder met his gut, tackling him to the floor.
The vial skittered out of his hand and across
the floor. Desperate, Isabelle scrabbled for it,
only to scream as Leopold seized her by the
hair and tugged her away.
“You have my terms, Isabelle,” he said,
dragging her across the room from where the
vial glittered on the rug. “Unless you insist on
making this more unpleasant.”
With a bellow, she sank her nails into the
hands holding her hair, raking them along
Leopold’s skin. He yelped, releasing her with a
Deutch curse.
Not caring that she was turning her back on a
dangerous foe, Isabelle threw herself across
the room towards where the vial had rolled to
a stop against the wall. Landing on her hands
and knees, she scrabbled towards it. The
sounds of a scuffle in the adjacent hallway
reached her ears, thumps and singing metal
muffled by the wood of the door.
Behind Leopold, the two Germanians that had
blocked Isabelle’s escape throu-ghthe service
corridor reappeared from her father’s
bedchamber.
“Eure Duchlaucht, we must leave,” one of them
said, right as the other door banged open and
Sam Winters’ bulk filled the frame. The front of
his tunic was spattered with blood, his sword
glistening with it.
Isabelle cried out, lunging too late to stop the
heavy wood of the door that Sam had
slammed open from crashing against the wall,
crushing the vial. At the sound of her cry,
Leopold let out a cold, cruel, mirthless laugh
that had Isabelle rounding on him, teeth ba-red.
“You’ll be glad to know there’s more where
that came from,” he cackled, a vile, venomous
grin on his face as he backed behind his men.
“You have my terms, Isabelle. Though I’d warn
you that the luxury of time is not on your side.”
Sam had seized Isabelle, hauling her to her
feet and throwing her behind him. She caught
herself on her father’s desk as Leopold turned
and darted from the room.
“Are you all right?” Sam demanded, tearing his
attention from the fleeing prince just long
enough to ensure that she was uninjured.
Leopold’s men had turned tail and fled as well,
skirting her father’s bedchamber towards the
service door.
He killed my father. He has the antidote. He’s
going to get away. Please, don’t let him get
away…
All her words wanted to come up at once, but
nothing more than a strangled sound escaped
her throat. Desperate, she finally choked out,
“Stop him!”
That was all that Sam needed to lift his sword
and charge after them.
Isabelle, meanwhile, whirled around and
dropped to the floor, prying the door away
from the wall as she frantically attempted to
salvage what was left of the vial. But her
attempts were in vain. The caramel-coloured
liquid had seeped into the rug, bits of broken
gla-ss sprinkled throu-ghout.
She leaned back on her heels, clenching her
nails into the palms of her hands as she tried
not to scream.
To be continued…..