A Most Charming Prince

Twenty: Famly Ties, part two

Belle stuck a crooked finger in her mouth to bite. "What I wouldn't give to have them in my hand."

Nigel was sweating buckets by now. "You're right, I picked them up. But I swear, since I don't seem to have them right this second, I will search—"

"Mmm-mm-gguh-mmm!" said Rebec. All eyes turned to the bride.

Unnoticed by everyone, however, Aurore had snuck up behind the altar and Il Répoute. At the very instant Rebec tried to alert the crowd to precious information concerning the prince's family heirlooms, Aurore trapped the villain with a spare BDSM rope and had his hands behind his back in a Spanish bowline knot before Captain Hips could blink twice.

"A sailor lass after me own heart!" she whispered and swept the tricorn hat from her head in salute.

"Maiden! Forgive my negligence." The prince stooped to cut the ropes on Rebec's hands and feet and pull the gag from her mouth. He glared at Il Répoute hot enough to barbeque the man while he helped her stand.

"Here," she said, breathless and flustered (as any of us would be with the prince's hands on us). She took something from her pocket. Someone's wallet. She took something else from her pocket. Two gleaming, golden spheres encrusted with a rainbow of sparkling jewels. "I found them lying about and wanted to keep them safe from thieves."

"Sweet, beautiful, maiden," the prince said. Dumbfoundation struck his features. "Holder and keeper of my balls. Holder and keeper of my...heart."

He cupped her chin tenderly to gaze into her eyes. And gaze. And gaze. And—

Aurore nudged Rebec from behind, and she fell forward, pressing her lips into the prince's. A whoosh and a crackle of electric light. They parted, blinking at one another.

"Her warts," said Delilah, "gone! Like an evil spell lifted."

"Why, the spitting image of Queen Mathilde," whispered Madame, loud enough for the queen and king of Maskulinia to hear.

"Do you think it's truly Anne Phoebe-Anne?"

"Only one way to be sure." Madame approached Rebec, beckoning her near. "Let me see your breasts, dear."

"I hardly think—"

Madame, not listening to Rebec's protests, removed her gauzy décolleté, revealing the tops of her apple breasts—and on the left, a purple birthmark in the shape of a toadstool. Overcome with maternal instinct, Madame grasped the maid to her heart, and sobbed. "Princess Anne Phoebe-Anne! My darling babe! It's you! All these years, we believed you drowned with the rest of your family. But how did you wind up here with this cockroach about to be married off to his boy?"

"Muahahahaha!" Il Répoute laughed (he had practiced this laugh, hoping the day would come when he would turn the tables and mock his enemies). "Now that you know who she is, you should know who is responsible for the untimely demise of the rest of the royal family. I must thank you for removing the witches curse on her, it will make her easier on the eyes. But now, I have a marriage to conclude. Attack!"

The remnants of his brigade had rallied, unknown to our protagonists, and crept up to the chapel entrance, waiting orders. At their lord's order, they squeezed through the door, falling over themselves for the kill.

*** This is bad. Very bad. ***