My Ruthless Prince (9 page)

He studied the room in mingled amazement and disgust.

A white Maltese cross hung on rusted chains from the ceiling of the cavern. A table with a lantern on it sat in the middle. An ancient Byzantine mosaic of the Archangel Michael was embedded in the floor.

Niall was tempted to piss on it, but there was no time for churlish tricks. He crossed to the table and quickly riffled through the maps and papers strewn on it.
What are the
bastards up to?

He glanced nervously over his shoulder, but then his gaze was captured by a letter on the table.

He picked it up, his eyes narrowing as he read it.
Well, well, James. My father will hear about this.

Traitor!

He slipped it into his breast pocket, but he wasted no more time seeking an exit. There were a couple of ladders leading up into the house, but Niall had often heard the guard dogs barking from above. They'd tear him apart. He had to find another way out.

He tried a tunnel that led off the main chamber, unsure of where it might lead. But a cold smile crossed his face when it brought him to a small dock with three rowboats tied to it.

He rushed to crank open the river gate that separated the Order's private dock from the Thames, under the overhanging eaves of the house.

Within moments, Niall was rowing out into the river under cover of night, turning the boat to coast swiftly along with the current.

He cast a grim look over his shoulder at the back of the mysterious house where he had been kept. It was receding fast, along with the lights of London.

Good-bye, Uncle.
Niall refused to heed the doubts gnawing at his soul. Being captured had been nothing but a temporary inconvenience, but he was none the worse for wear thanks to his captor's foolish sentimentality.

Indeed, his captivity had paid off, for now he knew exactly where Falkirk had gone.

Waldfort Castle.

Niall had to get back to his father. Warn Malcolm about James Falkirk's little meeting.

There could be no doubt as to its purpose.

Falkirk had called the others together in secret to scheme against Father and him.

Niall had to hope there was still time to bring the situation under control.

In the meanwhile, he rowed harder to gain as much of a lead as possible on the Order agents who were sure to come after him like the hounds of Hell.

He smiled coldly to himself, wishing he could have seen their faces when they came back and found their handler dead.

Chapter 6

Bavaria

C
omfrey to speed the healing of wounds.

Blessed thistle to restore the patient's loss of appetite.

Feverwort to break the hold of ague.

Coltsfoot and bloodroot for a cough.

Beggar's buttons to ease pains of the joints.

Marshmallow root for a queasy stomach . . .

Fragments of memory wove themselves into a fitful dream as Emily slept alone in Drake's bed . . . for he was not the only one who had ever fallen into a dark place.

One afternoon when she was seventeen, she had gone collecting herbs to keep her apothecary jars well supplied. Bark, roots, berries, and flowers, weeds, worts, and sedges, each had its own medicinal purpose, and she had crossed the Westwood acreage on the hunt, rambling through wood, marsh, and meadow, gathering the plants to be dried for diverse uses.

She knew to watch her step for poachers' traps, but she was unconcerned, having helped Papa set most of them herself. Beyond that, she had sensed no danger, upon reaching the edge of the Westwood property. Indeed, she had felt no more than idle surprise when the sound of hoofbeats came thundering over the rolling green meadows of the adjoining estate.

She straightened up with her herb basket in hand as she spotted Mr. Lamont exercising his fine bay hunter. The London dandy had his beaver hat cocked at a dashing angle, the tails of his impeccable riding coat flapping over the gelding's haunches.

The Thoroughbred impressed her with its gliding liquid canter. The haughty London rakehell did not.

Well, our neighbor's back.
The absentee landlord only came from London twice a year to make sure his tenants were paying their rents. It kept him in funds for the gaming tables, she supposed.

Drake had invited him over once for port when both landowners had happened to be at home, and that was when he'd first caught sight of Emily.

She clutched the handle of her basket harder and edged back toward the cover of the trees as he reined in before her.

"Well, hullo there!" he hailed her, sweeping off his fashionable hat.

She bowed her head and sketched a humble curtsy. "How do you do, sir," she mumbled.

While his tall blood horse pawed the turf, he had perused her with a grin from ear to ear, perusing her with an idle stare. "Well, how perfectly charming! A little country maiden and her basket--like you just stepped out of a Wordsworth poem. I fear I'm quite enchanted. Please, refresh my memory, darling. Who are you, exactly?"

She awkwardly informed him who she was.

"Oh, right! Jack Harper's little girl. All grown-up now, or nearly so. How is your father, child?"

"I'm afraid he hasn't been well, sir. It's his back. I'm collecting some herbs to help him."

"You must allow me to assist," he announced, and he swung down from his horse, not waiting for her permission.

Emily wished he would go away, but who was she to say such a thing to a wealthy gentleman?

With no real choice about his company, she let him tag along for a bit while she plucked a few linden flowers.

He stared at her, inhaling one of the blooms. "You've grown into a very lovely girl, Miss Harper." She had pulled away when he had followed his compliment with a light touch of her cheek.

She had stepped back with a warning stare. "Excuse me, sir. I must get back to my father."

"What's your hurry?" Still smiling, he had captured her wrist.

Something in his eyes had begun to make Emily very nervous.

"Don't be shy, my dear. What beautiful eyes you have. Has anyone ever told you that? The color's splendid. I shall have my tailor make me a waistcoat in just that shade." He ignored her resistance and pulled her closer, pretending to inspect her eyes.

Her heart pounding with rising fear, Emily did her best to hide her distaste. "Thank you, sir, but I have to get back to the house."

"Stay." He paused, holding her in a frank stare. "I'll make it worth your while."

Her eyes widened in confusion.

"Come, little country maiden, let me teach you a few of the pleasures we know in Town."

"Let go of me!"

"Spirited filly!" He laughed when she tried to knee him in the groin. "Easy now. Just relax," he ordered as he yanked her against his body. "Don't be coy. I won't do anything you don't like. I'm told I'm quite good at this, actually--"

"If you do not let go of me this instant, I shall tell Lord Seaton that you attacked me." Drake had been known by that courtesy title while his father was alive. "He'll put a bullet in you if you touch me!"

"And why is that?" A flicker of uncertainty passed behind his leering eyes, but a mocking half smile curved his thin lips. "Has Seaton already broken you in to the saddle? Good, then I'm sure he won't mind sharing. We both know he's in Town at the moment."

"He'll be here in a trice if I call for him," she warned.

"Oh, really? And what are you? Whatever he's promised you, I assure you, it was a lie. He's got even more women in London than I do. Oh, you didn't know that? Well, you might as well take my offer. I'm afraid you're nothing to him but a little country sport."

Emily hit him on the head with her basket and pulled away with all her strength, then ran.

"Come back here, girl! I did not dismiss you!"

Terrified, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him chasing her. Her heart in her throat, she fled him, bewildered by his lewd actions and hurt by his spiteful words. She was not as familiar with this section of the property, however, and as she pounded through the woods, perhaps she was distracted by the pang of knowing that what he had said was at least partly true.

Drake was always in London; he seemed to have forgotten all about her. But this was no time to pout over how her childhood friend seemed to have abandoned her.

All of a sudden, she stepped on something that crunched.

Her foot smashed through the layer of loose dirt and scattered leaves, and the next thing she knew her body followed; she screamed as she fell through the rotting boards concealing an old, abandoned well.

She seemed to fall for ages down the pitch-black shaft, but landed with a jolt, crying out on impact as she slammed down to the bottom. Her right foot touched down first, instantly breaking her ankle; she was hurled against the packed-earthen wall, banging the back of her head, jamming her elbow and biting the inside of her lip so hard it bled.

Then she fell silent, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. For one woozy-headed moment, she struggled to make sure she was alive, that nothing had impaled her. Her ribs felt bruised, but she could move her hands and arms; she wiped the blood off the corner of her lips, and concluded that her ankle had got the worst of it.

The blinding pain made her eyes smart with tears. But she was more furious than scared.

She gritted her teeth against the pain and looked up slowly to where Mr. Lamont had come to stand at the edge of the well. His face was as white as a sheet.

"Go and get my father," Emily ordered in as forceful a tone as she could muster. "I'm hurt. Tell him to bring rope. And a doctor."

She heard Mr. Lamont curse to himself. He backed away from the edge of the abandoned well.

"Mr. Lamont? Mr. Lamont!"

He did not reappear.

To Emily's horror, it dawned on her that this coward was willing to leave her to die out here, merely to hide the fact of what he had done.

If she was dead--disappeared--then she'd never be able to tell anyone that he had tried to rape her.

She had nothing to eat or even to drink with her; there was no water in the well. She had no cloak to keep her warm for the next three nights while despair set in that no one was ever going to find her in this lonely tomb.

Why, Papa and she knew these woods as well as anyone, and neither of them had even been aware that this ancient, dried-out well was there.

After the first day had passed, Emily had the sense and skill and the raw temerity to set her own broken ankle, shoving the bone back where it belonged, only to faint with pain.

When she had come to, she had torn off part of her dress and wrapped the wound.

But by the time Drake's face appeared days later at the jagged edge of the broken boards many feet above her, she was only semiconscious.

Up in the woods, her father tied the rope around a nearby tree and steadied it as Drake climbed down into the pit with her. He took her in his arms and brushed her tangled hair out of her eyes as he whispered questions, trying to learn the extent of the damage.

At once, he had restored her with water from his canteen. Before long, he had tied the rope around them both and held on to her as her father and a crowd of the other servants who had joined the search assisted in pulling them up. She had blinked her eyes against the light as she rejoined the land of the living . . .

And she did so now, the shroud of sleep dissolving.

When she slowly opened her eyes to the new day, she found Drake staring at her, just like he had all those years ago.

With the memory of his rescue so fresh in her mind, as if it had happened yesterday, she moved abruptly to embrace him. She threw her arms around his neck.

The motion took him off guard. He did not have time to push her away. He accepted her hug, gingerly returning it though he seemed bemused.

Emily squeezed her eyes shut as she clung to him, her heart still pounding from the unsettling dream.

"Well, good morning to you, too," Drake mumbled.

When Emily recollected the particulars of last night, namely that he had become a Promethean, she released him from her embrace, warily pulling back.

"You all right?"

She nodded, easing back onto her elbows. "What were you doing, watching me sleep?"

He held her gaze with a faint, reluctant half smile. "I was just waiting for you to wake up."

"Why?"

"So I could thank you."

"For what?" she asked in surprise.

He shrugged. "For what you tried to do for me, by coming here. Don't think I don't appreciate it. Pound for pound, you're the bravest soul I know, my girl. Always were."

"Well, coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment," she responded, pleased. "But if you really want to thank me, you can start by giving me a proper answer. Did you get your memory back or not, yes or no?"

"More or less. Not everything, but enough."

"I knew it! Was it during that monstrous three-day headache you had in England?"

He searched her eyes with a guarded stare, then nodded. "It all started coming back to me then."

"So you are you again."

"Whatever that means." He looked away with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows. "I have to go. I'm on duty in a quarter hour."

Emily sat up in his bed, stretching a bit, while Drake rose from the stool where he'd been sitting beside her and went to buckle on his weapons belt.

A glance toward the balcony revealed the predawn gray hanging over the thick forest, a slowly paling sky above the mountains' pearly peaks.

"I'll send up breakfast for you when I go down," he told her. "I'll be busy for most of the day."

"I hope you weren't too cold sleeping outside last night? It really wasn't necessary--"

"It was fine," he cut her off.

She got up, still clad in his shirt, and pushed up the long sleeves as she followed him, barefooted, toward the door. "So, I won't see much of you today, then?"

"No." His glance skimmed over her, then he sternly looked away.

Emily let out a sigh, dragging her hand through her hair. "Lord, how am I to occupy myself?" she muttered. "You can't keep me locked up in here all day. I'll go mad."

"Well, you're supposed to be my servant. You could always see to the tasks that need doing around here."

"Like what?"

"Those dishes from last night have to go back down to the kitchen. The hearth needs sweeping. My shirts could use a washing in the stream."

She slanted him a skeptical look.

He shrugged again and smiled. "Or you can sit around here and stare at the walls if you prefer."

She snorted. "I don't prefer."

"Good. Then have it all done when I get back."

"I beg your pardon!"

"I'm only teasing."

She snorted and folded her arms across her chest.

"Watch yourself," he warned in a softer tone. "You're free to go about your tasks inside the castle, but don't trust anyone. Don't talk to anyone unless you're spoken to directly. Keep your eyes down. Do your work and keep to yourself. And Emily?"

"Yes, Drake?" She rested her shoulder against the wall, leaning closer to him. His magnetism drew her irresistibly.