My Ruthless Prince (19 page)

The fire's glow sculpted his friends' faces. He studied them, putting his own cares aside, and wondering what to say. Meanwhile, the orange flame of the bonfire in the midst of the three men reminded him of the color of Virgil's moustache years ago when the Highlander had come to the Rotherstone estate in his role as Seeker, and had recruited Max for the Order when he was but a pup. That Scotsman had been more of a father to him than his own sire, the wretched drunkard. If not for Virgil, Max was sure his life would have served no purpose. He'd have simply followed in his dissipated father's footsteps.

He glanced at Rohan, Virgil's favorite. Rohan's father, the previous Duke of Warrington, had once been the leader, or Link, of Virgil's team when he, too, had been a field agent decades earlier.

The previous Duke of Warrington had fallen in his prime, but Virgil had always looked out for his comrade's son, and Rohan, in turn, had adored the rugged Scot. In terms of character, they were cut from the same cloth.

All Max knew was that Warrington had barely spoken a word since they reached the Continent. The duke was dangerous under ordinary circumstances, but ever since Niall had murdered their handler right under their noses--in the heart of their very headquarters--lethal intent had burned in the warrior's pale eyes.

As for Jordan, he shouldn't even be here, Max thought. Falconridge was still recovering from wounds sustained in his vicious battle against the Promethean assassin, Dresden Bloodwell. Jordan had felled the bastard in the end, but not before Bloodwell had stabbed him in the side and slashed him right across the chest. He had nearly died.

That had been about a month ago. Though Jordan insisted he was fine, Max still thought he probably should have stayed at home. Of course, he wouldn't hear of it. If they were going, so was he. Jordan might be more of a gentleman than Max and Warrington combined, but he wanted revenge on Virgil's killer as badly as they did.

So far, Jordan's healing wounds had not reopened, but their journey had not yet reached the far rougher ground ahead. The mountains might well prove too much for him.

In the meanwhile, he insisted that he wouldn't slow them down, and he hadn't. If it came to it, he could take lodgings along the way and wait for them to return.

Although Jordan was still recovering from physical wounds, Max was far more worried about Rohan.

Niall Banks had no idea of the fury coming after him. He was as good as dead already, he just didn't know it yet.

Jordan took a swig of whiskey to soothe away the pain, then passed the bottle to Max, who accepted it gladly. Rohan was smoking a cheroot and poking the fire with a stick--rather vengefully--now and then.

Finally, Max let out a low laugh. "Do you remember the time we painted his horse blue?"

Rohan smiled wistfully. "For his birthday."

"He was certainly surprised," Jordan drawled. "How about the glue we put on that blasted pointer stick he always used in geography class?"

"Priceless. He picked it up and whacked the map to show us bloody Magellan's route round the world, and then he couldn't put it down."

Max grinned at the memory and took another swig of whiskey before passing the bottle on to Rohan. "We used to torture him, poor devil. I don't know why he put up with us."

"Ah, he loved the sport of it as much as he bellowed about our bad behavior," Rohan murmured with a brooding smile.

"We did give him lots of trouble, all of us, at one time or another."

"I didn't," Jordan retorted.

"Oh, yes, you did. Two words. Mara Bryce."

"Well," he conceded with a shrug. "He used to torture us right back."

"Run the fells for two hour at noontime in July," Max reminded them.

"Climb up the side of a cliff in a thunderstorm. That was fun," Jordan added.

"Right, then the chess games after he made us stay up for forty-eight hours at a time."

"Well, he knew what he was doing."

"Suppose so. We're all still alive."

"So help me . . ." Rohan uttered. He didn't complete the thought aloud. He didn't need to.

Jordan sent Max a keen glance. "Rather complicates matters, knowing it's his son. Any part of you that thinks we ought to spare Niall out of respect for his bloodlines?"

"Hell, no! We're more sons to him than Niall Banks will ever be," Rohan murmured bitterly.

"You'll get your chance, man, just be patient," Max assured him.

"It never should have happened."

"You can't undo it." Max shook his head, concerned at his most aggressive friend's bottled wrath. "Remember what he used to say? 'Be glad when it's darkest, because it only means you're close.' "

"I guess we're pretty damned close, then," Rohan growled.

Jordan shook his head, his gaze downcast. "I don't know about you, but I can't stop feeling guilty. All the times I said I didn't want to turn out like him. I should be proud to resemble him in any way," he declared with a hint of anguish in his cultured voice.

"We know what you meant, Jord," Max assured him. "You had the clearest view of how cut off he was from everyone. And you were right. He never really even got to live. All of us had to feel sorry for him from time to time. This war was everything to him."

"
We
were everything to him," Rohan countered. "We were the only 'sons' he had in his life. And we let him down. When he needed us, none of us were there."

"I don't think that's true," Max ventured after a ponderous silence in the face of his rugged friend's grief. "The old man let his guard down for one reason--because Niall was his son. This one's not our fault."

Rohan shrugged and took another drag of his cheroot with the air of a killer patiently biding his time, waiting for his chance. Which, of course, was exactly what he was.

Jordan sighed and lay back on the ground, vaguely touching his bandaged chest. He stared up at the endless distance of the stars. "What is it in man's nature that makes some willing to go to any extremes to gain power over others? Enslave his fellows, even by deceit?"

"If you're trying to understand the Prometheans, you're wasting your time," Max murmured wearily. "Evil doesn't make any sense, that's how it gets so far. It does precisely what a sane man would never do."

"He's right. You can't reason with such people. You can only kill 'em."

"And then what?" said Jordan. "More rise to take their places."

"So you kill them, too. And you just keep on killin' 'em till they stay down."

"What if we fall first?"

"We'll make more like us," Rohan said. "And if they keep coming, then, by God, so will we."

"I don't want my son to have to do this," Max remarked.

A dry, quiet laugh escaped Jordan. "Maybe you'll have a daughter," he said cynically.

"Son or daughter, maybe they'll want to," Rohan pointed out.

"Who would want to?" Jordan murmured wistfully.

"I did," the duke replied without hesitation. "At least then your damned life matters. Otherwise, what? Balls at Almack's, cards at White's? Bloody meaningless."

"You know, it doesn't sound half-bad at the moment," Max drawled, and the other two succumbed to quiet laughter.

"I guess not," Rohan said with a snort.

"Get some sleep, lads," their trusty team leader ordered. "We've got another long ride tomorrow."

They grumbled at the reminder, but soon took his advice.

Max stayed up alone a little while longer, wondering who the Elders up in Scotland were ever going to find to fill the old man's shoes. Someone was going to have to be appointed as the new chief of their London headquarters.

He lifted the bottle in another private toast to his dead mentor. The thing about Virgil was that even when his boys had trouble of any kind, he never gave up on them.

There'll never be another like him.

Max glanced up to search the stars. Soon they'd be in Germany. At the moment, he couldn't help wondering if Virgil would have really given up on Drake.

Chapter 12

Bavaria

A
few days later, Drake stepped out of the cool gray shadow of the castle and paused in the afternoon sunshine, gazing at his one little ally in this fight. Emily was picking wildflowers in a sunny meadow just beyond the gardens. As always, she remained under the watchful eyes of her guards, but Drake ignored them, a tender pang taking hold of his heart.

God's truth, ever since he had confided in her about the true nature of his self-appointed mission, he was no longer sure he was doing the right thing.

It had been easier not to question his plans when he had kept them bottled up inside himself alone. But sharing them with her had caused him to step back and check himself. Did his plan really make sense, or was he merely being driven by pain into some dark and twisted death wish?

He hadn't cared about the answer before, but now it seemed to matter.

The other day, he had deliberately not told Emily his scheme concerning the flammable gas leak inside the Promethean temple. He knew she would too quickly grasp that his chances of surviving the fireball were very slim, indeed. He didn't want her to worry.

But as much as he hated to question himself, he'd begun to wonder. Was his notion really for the best?

He did not doubt that it would work. He had only begun to wonder if he was thinking like a lunatic. Could it be that if everything he'd been through had him galloping headlong into self-destruction merely to escape facing up to it? Had he survived all that merely to throw his life away?

Maybe it didn't have to be that way.

Maybe his dearest, sweetest, most trusted friend could somehow give him a reason to go on.

As he strode across the terrace and down through the gardens, eager to join her in the field, he could not take his eyes off her--the warm beauty drenched in sunshine with an armful of flowers, the ribbons on her playful straw hat billowing on the breeze.

One thing was certain. Any hope that he had left in life centered around her. Their difference in rank no longer mattered a whit, if it ever had. He had the sense his life depended on her though of course he would never admit to it. But privately, he had noticed the change within himself ever since he had taken her into his confidence.

Prior to their talk, he had been filled with nothing but darkness and hate, rage and bitterness eating him up from within; but ever since he had let her in, her gentle words of hope and promises of healing echoed in his soul.

He had found himself oddly distracted since then, repeating her words over and over in his mind, until the one small ray of light left in him began to gather strength. Maybe she was right.

Maybe he could be saved. Maybe, somehow, he could be whole again . . . but that was a question for another day. First they somehow had to survive this deadly Promethean chess game. And that was chiefly up to him.

He'd kill all of them to protect her. But he put violence out of his mind when he reached the garden gate, his spirits lifting as he went through it, closing it behind him.

He began walking toward her.

Though she was still essentially a prisoner, he was glad at least to see her out in the fresh air where she belonged. He had spoken to James after his talk with Emily the other day, as promised, telling the old man it was not in her nature to remain indoors around the clock, especially when the weather was so fine.

James had warily agreed that she could spend an hour or two outside each day, as long as she did not wander away from her guards. For reasons of his own, the old man had also given Drake permission to visit her every day if he wished, for up to half an hour.

Of course, he was not allowed to touch her in any improper fashion, and the two of them would have to be at least informally chaperoned by her guards. They wanted their virgin sacrifice intact for the night of the eclipse.
Revolting.
Still, it was better than nothing, and the truth of the matter was, they would never get their hands on her.
Over my dead body.

Just then, Emily glanced over and saw him coming. She straightened up at once, her load of flowers in one arm; she sent him a cheerful wave with the other.

He couldn't help but smile.

"
Buon giorno, il mio amico!
" she greeted him, much to the amusement of her current guards on duty, a pair of swarthy Sicilians from the cardinal's retinue.

"You're learning Italian now?" he replied indulgently as he walked over to her through the tall, breezy grasses.

"
Si, non e cosi difficile,
" she answered with a shrug.

He chuckled. "Now you're just showing off."

"No, if I really wanted to impress you, I'd demonstrate some of the curse words all my charming foreign bodyguards have been teaching me to help to pass the time."

"They're teaching you to curse?"

"Oh, yes. I now have at least two or three choice epithets in Italian, German, Spanish, French, and Russian."

"Charming."

"I know! Your mother would be so impressed." She threw a daisy at him.

He caught it and just stood there smiling like an idiot. Then she pointed at him and uttered a word at his expense to the Italians, who burst out laughing.

"
Si, bella!
"

Drake rested his hands on his waist, attempting to scowl, but in truth, not even close to being annoyed by her cheeky taunts. He was the one who had told her to charm her guards. It appeared she had already checked that item off her list of things to do.

Having favored the Italians with a sunny grin, she turned back to Drake. "So," she said pertly. "There you are."

"Here I am." He pulled a petal off the daisy and threw it at her. "I thought I'd come and look in on you. I see you're enjoying the sunshine."

"Oh, yes, quite! Look at my bouquet!" With the guards so near, she was playing her role as the blithe girl, unaware of the danger, just as they had discussed.

But Drake saw the deeper shadows in the violet of her eyes and knew she was still afraid of what the future held.

"They're going to look so pretty in my room," she chattered on. "As I was just telling Giancarlo, I haven't seen any red Alpine flowers out here at all. Yellow, pink, white, blue, even orange. Loads of purple. But no red. Isn't that curious?"

"Hmm," said Drake. "I suppose it is."

The Italian shook his head, dismissing her girlish prattle with a knowing shrug and a worldly smile.

Drake returned it. "Give us a few minutes, would you?"

His colleague nodded warily, glancing toward the shade. "I'll be just over there. You know the rules,
Capitano.
Don't lose track of the time."

He gritted his teeth slightly at the reminder, did not reply. Instead, he turned and followed Emily, who had strolled on across the meadow. A few feet ahead, she bent gracefully, picking another colorful bloom and adding it to the bunch.

"How are you?" he murmured urgently to her once they were out of earshot of the guards.

"Very glad to be free of my chamber at last, I can tell you. Whatever you said to make them let me out, I cannot thank you enough. You've saved my sanity. How are you?" she countered. "You look terrible. Aren't you sleeping?"

He shrugged; lack of sleep was the least of his worries. "More of the Prometheans have been arriving. James is keeping me hopping to make sure everything runs smoothly. What about you? I see you've been making good progress on what we discussed."

"More than you know."

"What do you mean?"

She gave him a mysterious sideways smile. "Never you mind, love. Just help me pick some flowers."

He eyed her warily, noting the canny tone beneath her idle words. "You're up to something."

"Who, me?" She picked another blossom, inhaled its scent, then held it up to inspect its delicate structure. "Beautiful, aren't they? Some of these mountain flowers are quite new to me, but many of them are familiar to English meadows. It's like seeing my old friends. . . . Mountain laurel. This tall, handsome one is the Blue Thistle. This little white one, the Silverstar--the locals call it edelweiss. Isn't it charming? This yellow one is the Alpine auricula. We've got their cousins back in England. So, how many Prometheans would you say will be here at the castle once their number is complete?" she murmured in an idle tone.

He shrugged. Of course he'd seen the list. "About two hundred, including their bodyguards and entourage. "Why do you ask?"

"Hmm." She ignored the question, continuing her commentary on the flowers as she plucked another bloom. "This bold orange one is the
Arnica montana.
Makes a good poultice for cuts and bruises. Maybe I should gather extra," she added, shooting him a wry look askance.

He smiled at her, but now she had his full attention. She was definitely up to something . . .

"We've got a variety of marguerites. Here's Meadowrue." She gathered an airy mauve flower with a cloudlike plume. "And do you know what this stately, bluish purple spike is called?"

"No idea," he said, amused, as she picked it and added it to the bunch. "But it is the same color as your eyes."

"Is it?" She turned to him with a faint, mysterious smile, pausing. "It's known as monkshood.
Aconitum napellus.
The wicked cousin of the lowly buttercup." She turned away and walked on.

"Wicked?" Drake followed, furrowing his brow. "What do you mean?"

She glanced back to make sure her guards kept their distance. "If ingested, the poison of the monkshood is strong enough to stop a man's heart within minutes. Fifty stalks like this should easily be enough to kill two hundred men."

Drake's stare homed in on her in astonishment. "Should you be touching that?" he blurted out automatically.

"It's all right. It has to be taken internally. I don't want to collect too much of it at one time, though, in case they notice."

He somehow found his voice again as he followed her. "Are you sure about this?"

"Fairly. This species looks a little different than the one we have in England, but of the dozen or so subspecies known, all are highly toxic. All we have to do is figure out a way to put it into something they'll either eat or drink . . ."

Drake could not believe he was standing there with his innocent little Emily discussing mass murder.

And here he'd thought
he
was the dangerous one.

"If we run out, I've also seen some yellow wolf's bane growing around here. It's a cousin to the monkshood, just as deadly. I took a few stalks for added measure."

"And they're mixed in your bouquet?"

She nodded almost demurely, turning away. "You always told me the best place to hide something is in plain sight."

Drake's heart pounded as he followed her, quickly picking a daisy to busy his hands. "So, what exactly do you propose? What's involved?"

"I must first reduce the plants to powder. That will make it easier to slip it into the food. By day, I'll dry the stalks out under my bed where they won't be noticed. By night, I'll hang them by the hearth fire to speed the drying process. Once they're dried, I'll crumble them into flakes and we'll find a way to slip it into something the Prometheans will consume. Either food or drink will do. It can even be cooked without diminishing the poison. That's why I wanted to know how many men you expect. I have to make sure I've got a sufficient dosage for them all."

"Does it have a taste?"

"No one's ever lived to say so. There is no antidote. There'll be no turning back."

"God, Emily. Are you sure about this?"

"I told you I could help."

"Promise me you'll be careful handling that stuff," he ordered.

"Don't worry, I'll wear gloves." She glanced down to show him she was wearing white gloves now like a dainty little lady--plotting mass death. "You look shocked."

"Because I am."

"Do you like my plan?"

"It's brilliant," he admitted. Indeed, he thought her plan was even better than his.

It had a much higher chance of success and would be easier to target. One thing was certain. The Prometheans would never see it coming, feeling themselves to be safe in the home of one of their most esteemed fellow conspirators. And yet they would be poisoned by the wildflowers growing all around them, concocted by the one person there whom they regarded as innocent and helpless.

Rather poetic justice, Drake mused.

"I hope you don't think badly of me for this," she said, her somber gaze full of adorable sincerity as she searched his eyes.

He gave her a tender half smile. "Of course I don't. Just remind me never to cross you."

She lowered her head. "I suppose it must sound rather diabolical."

"As only a woman could dream up," he agreed. "Emily."