My Ruthless Prince (12 page)

As James hurried off to put the men to work and examine his revered Promethean temple for the ravages of time, Drake turned around and scanned the cavern by the dusty rays of light that had broken through the subterranean darkness.

The upper arches of the cave's natural roof bristled with dramatic stalactites that sparkled with quartz and dripped now and then with the water running down their tips. Quite beautiful, but the man-made features of the temple cave chilled him. Carvings crouched around the space, nightmare figures writhing in the stone, demons, idols. Gargoyles? It was hard to say. Some of the poses were obscene.

Drake sauntered toward the altar at the center of the temple. It was surrounded by a large circle engraved into the smooth stone floor. The Wheel of Time--a favorite Promethean symbol--adorned with astrological and alchemical symbols. Four freestanding pillars rising from the circle marked the cardinal directions.

James was busily snapping orders at the guards to sweep away the bat guano that soiled their sacred space.

Drake drifted closer, staring at the main structure, a sinister raised dais in the center of the Wheel of Time.

With a few steps leading up to it, the floor of the dais was about chest high on him and decorated with a pentagram. Drake somehow refrained from shaking his head.

In the center of the raised platform stood a stone altar about the length of a person. His stomach turned at the sight of leather restraints waiting to strap down the victim's hands and feet.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed James watching him intently. At once, he chased any sign of horror off his face. "What do you think?" the old man inquired.

"Beautiful," Drake replied.

James smiled in approval of his answer, then pointed to a black-painted metal door a few feet across from the bottom of the steps that led up to the dais. "Get that open for me, would you? There's a good lad. I'll need those hinges oiled. We can't have it squeaking at the most solemn moment of the ceremony. Be careful of any wild animals that might have found their way into the tunnel."

"Tunnel, sir?"

"The sacrifice is brought in through that doorway. Once you open it, you'll find a tunnel that leads to another entrance into the mountain, different from the one we used. He or she is taken into the tunnel and joins us through that door."

"I see," he forced out. He was horrified by James's cool and businesslike explanation and his utter seriousness, as if he saw nothing at all wrong with it, but Drake did not have the luxury of letting his emotions show.

He managed a nod, dropped his gaze, and did as he was told.

James stood by, watching him muscle the rusty door open, but secretly, Drake was reeling.

In a sense, he felt as though he was seeing James's true face for the first time, and he did not know what to make of it.

Nevertheless, the reality of his precarious situation struck him all over again. So he masked his shock and pulled the door open, peering into the dark tunnel, through which an unknown number of terrified victims had been brought in to face an unspeakable death.

If he had not gone mad already, this moment might well be the straw that broke the camel's back, he thought wryly.

Meanwhile, Jacques and his men were earning their unusually high wages by questioning nothing and simply following James's commands. In the presence of pure evil, they scurried about, nervously tidying the temple as if this were the most mundane of tasks.

Drake's own heart was pounding with a degree of fear he had not felt in a long time.

"Are you all right?" James murmured, studying him with a keen and penetrating eye.

"Of course, sir," Drake said with an equally businesslike nod. "What else would you have me do? Shall I have a look into the tunnel, then?" He hooked his thumb idly over his shoulder at the dark space through the door.

"Yes, make sure no wild animals have taken up residence in there. For that matter, the whole space here could use a look round."

"Very good, sir. Light?" He beckoned to the nearest Frenchman, who dutifully handed him a torch.

Drake grasped the torch in his left hand and pulled his rifle into position under his right arm, snug against his side, then he ducked through the door and advanced into what he soon realized had originally been a coal-mining tunnel.

He followed the tunnel for a few hundred yards without incident. If any small animals had ever found their way into this shelter, the spring season must have drawn them back out into the world again. At the far end of the tunnel, he encountered a heavy metal door, which he forced open.

Squinting against the light, he stepped out and turned, surveying his surroundings. He was in a meadow, a few acres away from the tree line of the woods.

The light breeze stirred his hair, and, for two seconds, he allowed the sun to warm his face. He took a deep breath.

Bracing himself to return, he slipped back into the darkness, pulled the door shut behind him, and marched back to the temple. He informed James that the tunnel was clear, then proceeded to walk the perimeter of the interior, searching every nook and cranny of the sprawling mountain cavern, on the watch for whatever he might find.

When he came to a dark alcove at the other end of the cavern, he thrust his torch in to have a look, and to his surprise, it flared without warning.

He cursed and pulled back, taken off guard and nearly singed. He avoided dropping the torch but held it out farther from his body, wondering why it had blazed with such sudden ferocity.

As he backed out of the alcove, the flame returned to its normal height.

Drake furrowed his brow, his eyes smarting from the smoke. As his vision adjusted again after the unexpected bright burst of light, he spotted the round wooden cap on the alcove floor.

It reminded him of the boards Emily had fallen through so long ago, the ones covering up the abandoned well.

Realization dawned. The cap must cover one of the old mine shafts, he thought. More cautiously, he moved into the alcove once again, stretching out his arm and letting the torch go first.

Again, the flame flared.

Firedamp.

Obviously, the seal on the mine shaft must be leaking, he realized. The highly flammable gas could not be seen or smelled, but his torch told him loud and clear that, indeed, firedamp was in the air.

His memory was not so befuddled that he had forgotten the current science in the newspapers James made him read.

This natural gas was often found by mining operations. The leading scientists of the day were still figuring out how best to use its highly combustible vapors.

Back in England, he had seen the new gas-burning streetlamps that had recently been installed on a few of London's most notable avenues, especially those that were well trafficked at night.

But the new gaslights had a hazardous reputation.

Half the populace wouldn't go near them for fear of the explosions they caused every once in a while, sending panic in the streets.

Drake stared at the wooden cap.

At that moment, he knew exactly what he would do. The solution to all his problems flooded into his mind.

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder at the vile Promethean temple, with its grotesque statues and unspeakable stone altar. On the night of the eclipse, the great cavern would be filled with all the surviving true believers of their insidious cult . . .

Drake nonchalantly backed away from the alcove, veiling the savage triumph in his eyes.

"Find something?" James asked, turning to him curiously.

He shook his head. "All clear, sir," he answered with an odd smile.

The Prometheans worship
Satan's fire,
he thought.
So let them burn in it.

Courtesy of the Inferno Club.

Chapter 9

T
hat evening, Emily sat on the low stool before the hearth, idly prodding the fire with the poker and waiting for the pot to boil. Her mood of hard-won serenity had finally been achieved by her coming to a decision. A final, desperate stratagem to get Drake out of there.

Earlier that day, following the shocking discovery that Waldfort Castle was the very place Drake had been held as a prisoner, she had dried her tears at last, calmed herself, and spent the rest of the day considering what to do next.

She had to do
something.

Mulling it over all day long, she channeled her nervous energy into the small things she could find to do for him in the meanwhile.

Some women might have considered the simple chores demeaning, but she savored the chance to do her wounded friend any small, tender service. Besides, it kept her hands busy, and it gave her time to think.

She had finished his laundry. His clothes were cleaned and either folded or ironed and tucked away in drawers or hung up on the row of wall pegs. She had dusted and swept, changed the sheets, made the bed, and plumped the pillows.

The whole room smelled of fresh mountain air and spring sunshine. For a finishing touch, the little bouquet of wildflowers she had picked to brighten his room sat in a tin cup on the chest of drawers.

Now she was heating water on the fire, but long before beginning the present task, she had made up her mind that there was only one solution.

She had to get him out of this evil place. He had no business being here. She had seen for herself that they trusted him enough that he could walk out anytime of his own free will. All they'd have to do was clear the boundaries of the property and run. The Prometheans might give chase, but between Drake's spy skills and her forest craft, they could flee them undiscovered.

All that remained was to persuade him.

Tonight she would stop at nothing to win his agreement.

Of course, it would have to be undertaken carefully.

After the way they had parted earlier, he was probably apprehensive about returning to the room.

Her first task was to show him it was all right and she was not a threat. She must give him breathing room and see that he relaxed.

The second she heard him outside the closed chamber door, her prediction about his uneasiness upon returning to the room was confirmed. It seemed to take him an awfully long time to get his key out and unlock the door.

Holding her position on the stool, she sent a knowing glance toward the door, then returned her attention to the fire, and barely looked at him when he edged in, very much on guard.

"Hullo," she said nonchalantly.

He shut the door behind him and mumbled a greeting in response. Then he glanced around, taking in all the improvements she'd made. "You've been busy," he remarked in surprise.

She smiled at him. "A bit. I'm having tea. Would you like some?"

"What kind?"

"Blackberry. I brought it in my bag from home."

"Blackberry tea from home?" he echoed as he took off his coat. "How can I pass that up?"

She just smiled and kept her distance, leaving him to make himself comfortable after a hard day's work.

"It's almost cozy in here now," he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat. He nodded at the blooms. "Nice flowers."

"Ah, dirty things in there," she instructed, pointing to the basket in the corner, which she had brought up from the ground-level laundry.

"Sorry, I'm--dusty," he said ruefully, and he added under his breath, "Been underground all day."

Hmm.
She resisted the urge to ask him what that meant while he walked out to the balcony and shook the dust from his waistcoat over the railing.

Emily turned back to the fire. Before the water reached the boiling point, she pulled the pot out of the flames and used a cloth to carry it over to the washbasin on the dresser, pouring it full of warm water so he could refresh himself.

Returning from the balcony, he glanced at the warm clean water, then back at her in surprise. "Well, that was nice of you."

"I know," she said blithely. Sending him an arch smile, she returned to put the rest of the water back on to boil while Drake took off his shirt.

She stole an eager glance at his bare, muscled back but vowed to behave and sat back down on the stool, fighting the urge to watch him washing up.

She rested her elbow on her knee and propped her chin on her fist, gazing into the cheerful flames and listening to the lonely warble of some night bird's call from beyond the open balcony doors. "Oh--" She suddenly remembered. "There's a washcloth and towel for you there, and I left you a square of the homemade soap . . ." She turned to make sure he had found the needed items, but her words trailed off as she looked at him, captivated once more by the rugged splendor of his body.

"Found it," he informed her in the midst of splashing his face and throat.

"Good," she forced out in a slightly strangled tone. The water was not the only thing hot enough to boil at the moment. She took it out of the fire and, with slightly trembling hands, poured it into the waiting teapot she had requested from the kitchens. Leaving their blackberry tea to steep and the Earl of Westwood his privacy to finish washing the rest of his delectable self as he saw fit, Emily removed to the balcony.

Out in the cool, silken darkness of the night, she leaned against the railing and stared up at the half-moon shining down on the sweeping mountain vistas, and the black velvet sky sprinkled with stars.

At length, Drake walked out and joined her. He had put on one of the soft white shirts she had cleaned for him, which was wise if he didn't want her to touch him. That beautiful sculpted chest was too much temptation.

He had poured the tea into two mugs for them, and as he joined her, he handed her one. She smiled in thanks; he leaned against the rail beside her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. She hid her delight that he had joined her, but inside, was thoroughly encouraged. The cares of the day slowly faded as they stood side by side in companionable silence, soaking in the beauty of the night.

Emily was acutely aware of him beside her: tall, strong in so many ways, endlessly interesting, at least to her. Most of all, she was attuned to the ever-vigilant tension in him, thrumming slightly, as always, in his big, sinewy form.

But he took a sip of the blackberry tea from home, swallowed, and gave his approval in one of his wordless male rumbles, like a purr in his throat.

A moment after that, he let out a long sigh, and only then, did she sense him beginning to release his tension.

"So, what do you think of the Continent?" he asked her matter-of factly out of the blue.

She sent him a quick, shy smile and shrugged, delighted at his effort at making conversation. "Well, I didn't have time for the usual tourist sights."

"No?"

"It was a fast trek. Bewildering, to be honest. Why are there are so many languages and dialects?" she complained in an airy tone. "I had barely figured how to say something in one, when it changed to the next." She shook her head. "I gave up on talking to anyone but myself before we crossed the Rhine--and trying to figure the money? Ugh. I'm quite sure one of those innkeepers in France charged me a week's wages for a bowl of soup and some bread."

"Well, if he gave you the bread, it was probably worth it."

"It was good," she admitted with a smile.

Drake flashed a rather roguish grin in answer, then he took another sip of her homemade tea.

Emily could not take her eyes off him. The glow in her heart for him could have lit up the night.

If there was one good thing about being there, she thought, at least for once she had him to herself. No Lady Westwood, his mother, looking over her shoulder with suspicion. No Lord Rotherstone, all business, trying to help Drake get his memory back so the Order could find out how much, if anything, he might have told the Prometheans under torture.

At that moment, all of that was behind them. Emily noticed herself edging closer to him, seeking his body's warmth. She held herself back from caressing his shoulder, however.

His two requests this morning had been very clear.

Never mention this to me again
and
Don't touch me.

She wrapped her hands more firmly around her warm cup of tea. "Are you going to eat in the Guards' Hall again tonight?" she inquired as the conversation lagged.

"No, I asked to have supper sent up to both of us here."

She glanced at him in surprise.

"You've been alone all day," he pointed out.

She pressed her lips together and shrugged.

He gazed at her intently before turning away to stare across the mountainside. "I want to apologize for the way I acted earlier today."

She looked at him in surprise. "There's no need."

"You were only trying to help. It's true, this is where I was held. There's nothing I could do about coming back here. James wanted it. I don't like it, but I'm all right."

She kept her eyes down. "I wasn't going to mention it."

"Well . . . thank you for understanding. Friends?"

She looked down at his offered hand in wry hesitation. "You said I wasn't to touch you."

"You can touch me now if you like."

She put her cup of tea on the railing, then turned to him, holding his gaze. "I was hoping you would say that."

When she laid her hands on his chest, he set his drink aside, as well. Emily stepped closer to him, sliding her palms slowly up toward his shoulders, lifting her head to continue staring into his dark, soulful eyes. He smiled at her ever so faintly, a hint of curiosity in his gaze as he curved his arms around her waist.

With a warm caress, she cupped her fingers around his nape and pulled him down to kiss her.

Drake's lips met hers with soft caution; she could sense his surprise at her advance--and could feel him holding himself back. But there was no need for him to.

Behind her closed eyes, all Emily wanted was to love and reassure him. Just barely parting her lips, she let him set the pace.

He tilted his head the other way and kissed her again, a warm, nuzzling caress. As his smooth lips glided back and forth lightly over hers, her toes curled.

She clung to him, weak-kneed and dizzy with delight; though she steadied herself holding on to his big shoulders, she waited breathlessly for more. With every racing heartbeat, she was barely aware of Drake stealing control of the situation from her.

He released her waist to capture her face between his hands, kissing her over and over again until she was in a trance. Her palms molded the iron contours of his arms as she slid her light hold down to his waist.

His right hand caressed her hair, his left tipping her chin upward while his tongue stroked hers. His kisses were flavored like sweet blackberry tea. He tasted of home.

And that was where she must bring him. However much she wanted him, that was the point of all this. Her final option was to lure him out of this place by offering him the pleasure of her body. If it was the only way left to save him . . .

Well, it was hardly a sacrifice, after all the years she'd been in love with him.

She played with his tongue as his kisses deepened. He drank her in like the rarest of wines. His hands began roaming over her body, tenderly stroking her neck and shoulders, tracing the lines of her arms. Growing arousal made her bold. She slipped her hands under his shirt and, touching his naked flesh for the first time, gasped in wonder at the feel of him. Caressing him was almost more than she could bear, his sleek sides, his chiseled abdomen. His body was even more beautiful to touch than to look at. Returning his kisses hungrily, she gloried in the smooth, warm velvet of his skin and went on savoring him with her fingertips. For a man who didn't want to be touched, he was now returning her caresses as hotly as he was receiving them.

Emily did not even dream of stopping him when he cupped her breasts through her gown, squeezing, groping her. She welcomed it. She had wanted it for so long.

They should have done this a long time ago if he wasn't so blasted honorable, she thought. Still kissing her in abandon, Drake maneuvered her against the railing of the balcony, backing her into the corner. She smiled playfully against his mouth, but when he pulled back a small space, glancing into her eyes to make sure this was all right, she licked her lips in silent permission for whatever he might choose.

He planted his hands on the railing on either side of her, then leaned closer, brushed the tip of his nose affectionately along her cheek and ducked his head to kiss her neck. Emily melted, bracing her elbows on the wooden rail behind her, tipping her head back as he lavished her neck and throat with his attentions. Her long hair flowed over the edge of the railing, teased by an occasional puff of wind, while the starlight sparkled on her eyelids and danced in his black hair.