My Ruthless Prince (23 page)

"Oh, Drake, it's so beautiful. You're beautiful," she blurted out in a ragged whisper.

His heart clenched at her innocent wonder.

And then he loved her until she glowed.

It seemed impossible that joy could be born in the midst of the darkness that surrounded them, but as they gave themselves to each other completely, it leaped to life like a small flame.

One light was all it took to illuminate the darkness. Surely the love that had never left them from their earliest years could defeat the evil that had engulfed them. He hushed her with fond, chiding urgency when her cries of pleasure grew louder.

"Easy," he whispered, pausing.

"Sorry," she mumbled, then added feverishly, "Don't stop."

He obliged her, but soon, he, too, was incapable of muffling his own heady groans as he came inside her. Pleasure racked his body that had known so much pain.

The all-consuming sweetness of release painted a new layer of memories, healing ones, on the dark canvas of his soul. He had known she cared for him, of course, but it was not until this moment that her pure love had pierced the cold stone walls around his heart until he could feel it, receive it, in his very core.

He shuddered in her arms, kissing her with mad abandon. She ran her fingers through his hair and returned his kiss in a manner that told him without a need for words that she was his for the taking whenever and wherever he had need of her.

It was possibly the best moment of his life. Certainly the calmest that he had known in years.

She held him for a long time afterward in silence, until, quite out of the blue, she remarked: "This rock is digging into my back." She chuckled wearily. "I've only just now noticed."

He moved aside so she could sit up. He glanced down at himself in the moonlight and noted the slightly darker smears of her maiden blood on him. It brought the precariousness of their situation back sharply to his mind.

He picked up his discarded waistcoat and pulled his fob watch out of the small front pocket. It was just past 1:00
A.M.
He was in no hurry to return.

Meanwhile, beside him, Emily let out a sigh of deep feminine satisfaction and rose with a languid movement to dress. He eyed her naked body in open admiration. She was lithe and lean, and her sensual stretch inspired thoughts of a second round already.

He knew perfectly well there was little chance his lewd notion would meet with her approval. The ex-virgin would want a little recovery time.

Still, a man could dream.

When she moved like that, he wanted her all over again. "You're very beautiful," he remarked as he hitched up his breeches and fastened them, determined to be a good boy.

Having just finished putting on her shirt, she cast him a shy, startled smile, and flipped her long tresses free of the collar. "Am I?"

"Very," he said.

"Well, thank you. You know," she said thoughtfully as she tucked her shirt into her trousers, "I'll be glad to give those Promethean bastards the monkshood."

He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"I could kill anyone who was ever cruel to you," she said coolly, a glint of ferocity in those violet eyes.

He looked at her in amusement. "You're even starting to sound like me."

"How can you stand to be here? To look at them? I don't know how you can bear it."

He shrugged, lowering his gaze. "I don't know, either. I just do."

She paused. He looked up again, sensing her gaze. She smiled tenderly at him, then walked to him where he still sat on the rock. She stepped between his sprawled thighs and captured his face between her hands, leaning down to press a warm kiss to his lips.

It chased away the pain that her questions had brought, while her long hair fell forward, veiling the two of them in their own little world. She smiled at him, gliding her thumb over his cheekbone. Then she kissed his nose and gave him a grin. "So, that's what they didn't want us doing together all those years," she mused aloud.

"I'm glad we did."

"I'm glad, too," she whispered, and kissed him again.

"Emily?" he murmured.

She pulled back a couple of inches and serenely lifted her eyebrows at him in question.

He took her hands in his. "I'm so sorry I didn't battle my parents and marry you when I should have, years ago, before all this. When I had the chance."

She smiled fondly, tilting her head.

He shrugged. "I wasn't ready for marriage . . . and I thought you'd always be there," he admitted, lowering his head. "I'm ashamed of myself for being so cavalier. I took you for granted."

"But I'm guilty, too. I hid my feelings because I was afraid if you knew how I felt, you'd stay away. Besides, I didn't want to put any added pressure on you. You had enough to worry about." She sifted her fingers through his hair. Her touch lifted his gaze until he met hers once again. "Anyway, there's no point dredging up the past."

He shook his head, refusing her tender excuses on his behalf. "I was selfish. You deserved better than that from me--and now, even worse, I've dragged you into this--"

"You didn't drag me; I came of my own free will."

He let out a sigh. "I fear I'm bad for you."

She grinned and punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Probably so, but still somehow I cannot stay away from you--my lord," she added in jaunty sarcasm.

He looked at her in dismay.

"Oh, come, if you were half the villain you believe, you wouldn't care what effect you have on me." She stepped closer, hugging him.

With him seated and her standing, her breasts were practically in his face, and that was a prospect that would have cheered up any man.

"You're not selfish or anything else you said. You are my Drake and I adore you and that's the end of it." She released him and started to turn away, but she had made him smile. He caught hold of her wrist and tugged her back, tumbling her onto his lap.

Her soft derriere pressed the top of his thigh. "So, you're blind to my faults, eh?"

"Hardly!" she snorted. "No, I see them just as clearly as you see mine. But strangely enough, I love you all the more for them."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Of course. If you weren't broody and growly and secretive, you wouldn't be my Drake. But fortunately, you know how to make me laugh--at least you used to. This covers up a multitude of sins."

He bounced her on his leg for her impertinence. "Well, as honored as I am to serve as milady's jester, we'd better get back inside before we're missed."

"Really?" she uttered plaintively. "Can't we just run away?"

"You just said you can hardly wait to poison them," he reminded her. "But if you really do want to escape, I can help you get away--"

"No! I'm not going anywhere without you. Don't be daft," she cut him off, then looked away. "You're right, we should be getting back." She rose from his lap and reached for her cloak.

"Emily."

"It's all right, Drake. I understand you've got to see this through, and I intend to help. You can't talk me out of it any more than I can you. So let's get back inside and finish this."

Drake didn't know what to say.

They walked through the woods side by side, heading back to the castle. He took her hand in his as they continued down the path, but neither spoke, both lost in their thoughts.

At the end of the path, they kept to the tree line rounding the meadow to avoid being spotted in the open. Before long, they were going silently through the wrought-iron gate around the gardens, stealing through the grassy walks. Nearing the building, Drake left her hiding behind a mound of boxwood and went ahead, stealthily slipping back into the castle by the same door on the ground level through which he'd left. He made sure the way was clear before beckoning her over, then he closed the door silently behind her.

When she was beside him once again, they exchanged a wordless glance, slightly tense, but resolute.

Their plan was simple. They'd take separate routes up to the third floor, where the bedrooms were located. She'd stay out of sight while he went into the upper hallway and used his authority to summon her guards away from the door of her chamber. He would distract them with some small task as an excuse; this would give her an opportunity to sneak back into her room. The Prometheans would be none the wiser. But the time had come to part ways once again.

He drew her into his arms and held her for a moment as the shadows of a distant torch danced across the stone walls of the corridor.

"Thank you for tonight," he murmured at length, pulling back to look deep into her eyes. "Thank you for all you've done for me."

"You don't have to thank me," she whispered with a shrug. "I love you. I would do anything for you."

"And I you," he forced out, moved by her artless simplicity. He lowered his head and kissed her, gathering her near. It would be so hard tonight to let her go.

But he had no choice.

"Be careful going up," he whispered.

"You too." She smiled. "I'll dream of you tonight."

"You're sure you know the way?"

She nodded, stepping back from him. "I'll let you know when the monkshood's ready. Good night."

"Good night, Emily."

She smiled and turned around, heading into the darkness.

"Emily?" he called after her in a low tone.

She stopped and glanced back.

He stared at her. "You've always had my heart."

Her violet eyes lit up. She ran back to kiss him one more time, throwing her arms around him.

"Go to bed," he scolded in a warm whisper after a moment, smiling. She gave him a final, stubborn kiss on the cheek as he playfully pried her away from him.

"I wish you were coming with me."

"So do I. Someday," he said.

She gave him a skeptical smile, then blew him a little kiss as she backed away from him. Then she pivoted with her cloak billowing out behind her, and, heading for the stairwell, she stole off into the shadows alone.

Drake let out a smitten sigh when she had gone. Then he sauntered off in the other direction, taking a roundabout course to the third floor to give her time to get into place.

A few minutes later, he was in the hallway around the corner from her room. He took a deep breath, chased any sign of lovesickness off his face, leaving only his usual cold-hard-bastard expression.

Thus armored up, he stepped into view around the corner. "Guards! You men there." He beckoned to them with a stern look. "Come and give me a hand checking these corridors. I thought I heard something."

"We can't leave the door, sir."

"You bloody well can and will if I give you an order. Now get over here!" he commanded.

And so they did, following him as he sent them on a fool's errand in opposite directions.

E
mily waited until the guards had stepped away. Then she slipped around the corner and dashed down the hallway, ducking into her room without a sound.

She shut the door and locked it, then leaned against it, mouthing a silent yawp of triumph.

Heavenly Lord! She had just been deflowered by Drake Parry, the Earl of Westwood. The man of her dreams--!

She floated rather than walked over to the bed and cast herself down onto it, dreamily smiling at the ceiling.

You've always had my heart, he had said.

I knew it! I just knew he loved me all this time.
She hadn't dared to hope, but in her heart, she had known that it was true. She shut her eyes and let out a sigh of pure weary delight, slightly sore from her deflowering and exhausted from the nerve-racking tension of all this stealthy sneaking around.

Even so, she'd probably be awake to see the sunrise in a few hours. Who could sleep when one was madly, utterly in love?

Chapter 14

Somewhere in the Alps

A
blood red sunrise filtered through the trees and lit the winding road ahead. But Niall Banks was heartily sick of magnificent mountain scenery and sweeping rustic views. When all this was over, he decided, he was going to Paris for a month or more to play. He did not want to see another tree or cow pasture for a very long time. For the present, unfortunately, another day of grueling travel waited.

As reluctant as he was to subject his already aching body to another long day's rugged travel, he dared not linger. Not with an unknown number of Order agents on his trail.

Tying his bedroll onto the back of his saddle, he shrugged off vague premonitions of doom and made sure his two horses were securely tethered to each other.

The animals were as sick of the journey as he was, no doubt, but at least he was able to keep up his pace by alternating between them. He swung up into the saddle, then paused with an angry wince to rub the shoulder that James Falkirk's pet demon had dislocated for him.

The shoulder had improved, but the rigors of his journey had it aching, along with the rest of his body. Then again, perhaps he had grown too comfortable in life, he mused as he kicked his horse into a canter. Raised under princely conditions, accustomed to having an army of henchmen and servants at his command, he was not accustomed to being left to his own devices.

Perhaps this experience was good for him. After all, he was destined to become the future leader of the Prometheans, as Malcolm Banks's son. The post was virtually guaranteed to be
his.
There was no question in Niall's mind that he was entitled to it. His father had been grooming him for it for years.

My father . . . Is he really?

As he gritted his teeth against the annoying clamor of morning birdsong, his mind strayed back to the same gnawing question that had haunted him ever since he had first come face-to-face with Virgil Banks--supposedly, his uncle--or so he had been told. So he had grown up believing.

But Niall found he no longer knew what to think.

It was an intensely uncomfortable realization, facing the fact that Malcolm might not really be his father. Might have been lying to him all his life. He had placed the utmost trust in Malcolm's authority, protection, and power. More than that, he had considered his father to be his closest friend. What did it mean if their entire bond was based on lies? Who, then, was he supposed to trust?

He wanted reassurance that Virgil had been lying, but he found that he was afraid to question his father on the subject. He did not want to rouse Malcolm's wrath by asking for the truth even though he had a right to know.

Ah, but what did it matter now? He'd made his choice. Virgil was dead, by
his
hands.

He tried to tell himself that the towering red-haired Order agent's claim that they were father and son had been a lie aimed at trying to confuse him. The Order had probably hoped that if they could turn him, they could use him as an informant.

Unfortunately, there was no denying the evidence in the mirror. He looked a hell of a lot more like his late uncle Virgil than he resembled Malcolm Banks. But how could it possibly be true? How could Malcolm lie to him like this?

If Niall was a real Promethean, would he even care?

What if he was supposed to have been with the Order all this time?

Niall was bewildered. Resentment such as he had never known was churning in his soul against the smaller, blond, spiky-haired man he had always believed was his sire. Just if, hypothetically, it was true, then what the hell had happened?

How had he ended up in the wrong home?
On the wrong side?
If Virgil was his father, then why had Malcolm raised him as his son?

The answer to that one came readily enough.
To hurt Virgil.

Whatever their relation, the Malcolm Banks he knew was fully capable of that. When he hated someone, he could be very creative in how to torture them in mind and soul if he could not get to them in body.

Well, then, what about my mother?
Niall wondered, as the horses clip-clopped on, up the dusty road.

He didn't even remember her. She had died when he was two years old. He'd been told it was a fever, but he had never quite believed it. If she had been caught somehow between the two warrior brothers, between the two sides, there was no telling what her real fate might have been.

With so many questions swirling in his mind, Niall knew he'd have the chance to ask them soon. He had sent the message to Malcolm to meet him at Waldfort Castle with his men. He would be there before long. But what was the point in asking, especially if he wanted to keep his ambitions about succeeding Malcolm as the head of the Council? At the moment, he did not even trust the man to give him an honest answer. The only one who had seemed to be telling the truth, painfully forcing out his gruff confession . . . was Virgil.

Niall saw that if he had not killed him, he might have had the truth at last. But it was too late now.

He had murdered the man, aye, with his own hands, and like so much in life, he thought with an uneasy glance over his shoulder, sensing the forces of vengeance behind him, it could not be undone.

Bavaria

That morning, Emily put on the light blue muslin gown her gracious hosts had given her to wear, buttoning the three-quarter sleeves, straightening the neck, smoothing the skirts, and staring into the mirror with the grim resolve of one dressing for battle.

After giving her virginity to Drake, there was no turning back. They had become one. She knew it as surely as she breathed, and as surely as she saw that the Prometheans had to be stopped.

The fight was part of Drake's family heritage from the time of the Crusades, and through him, it had come to her. She had never truly hated anyone before, but now she relished the thought of making them pay for what they had done to him. In short, having made herself his woman, she was fully committed to him, and to their sinister plan, as it was the only way to secure their future together.

To that end, she lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders, then she turned on her heel, left her chamber, went in search of opportunities for how, precisely, to poison them.

The monkshood would be ready soon. She needed to find the right sort of food in which to put it. Something that the leaders and their bodyguards would eat, but the servants wouldn't touch . . .

They all stopped talking when she appeared in the doorway of the elegant breakfast room.

Ever since she had been transferred to the luxurious bedchamber and treated as an honored guest, she had been invited from time to time to join them for their meals.

She had never dared accept their invitation before, much too terrified to sit down among a roomful of high-ranking demons who intended to kill her.

They looked at her in surprise, and to her astonishment, a few of the rich and powerful men rose and bowed to her.

Quite the high treatment for the woodsman's daughter,
she thought, her heart pounding at her own, ruthless intent. To them, of course, she was an object of veneration for the moment, their sacrificial lamb. They studied her in morbid fascination as she smiled politely.

Then she ventured over to peruse the lavish offerings on the sideboard. After accepting a warmed plate from the footman, she quickly scanned the selection for items of food or drink into which she might easily slip the poison when the time came. Her previous status as a servant had given her access to the kitchens.

Perhaps she could stir it into the waffle batter or grind it into the sausage mix. They'd never notice it amid the grains of coarse black pepper.

She jumped when James Falkirk suddenly appeared by her elbow. "Well, this all looks delicious, doesn't it?"

"Indeed," she forced out, recovering quickly. At once, she veiled her murderous musings behind a demure smile like those she had often seen on the highbred belles that Lady Westwood used to approve of for her son. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Miss Harper. I hope you've been enjoying your new room."

"To be sure, sir, it's fit for a princess."

"Jam?"

"Please." The dark color of the strawberry preserves would hide the monkshood well, she mused, as he passed the little, crystal serving dish to her.

Unfortunately, not all the men had partaken of it.

Falkirk watched her put a glob of jam on her toast with a speculative smile, his pewter gray eyes assessing her. "There's something different about you," he said.

"Really?" She turned to him as if she had nothing to hide, but her heart was pounding.

He studied her. "I don't know. I can't quite put my finger on it."

She glanced down at the pretty muslin gown they had given her to wear. "I'm not used to dressing in such finery," she confessed. "And I think the sun has lightened my hair as well. We are so much nearer its rays on this mountaintop."

"Hmm, yes. Perhaps that's it," he said, sounding unconvinced.

She gave him a guileless smile, but the old man was far too perceptive. He eyed her skeptically as she turned away and added a sausage to her breakfast plate. In truth, she had just lost her appetite in her sudden dread that he could somehow see into her mind. Sense the murderous scheme she had planned. Or tell somehow that she was no longer a virgin.

Nonsense! That was just his way, she told herself. It was the same eerie mannerism that he had used to manipulate Drake.

Still, her fears whispered that she was about to be exposed. Perhaps the Prometheans had found out somehow what she and Drake had been doing out in the woods. If it came down to it, she knew she did not have the skill to fool a master liar like James Falkirk.

She went and sat down in a chair by the window, keeping to herself as she attempted to take a few bites of the food. But the presence of so much evil in the room made her rather queasy. Her mouth was so dry with fear that she could barely swallow.

As quickly as she could manage it without drawing further attention to herself, she put her plate aside and fled the breakfast room.

"Have a pleasant day, Miss Harper," Falkirk called after her.

"Thank you, sir--you do the same," she blurted out, glancing back.

He narrowed his eyes and searched hers with an unnerving stare. Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw the suspicion on his face. Moreover, she realized in that moment why he unsettled her so. When you looked deeply enough into his eyes, she thought, you did not see a soul inside. He was as empty as dead, dry bones. Which explained his fascination with preying on others who were yet full of life, like Drake and her.

Emily lowered her gaze, sketched a curtsy, and hurried away, but truly, she could kill him for what he had done to Drake. Warping his mind, making him believe that he was safe in order to use him, making a mockery of compassion. The old man deserved to burn in Hell. And soon he would. So would they all. Her certainty on that point helped to calm her down after Falkirk's stare had rattled her.

Unfortunately, her reassurance was short-lived, for when she stepped into the upper hallway to return to her chamber, she stopped cold.

The maids were in her chamber. Cleaning her room.

The blood instantly drained from her face. Her pulse pounded so hard in her ears she could barely hear herself think. If the monkshood was discovered, she was doomed, and probably Drake along with her.

Somehow, she checked the wild impulse to run into her chamber and shoo them out with a hasty smile. Any such reaction on her part would only rouse their suspicion.

Oh, God, how could she have failed to foresee the staff's intrusion? But she was only the woodsman's daughter. No one had ever cleaned her room for her in her life!

She was not used to being treated like some sort of princess, and besides, she had been distracted, leaving her room a while ago as she faced the nerve-racking prospect of going down to breakfast with the elite Promethean conspirators.

Heart pounding, she marched resolutely down the corridor. Perhaps not all was lost. Maybe the maids hadn't found it yet, and even if they had, these women had become her friends since her arrival, more or less--at least casual acquaintances. Even if the monkshood were discovered, they need not immediately conclude she was hatching a secret murder plot against the owner of the castle and his cronies. Not unless she went in there behaving like she had something to hide.

Just be calm. Act normal,
she ordered herself.
If they get too close to finding it, distract them.

Right.
Taking a steadying breath, she proceeded on to her chamber, somehow restraining herself to a sedate walk though she was shaking.
They probably won't find it anyway.
But the moment she stepped into the doorway, the blood drained from her face.

They already had.