My Ruthless Prince (6 page)

The men were quiet, absorbing all this.

"At least the Scot's greed has left our coffers full," James added dryly. "We'll need all our gold to reestablish our influence in the royal courts. Duping kings is easy enough--inbred fools--but wooing courtiers and bribing politicians, that, my friends, can get expensive."

They laughed at his jest, then Glasse proposed a toast to the new head of the Promethean Council. James accepted their homage with a modest nod.

Drake, meanwhile, had tensed, a sickening knot in his stomach and only one thought on his mind.

Thank God he'd had the foresight to create the impression from the start that the untouched Emily was nothing but his own little whore.

Chapter 4

A
fter cleaning herself up, as James Falkirk had haughtily suggested, from her weeks of hiking through the Alps, Emily washed her clothes in the washbasin, made herself busy oiling her boots, sharpening her knife, checking the string on her bow, and then, when there was nothing left to do, pacing back and forth across Drake's room, beginning to feel rather like a caged animal.

None of this was supposed to happen. Drake was
supposed
to have come to his senses and fled this place with her. Instead, she was stuck here with him, and she still wasn't even sure if he was mad or sane.

His words from earlier today still chilled her.
Life is pain.
That did not bode well at all!

If he was here on a suicide mission, then she had to stop him. But how? He wouldn't even tell her whose side he was on.

She was beginning to feel very fortunate that she'd had the foresight to write to Lord Rotherstone after tracking Drake northward from the Bavarian capital of Munich and before returning to try to rescue him.

She had agonized over whether to take the risk, but now was very glad she had sent off that courier from the quaint German city though it had cost her the rest of her money.

There were no guarantees her message would actually make it to Drake's old friend and fellow agent back in London, nor could she say how long it might take to reach the marquess.

Nor could she predict the Order's reaction with any certainty once they received the news.

Her choice to give Drake's former colleagues this information could cost her dearly if things continued going as wrong as they had earlier in the day.

After all, Drake was now officially considered an agent who had gone rogue.

His brother warriors had instructions to shoot him on sight before he revealed Order secrets to the Prometheans.

But Emily had to believe that loyalty would at least compel them to give Drake a chance to explain himself before they sought to put him down like a rabid wolf.

After all, they had been friends since they were boys.

Back in England, she had seen firsthand how much Max, Lord Rotherstone, had cared for his damaged friend, and how like a brother he had tried to help Drake regain his memory.

Whatever commands they had received from their superiors, Emily did not believe his brother warriors could bring themselves to pull the trigger on one of their own. Surely his friends could not give up on him any more than she could. And when Drake told them he had come for revenge, they would understand.

Maybe they would even arrive in time to help.

Now, however, she was beginning to have doubts.

If Drake was here for revenge on these fiends, then why wouldn't he just admit it?

Didn't he trust her to keep his secrets?

Or was she merely deceiving herself, refusing to face what was right in front of her--that Drake had indeed forsaken all sanity to embrace their twisted creed? Was he good or evil? Had he become a true Promethean?

Emily needed answers, the sooner the better.

So, naturally . . . she searched his chamber while he was gone, hunting for any clues that might reveal his true motives.

She went through his belongings, opening the same drawers from which she had borrowed one of his shirts, sifting through his clothes and shoes, his extensive collection of weapons and his personal arsenal of ammunition, looking for anything he might have hidden in the room that could give her a clue to what was going on in his head.

But the canny ex-Order agent had covered his tracks too well, leaving her no way either to confirm or deny her fears. She read every page of his barely legible notes in the small logbook he kept regarding his activities as James's head of security.

This was how she learned that Drake had hired the majority of those black-clad guards in Paris, on behalf of James. They were a mercenary band of battle-hardened veterans of Napoleon's army, from a mixed regiment made up of men from different areas where conscripts had been demanded as the emperor's due. Most were French, but some were German, some Italian. One was Belgian.

Now they fought for hire, and the older one, Jacques, had been their sergeant.

Emily put his notes away in frustration, unsure if Drake was still the person she had known and loved since childhood or if he had resigned himself to darkness.

After all he had been through, she could not have blamed him, in a sense. But if he
had
started dabbling in evil, what did that mean for her, sharing this small chamber with him?

Night was already falling as she hastily put away his things after all her snooping. She lit two candles in the room, beginning to wonder if she had made a serious miscalculation in coming there.

Then her thoughts were interrupted as the low, metallic scrape of the iron door latch heralded his return.

Still unsure if he was altogether friend or foe, she was torn between relief and trepidation when the door opened and he came in, tall, dark, and dangerous.

Much too dangerous if he had ill intent.

He did not smile at her as he closed the door behind him, carrying a tray of food with a covered dish and a tankard of ale. When his glance flicked over her with a startled smolder in his eyes, she folded her arms across her chest nervously.

Keeping her distance, she watched him cross to the chest of drawers, where he set down the tray.

"What's that?" she asked, following him at a wary distance.

"Your supper."

"Oh. That's all for me?" She offered a cautious smile. "What about you?"

"I ate already in the Guards' Hall."

"Oh." She ventured over to him by the chest of drawers, peering into the pewter tankard of good German ale he had brought her, then peeking under the lid keeping her plate warm. "It smells good."

She suddenly noticed him eyeing her chest. She stepped back, wide-eyed, clutching the white linen shirt against her throat.

He sent her an idle frown. "You took my last clean shirt."

"Oh. Right." She realized in nervous relief that he wasn't staring at her body. He was only staring at the shirt. "Sorry. It was all that I could find. I-I'll give it back as soon as my clothes are dry."

He shrugged and turned away. "Don't worry about it. Looks better on you than it does on me." Then he nodded toward the tray. "Eat. You must be starved."

"I am a little hungry." As he turned away, Emily removed the lid from the plate, then glanced at him in question. "What is it?"

Drake was taking off his coat. "Bavarian cuisine," he said dryly.

She furrowed her brow, studying the unfamiliar food. The plate held a pale white sausage with a blob of mustard beside it, a little pile of pickled red cabbage, and . . . "What is that?"

"Potato dumplings," he informed her in wry amusement. "Go on, you'll like it. And if you don't, too bad. It's all we've got."

She flicked her eyebrows upward briefly at his matter-of-fact tone, but broke off a piece of the potato dumpling with her fork. "So, what have you been doing all day?"

"My job."

"What's that? Protecting James?"

He nodded, unbuckling the weapons belt slung around his lean waist.

She shook her head, feigning a casual air, when in truth she was fiercely determined to draw any scrap of information out of him she could. "I can't believe you're helping them," she remarked in an idle tone.

He just looked at her.

She put the forkful of food in her mouth.

Then he dropped his gaze dismissively, hanging his gun belt on a peg and unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Emily washed down a bite of sausage with a swallow of ale. "This is good. It was kind of you to think of me."

His insolent one-shouldered shrug feigned nonchalance, but she smiled cheerfully at him when he sauntered over and borrowed a swig from the tankard after she had set it down. Then he went about his business.

Emily sampled the pickled cabbage, coaxing it onto her fork with the hunk of dark bread. "Well, you must admit, it's a little strange, an earl working as a bodyguard," she pressed him.

He eyed her warily, tossing his waistcoat over the chair. But he remained as silent as the tomb.

"Why do you care so much what happens to that old man?" she inquired.

"I told you. He saved my life."

"And you saved his, which means the debt is paid. So, why don't you tell me why you're here?"

"Mind your own business, Emily." He turned away, lifting his shirt off over his head.

Lifting the fork to her mouth, she went motionless at the sight of his muscled male beauty. His supple flesh glowed with warm vitality in the candlelight.

Emily lowered the fork again in a daze.
Egads.
She had not seen Drake without his shirt on since he'd been a skinny ten-year-old splashing about in the swimming hole.

Good Lord, he was all man now, tall and sinewy, though scarred here and there, to her dismay. Yet somehow the evidence of these old, healed injuries only emphasized the fierce power of his magnificent body, the unstoppable quality of the man.

It was useless. She could not stop staring, captivated by the sleek curve of his shoulder, the rugged bulk of his arm, the chiseled splendor of his abdomen.

He glanced over at her with a rather sardonic look as he poured some water from the pitcher into the white washbowl. "You all right?"

"Um--ahem, yes--of course," she forced out with an awkward little cough and a sudden scarlet blush. Nodding nervously, she forced herself to turn away, chagrined.

Thankfully, Drake opted to ignore her. He leaned down to splash his face. She studied him again while he was distracted, marveling that he had muscles where she didn't even know muscles could be.

By the time she heard his low sigh of weary relaxation a moment later, she had managed to regroup. She smiled faintly and, still blushing, went to hand him the towel.

He accepted it with a low, male grunt of thanks.

Now I understand how you drove all those London women mad,
she thought, gazing at him as he straightened up again, drying his face and throat.

She could not tear her eyes from him, watching with a queer, ticklish pleasure in the pit of her stomach.

She thought again of his kiss that afternoon in the forest, and her rapt gaze followed Drake's hand as he ran the towel down his chest to catch a stray drip of water.

But then, as he turned toward her, she saw the marking on his chest, and her blood ran cold.

By the lantern's light, the small, round brand burned onto his powerful chest marred his Adonis-like perfection. She sensed his posture stiffen the second her gaze homed in on it, but truly, she could not believe her eyes.

Her stare flew up to his in bewilderment.

His face had become a mask of cold, hard challenge; he stared back as though daring her to question him.

Emily was too shocked to say a word.

The mark on his body matched the torch engraved on the arch outside the castle gates. The torch of the so-called Illuminated Ones. He had told her about it long ago. The Prometheans seared their true believers with what they called the Initiate's Brand.

Well, it seemed she had her answer. She could not seem to catch her breath.

He turned away while she stood there reeling.

Heart pounding, she dropped her gaze, trying to absorb what she had seen.

He pulled a dark, knitted sweater on over his head.

"Drake," she forced out at last.

"Just eat your supper," he advised her in a cool tone.

Then he grasped the single chair in the room and carried it out onto the balcony. After placing it outside, he took the extra blanket and one of the pillows from the bed.

Emily stood by, barely knowing what to say. Shaken, she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, feeling as stunned as though someone had clubbed her on the head.

After a moment, Drake approached her slowly. With her head down, she saw his black boots halt in front of her.

"Look at me," he murmured.

She was not sure she could bear to.

He did not wait for her to lift her head, but grasped her chin none too gently and lifted her face to make her meet his gaze.

"Who else knows you're here?" he demanded in a low tone, staring shrewdly into her eyes.

Emily floundered. She suddenly did not dare confess that she had sent the letter to his former colleagues.

There was no telling how he might react.

"Does Rotherstone know where you are?" he prompted, as if he could read her mind. "Answer me."

"No," she whispered hoarsely. It might have been the first lie she had ever told him.

Meanwhile, she was acutely aware of his fingertips beneath her jaw, pressing into his skin.