My Ruthless Prince (10 page)

"Don't go prying anywhere," he warned.

"Who, me?"

"I'm serious. Stay out of mischief for both our sakes. One more thing," he added, pausing with one hand on the door.

"What's that?"

"Don't forget, they think we are lovers."

"Would it were so," she whispered daringly. The words slipped out before she could check them.

His dark eyes narrowed in speculation. "Don't start something you're not prepared to finish."

"You started it. Yesterday. You're the one who kissed me."

Gazing roguishly into her eyes, he leaned closer until his lips hovered half an inch from hers. "But, my dear, that was only for a ruse."

"Do you kiss differently in earnest?"

"You tell me," he whispered, and he pressed his lips to hers, driving her body back against the wall, his hand resting on her waist.

Emily met his kiss in trembling enthusiasm, curling her hands over his shoulders, her heart pounding.

But Drake stopped himself a moment later, his chest heaving. "Careful what you wish for," he warned in a sensuous murmur. His gaze dipped to her moistened lips before he turned and left the room.

She closed her eyes, breathlessly leaning her head back against the wall after he had gone.

Lord, didn't that man know she'd have walked through fire for him?

Lunatic, Promethean, or not.

London

The dogs of Dante House were howling.

Virgil's body had been discovered some hours before, but as accustomed as they were to death, every agent there was in a state of shock, silent with fury.

The man who had been like a father to them, their mentor and trainer, had been cut down, and none of them had been on hand to help him.

The rage, the grief, the hunger for revenge drove them onto the schooner that had been waiting for their departure to the Continent. With few words, Rotherstone's team parted ways with Beauchamp, who stayed behind to handle the aftermath of what was sure to come.

Officials would ask questions, to say nothing of the Elders of the Order up in Scotland. The shock of Virgil's death would be felt as far away as Moscow, and in every European capital in between, where an active cell of the Order had been established.

Beau had hurried them off, knowing Niall already had a lead of at least six hours. He assured them he would see to the burial of their beloved Highlander and that they would have a proper memorial service for him once his killer had been dealt with.

At present, they could not afford to let the trail go cold. Just as Virgil had taught them, they thrust their own feelings aside and got on with the job. It was what the old man would have wanted.

And so that morning, as planned, Max, Jordan, and Rohan set sail down the Thames, on the hunt for Niall Banks. Finding Drake was just as important as it had been last night, but the wound of Virgil's murder was too fresh for them to think of anything other than making their handler's treacherous offspring pay.

They had found Emily's letter missing and knew that Niall must have taken it.

Once he read it, he would certainly realize what her news about James's secret meeting signified. That meant Niall, too, would head for Waldfort Castle in order to stomp out Falkirk's conspiracy against Malcolm.

The agents did not intend to let him get that far, however. They stood at the bow of the schooner as the sun inched over the horizon at their backs, separate and silent, each alone with his own thoughts, each seething stare scanning the river and shoreline, on the watch, each one's hand in easy reach of his weapon. In short, they wanted blood.

If Niall had the cunning to trick a seasoned knight of the Order like Virgil Banks into making such a fatal mistake as turning his back on him and letting his guard down, then the bastard was smart enough, thought Max, to know he would not live long.

Indeed, miles ahead, where the river met the coast, Niall glanced nervously over his shoulder as he paid for a ticket aboard a packet ship to Calais from the English coast.

Petty crime was not his style, but he had resorted to robbing a shopkeeper at the point of a blade shortly after abandoning the rowboat by the river's edge.

He did not have time for more caution. He was well aware that any number of Order agents would soon be on his heels. He had only a few hours' lead on them, and he knew he would be hunted like a fox. The packet ship could not get under way fast enough for him.

When at last it pulled up anchor and lumbered away from the English coast, rocking its way out into the wind-tossed Channel, only then did he exhale.

He kept a distance from the other passengers but slumped on one of the benches belowdecks and told himself the nausea he was experiencing was merely due to seasickness.

The one thing he tried not to contemplate was the sickening truth that he feared he knew deep down in his bones.

The proof was in the mirror.

He was fairly sure he had just murdered his own father, and that was something.

Even for him.

Chapter 7

Bavaria

L
ater that day, Emily knelt on a rock by the stream outside the castle walls, her hands stung by the icy water of the brook as she wrung out another of Drake's shirts.

She was fairly sure that, aside from keeping up their charade of master and servant, the scoundrel had given her these menial tasks to ding her pride and try to goad her into wanting to leave.

But his little scheme wasn't going to work. She refused to be driven off, especially after that kiss.

Her heart still sang, knowing
that
one, at least, had not been for show. She had been waiting for her too-noble Order knight to do that for years.

It had been worth the wait.

More importantly, his first true kiss renewed her determination to take him home, despite the Initiate's Brand on his chest.

He did not know her at all if he thought she would be giving up so easily. True, the mark on his chest showed how fierce the battle to save him might become, but at least they were together, and, by God, she had only just begun to fight.

How could she do otherwise when that unpleasant dream about the Lamont debacle had recalled in sharp detail what Drake had done for her?

He had literally saved her life.

Lack of water had nearly put an end to her existence though it was ironic that her prison was at the bottom of a well. One that had run dry.

Drake had come storming home within hours of receiving word of her disappearance. He had torn Westwood Park apart to find her, and once he had her safely in his arms, lifting her limp body from the hole, he had not left her side. He had waited until she was well enough to tell him what had happened.

After questioning her and drying her few tears, Drake, unlike his mother, did not question her veracity, but had stalked off to the neighboring estate, issued his challenge to a duel, and promptly at dawn the next morning, had put her attacker in his grave.

No more girls would be assaulted by Mr. Lamont.

With a history like that between them, the errant Earl of Westwood was not a madman but a fool if he thought he could drive her away with the supposed insult of a few menial tasks.

She relished the thought of vexing him by refusing to take offense. After all, she had never been afraid of a little hard work.

Indeed, she was glad to have something to do. It was better than sitting inside, locked in his room.

Washing clothes meant she could be outside, as she always preferred, drinking in the fresh, pine-scented air and the majestic beauty of the surrounding Alps.

She finishing squeezing the water out of his large black shirt, untwisting it from the ropelike coil she had made to squeeze out the excess water. She shook it out, then carried it over to the temporary clothesline she had strung between two trees and draped it over the rope.

Planting her hands in the small of her back, she stretched a bit, tipping her head back to let the sun warm her face. When she opened her eyes again, her gaze fell once more on the mouth of the trail that opened nearby, leading off into the woods.

An easy escape by that route beckoned, but she ignored the lure of freedom so close at hand.

Wryly, she gathered it was no accident that Drake had sent her to the stream to do her task. He probably meant for her to slip away at once. But she wasn't leaving alone, any more than he would have left her down in that hole once he had found her.

Then she glanced up at the mighty castle, still unsure of what dangerous game he was playing.

By the time she finished the laundry, hung their things on the clothesline to dry, and went back inside, she had worked up an appetite from the very physical labor.

With a twinge in her back and her stomach rumbling, she wondered if she would be given a midday meal. Service of the day's early dinner appeared to be under way in the castle. She went in, doing her best to escape notice, blending into the background like any other servant.

She remembered Drake's advice about being careful and not talking to anyone, but she couldn't resist stealing a peek into the Guards' Hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Glancing around the corner amid the servants who were continually scurrying in and out of the hall, waiting on the warriors, she did not see Drake at the long banquet table. Some three dozen well-armed bodyguards of the Promethean leaders were devouring huge quantities of food. They probably ate in shifts, she thought, but Drake was not among them.
I wonder where he is.

She walked away, noticing another line of footmen, these wearing livery. They were carrying a parade of gleaming silver trays into the stately dining room that James Falkirk had stepped out of the day before.

Emily gathered that this was where the elite Promethean lords took their meals. As she watched the footmen march in, she wondered with a bit of graveyard humor what sort of food these demons liked to eat. Roasted snake? Frog eyeballs? Stuffed raven instead of Cornish hens?

Indeed, all washed down with a nice goblet of warm human blood. Smirking at her own musings, she turned away and proceeded down to the kitchens, where she was put to work for a while, but eventually received her portion for the day.

What the satanic Promethean masters might be eating, who could say, but the servants were given dried-out, stringy pork chops left over from what the well-fed guards had not devoured the previous night, along with one cold, mushy carrot, half a turnip, and a meager hunk of slightly moldy bread for each of them.

Emily accepted her plate with as much gratitude as she could muster and headed back to Drake's room. As she neared the staircase, the sound of raucous barking arrested her attention. It was coming from one of the opulent State Rooms on the main floor.

Curious about the clamor, Emily went to peek into the gilded drawing room near the grand staircase.

To her surprise, three of the castle's enormous black guard dogs had surrounded the dainty rococo couch, barking, tails wagging, though an occasional snarl confirmed that although they were enjoying their sport, they were serious about their game.

Watching the large, powerful dogs circling the sofa, poking their heads under it, though they were too big to crawl beneath it, Emily realized they had cornered something under there. Whatever had taken shelter under the couch was doomed without a little help.

She frowned; her first unappetizing thought was of a rat. She lost all interest in her plate of food when she realized what would happen when the dogs got hold of their quarry.

It was only a matter of time before they captured it, then they would ruin the luxurious carpet tearing their prey apart.

Emily set her plate aside and went over behind the dogs, bending down to the floor to see if she could spot the trapped creature.

The dogs ignored her, absorbed in their sport, but she was suddenly startled to find a hissing, terrorized, little tabby cat doing its best to hold off the mighty dogs from every direction.

"Oh, you poor thing," she murmured. Its tiny fangs glinting, the cat was puffed up into a fur ball, but had hunkered down for the siege.

Emily tried to shoo the dogs away, but when one of them snapped at her, warning her off their sport, she jumped back, startled.

These were dangerous animals, trained to attack. She did not intend to try to stand against them. Instead, with barely a twinge of regret, she plucked the pork chop off her plate, caught the dogs' attention with a whistle, dangling it before them.

When they noticed the piece of meat she was offering, they forgot all about the cat and started toward her.

She threw the pork chop clear to the other end of the drawing room. The dogs lunged after it and proceeded to battle over it among themselves.

The cat was gone in a flash, streaking out from under the couch, a blur of gray bulleting toward the doorway and disappearing from the room.

She smiled and wiped her hands off on the dun-colored woolen skirts of her work dress, the only other set of clothes she had brought with her.

Leaving the drawing room with a certain fellow feeling for the outnumbered feline, Emily followed to see if the cat had been injured in its ordeal. If so, perhaps it would let her help. But it was naught but a flash of fur ahead, diving down the backstairs at the far end of the hallway.

She followed, calling softly to it, but the panicked tabby raced on.

I wonder where that leads,
she thought, pausing as she reached the top of the dark stone stairs, down which the cat had vanished. Maybe it had kittens down there somewhere, for it was that time of year.

She bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder, with Drake's warning not to go exploring the castle ringing in her ears.

Of course, if she had listened to him, she wouldn't even be there. Her mind made up to at least have a look, she glided silently down the stairs.

They turned, then came to an odd, stone room with octagonal walls and only one narrow window. There was a thick wooden door reinforced with iron on the other side of the room; it was open a few inches.

It was the only place the cat could have gone.

Once more, Emily followed, half-intrigued, half-uneasy. She hauled the heavy door open wider and stepped through into darkness; then she pulled it back to the same position in which she had found it before proceeding down the next set of stone-carved steps.

The atmosphere grew cold and clammy. It was not the sort of warm, cozy place where any sensible cat would want to drop her litter, but Emily was much too curious to turn back.

Deeper and deeper the stairs led down into the bowels of the castle. She wished she had grabbed some source of light, but her eyes adjusted to the indigo shadows, and she pressed on.

The weight of stone above, the darkness palpable, the smell of stale air, mold, and earth, and the ancient sense of age made her feel like she was entering a crypt. Every step down was like walking back in time to a lost age hundreds of years ago, when Waldfort's foundations had first been laid.

When she came to the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, staring ahead uneasily.

A few, narrow defensive windows high above let in just enough light to sketch the shapes of mighty columns reaching up into elegant vaulted arches.

What is this place?

Some kind of old cistern?

Cautiously, she walked on. To her right, the great stone blocks of the castle's foundations bore the scars of ancient battles. Burn marks. The limestone was pitted and scored in places where various missiles had struck it over the centuries. She could almost hear the ghostly echo of embattled knights in chain mail ducking away from the incoming fire of catapults.

Then she halted once again, staring ahead at the row of cells she spotted lining the aisle on both sides of her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end; gooseflesh rose on her arms as she realized that it was definitely not the castle's cistern.

No, she was standing in the dungeon.

The first cell she peered into had a heap of ancient human bones littering the corner. Emily swallowed hard, her heart pounding.

Everything in her wanted to run away, but she could not. To think, Drake had been kept prisoner somewhere in a place like this . . .

Her throat tightened. The eeriness was almost more than she could bear, but she found herself compelled to go a little farther, just to look around.

All the cells were empty, thankfully.

She had forgotten all about the cat in the meanwhile, but she saw it then, sitting rather contentedly in a chink in a crumbling section of the wall that appeared to have suffered from decades of water damage. Chunks of stone or perhaps cement were missing, and since the dungeon sat beneath ground level, that must have made it convenient for the cat to come and go as it pleased, with naught but an easy climb.

Drake's words about not going around snooping were a faint memory by now. Emily told herself she would leave in a moment, but first, she wanted to see what was in the odd chamber straight ahead.

At the end of the corridor lined by cells, an open door beckoned into a dark stone room. She approached it, trembling with mingled repugnance and fascination. She stopped a few feet from the open door, not daring to go closer.

There was just enough light to reveal the sinister outlines of medieval instruments of torture.

She recoiled from the sight of an iron chair in the center of the room with built-in manacles and leg irons. That did not look medieval.

No. It looked much newer.

How horrible.
Was it possible that Drake had endured such fiendish devices when he had been captured? The thought turned the blood in her veins to ice. The vaulted space beneath the castle was so silent--but to her the air seemed thick with the screams of prisoners once trapped inside the walls.

Backing away from the unspeakable chamber, she whirled around and ran, fleeing back up the stairs.

Reaching the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs, she found it still cracked, just as she had left it. She listened for anyone else's presence before stealthily reemerging into the empty, octagonal anteroom.