My Ruthless Prince (26 page)

Only three or four lengths behind them, he had an excellent view of what happened when she suddenly pulled out her forest knife, whipped her arm behind her, and stabbed the brawny rider in the side.

"Bitch!" he exploded, throwing her out of the saddle; she went tumbling to the ground, but rolled clear of Drake's horse as he veered past.

"Get out of here!" he yelled at her, but the wounded rider blocked her escape, circling back with vengeance in his eyes. The man pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her while she was still getting up from the ground.

Drake charged, leaping off his horse onto the man before he could pull the trigger. They both crashed to earth, each struggling to get control of the gun.

When it went off, it was pointing at the Promethean. He quit fighting, screaming as part of his skull burst open. The bloodcurdling cry ended abruptly even as Drake jumped to his feet and scanned the courtyard for Emily.

"Capitaine!" a familiar voice cried.

He glanced over and saw Jacques embattled.
Damn it.

"Drake!"

Emily ran to him. "Get on the horse and go!" he ordered, catching the animal's reins again.

Wide-eyed, she gave him a shaky nod, and Drake dashed off to help Jacques, he barely knew why. Hell, it was one thing to steal away in the night when all was quiet, but it was beyond his power to turn his back on an ally under siege. Besides, whether he knew it or not, the French sergeant and his band of mercenaries had won Drake's respect and a measure of his trust when he had overheard their murmurs about doing something to save Emily.

While Drake ran to assist Jacques against several opponents, the ill-tempered horse on which he had told Emily to ride away started acting up again.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the bay rear up and nearly kick her in the face when she tried to mount it--a delay that only succeeded in drawing to her the attention of more of Malcolm's men.

To Drake's utter fury, more of them went after her again. While he blocked and hacked his way through one soldier after another, he saw Emily run into the castle, her cloak flowing out behind her.

Good enough,
he told himself.
She'll hide.

She was familiar with the ground floor's maze of dark corridors and stone chambers. Malcolm's men were not. Skilled in stealth as she was, he trusted she could stay out of sight until he could come to her.

Then he threw another opponent to the ground and introduced him to Saint Peter, a savage sort of ecstasy pounding in his veins.

Once Jacques and his men began to get the courtyard under control, Drake abandoned the fight, sprinting into the castle to find Emily.

He ran into the ground floor of the castle and saw more fights in progress but ignored them, looking everywhere to find her.

"Emily?" he yelled into one hallway and the next.

Where the hell is
she?

At last, through the clash, he heard her answer faintly. "Drake! Upstairs!"

He followed the sound of her voice, dashing up the steps two at a time, his bloody sword in hand. But when he reached the top of the stairs, she nearly shot him with an arrow.

He threw up his free hand. "Don't, it's me!"

Her eyes were wide and stark with terror. He saw that she'd been backed into a corner. Then he glanced down at three dead men on the floor before her, all with arrows sticking out of them.

He lifted his gaze to hers again in astonishment, while the skirmish raged on in the great hall not far off.

He realized she was in shock and took a cautious step toward her. "Are you hurt?" he asked softly.

"N-no. You?"

"No."

"Drake, I killed them," she whispered.

"You had no choice," he said, reaching out his hand, but she wouldn't take it.

"This is my last arrow."

"You don't need it. I'll protect you. Come on. Let's get you out of here."

She just stared at him, paralyzed by the violence all around her, not moving from where she stood, her bow and arrow at the ready.

As Drake wondered how to calm her down, he was suddenly distracted by the bloody spectacle unfolding in the great hall.

He could see in through the wide-open doors as one of Malcolm's men hacked down Septimus Glasse as he tried to run away. Another skewered the cowering cardinal. The Russian writer was already dead on the floor.

My God, Malcolm is doing the Order's work for us.

The French marquis made a bold stand before the fireplace, until their bullets raked him.

Malcolm Banks himself went striding past the doorway into view, commanding his men. "Drag that old bastard here to me! You can have the gold--I'll cut off the traitor's head myself. Bring me Falkirk!"

"Unhand me, you cur!" He could hear James's voice, and was barely aware of moving toward it, until Emily suddenly shouted, "Don't go!"

He glanced back at her, his heart pounding.

"Please. It's my last arrow."

He walked over without a word and handed her his loaded pistol. "I'll be right back," he promised in a low, deadly tone, gazing into her eyes.

"He isn't worth it," she pleaded.

He did not try to explain. Leaving her with adequate protection, he ran to try to save the old man's life.

Entering the great hall, he flung himself heartily into the fray, ignoring the fact that he could feel the darkness taking hold of him. At last, he was free from the self-restraint of practice, free to disgorge his hatred on them. He no longer cared that Emily was watching. In that moment, he barely knew her name. For all he knew, he might still be in the dungeon in reality; this, a madman's futile dream, and she no more than a wisp of light in the all-consuming darkness. Only the savage rage inside him tasted real. Pain, death, blood, these were real.

He sent a man's head flying with a most effective strike. Time slowed; sound distorted; he blindly stabbed at anything that got in his way. His pulse booming in his ears, his hands tingling with the battle fury, he slit another enemy open and tossed him aside, deaf to the screams, only reveling that tonight at last they had given him a reason.

Slash, slice, thrust, block. He was in his own world, a terrible place that seethed with bloody fantasies of vengeance. Perhaps the Prometheans had won if they could take a knight of the Order and turn him into this, a last, sane part of him observed.

Fuck the Order,
thought Drake as he twisted the knife in another man's chest. Tonight was not for them or even James.

It was for him.

The Prometheans had turned him into this by what they'd done to him, so let them pay for it.

"Drake!"

Dimly, he heard James calling. He paused in his killing and looked through swimming rage for the old man.

James was backing away from Malcolm, but when Drake spotted him, James pointed toward the distant corner.

"Go to Emily!"

He whirled around and through the open doorway saw her under attack. He drew his arm back with his dagger and hurled his knife without a second's hesitation.

It seemed to take forever as it flew across the corridor.

Those precious seconds, watching it, reopened a narrow window back to sanity and wedged it open.

Then the blade struck home in the man's back.

Emily threw him off her, ashen-faced, not injured, though her shirt was torn. From across the room, she looked into his eyes and spoke words that he heard more in his soul than with his ears.

Come back to me.

He knew she did not mean literally, to her side.

She had seen what he'd been doing. She meant,
Come back from Hell.

But didn't she understand that Hell was where he belonged?

A garbled cry suddenly sounded from a few feet behind him. Drake whirled around to find James impaled on Malcolm's sword.

"You traitor." Virgil's brother sneered as he drove the blade in deeper.

Drake vaulted over the couch and hurled himself at Malcolm, though he already knew deep down it was too late for James. Malcolm hollered for his bodyguards as Drake seized him, but Drake had already killed most of those nearby. Others harkened to his shout from around the castle and came running, but they stopped when they saw Drake's blade at Malcolm's throat.

"Call off your men," Drake growled at his ear.

"Halt," Malcolm told them grudgingly.

They stopped.

"Put your weapons on the ground!" Drake ordered.

No one complied. He pressed the edge of his sword a bit more insistently against Malcolm's neck, nicking him just enough to draw blood.

"You heard him!"

Malcolm's black-clad men glanced around uncertainly at each other, then slowly disarmed themselves, setting their weapons on the floor and straightening up again.

Jacques arrived just then. He and his mercenaries quickly surrounded them.

"I suggest you take your hands off me if you want to live. I don't think you realize who I am," Malcolm said haughtily.

"Of I course I do." Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, so only Malcolm Banks could hear:
"Tell the devil that St. Michael sends his regards."

With that--treacherously--he cut his throat.

Malcolm's men gasped.

Drake dropped their master's body with a dark smile. Then he murmured to Jacques, "Take them outside and get rid of them. Burn the bodies."

Jacques looked at him in surprise: Malcolm's men had put down their weapons, as directed.

Drake shook his head before the Frenchman could bother asking if they ought to be spared. "Save your breath. They'd have done the same to you."

Jacques absorbed this with an uneasy look, then shrugged and nodded in trepidation, as if to say,
It's on your head, then, not mine.

I can live with that.
Drake gazed back at him serenely.

As the mercenaries marched their prisoners out, Emily came running into the great hall; she paused, visibly shocked by the litter of corpses, but she picked her way around them, taking her medicine bag off her shoulder. She ran to kneel by James.

Drake joined her. She must have decided that if the old man was worth saving in his eyes, then she would help, too, with her medicinal skills.

Fearing he had failed, that James was already dead, Drake braced himself, watching her uncertainly.

She pressed her fingertips to the old man's throat, feeling for a pulse. Then she turned to him, wide-eyed. "He's alive!"

Chapter 17

E
mily flexed her fingers, trying to stop their shaking. How was she to work on the old man with her hands trembling so? She doubted there was any number of stitches that could save Falkirk, but she had to try. She knew how much he meant to Drake, in the illogic of the human heart.

She might personally abhor the head of the Council, but she had to try to save him, or Drake would only end up suffering more torment in the future, from the guilt of having failed him.

She followed at a brisk pace as Drake carried Falkirk into the parlor and placed him gently on the divan.

He was in and out of consciousness.

She set down her medicine bag and opened it, shoving aside a thought of monkshood as she glanced at her collection of apothecary herbs. "Get him a blanket. I'll need more bandages, as well. Can you bring him whiskey or something for the pain? I can also use the liquor to clean the wound."

Drake nodded and sped to get all three.

Falkirk seemed so small and frail lying there that, as Emily glanced at him, getting out her scissors and tweezers, she could scarcely believe she had ever been afraid of him. She was not looking forward to the prospect of sewing his abdomen back together, but it had to be done.

As she attempted to lift the torn, bloodied part of his vest away with the tweezers so she could clean the wound, she suddenly noticed him staring steadily at her, his gray eyes glazed with pain.

"You never cease to surprise me, Emily Harper." His cultured baritone had gone weak and raspy.

"Pardon?" she echoed, taken off guard.

"I know you despise me," he said in a dry tone. "And yet you'd work to save my life--even though you know it is impossible."

"Well, it is true I think you're a villain. But this isn't for you. It's for Drake."

He let out a wan laugh. "Clever girl."

Emily frowned. Though clearly in pain, the old man did not seem much perturbed by his imminent death, a fact she found even more unsettling than his seeping wound.

"How long do I have?" he asked with a wince.

"I don't know for certain. You might pull through, it just depends--"

"Miss Harper, the time for lies is past. How long?" he repeated.

She shrugged in dismay. "Perhaps an hour. Maybe less."

"Then I must act swiftly. Send in Drake at once," he forced out. "I wish to speak to him alone."

She hesitated.

"Oh, bother, there are greater matters at stake than the life of one miserable old man!" he snapped. "Go, girl! Get me Drake at once."

Far be it from her to deny a man his dying wish.

She did not know what he was about, but she could see in his eyes that his mind was made up. She rose, adjusted the pillow behind his head in spite of herself, then stepped out to summon his distraught bodyguard.

Drake had all the requested items in his arms and was on his way back to the parlor, giving instructions to his underlings on his way. His face darkened when he saw her waiting. Emily folded her arms across her chest, chilled by the memory of his ruthless capability. Mainly, however, she was furious at herself. They had been so close to escape!

If only she hadn't let herself be seen trying to catch that stupid horse. She shook her head.

Drake dismissed his men and marched over to her, bracing himself for the worst. "How is he?"

She searched his eyes before answering, praying that the terrible night would not set him back too badly. He had been doing so well. "He is dying," she admitted.

Drake flinched and looked away.

"He's asking for you." She gestured toward the room. "He wants to talk to you privately."

"Very well," he said with a nod. Then he paused. "Are you all right?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head with a sigh. "Don't ask me that."

He lowered his gaze, took a deep breath, and squared his broad shoulders. Then he went in to see James.

"G
ood God, don't look so gloomy," James said wryly when he walked in. "Everyone's got to die sometime. I'm old. And, frankly, I'm surprised I lasted this long. We both know I rather had it coming for quite a long time."

Drake sat down heavily on the chair beside the divan. He shook his head. "This is all my fault," he said in a taut voice. "If I had not turned away--"

"Then Emily would be dead."

"You knew I could only save one of you." He studied him. "You gave your life for her."

"Well, as I said, I'm old. She's young . . . and probably carrying your child already."

Drake looked at him in surprise. "Am I so obvious?"

"I have eyes, boy. I'm not a fool."

Drake shook his head, still torn by his choices in the thick of the fight, playing it over in his head, trying to find the mistake. "If I had been faster--"

"Please. You have already saved my life three times. You pulled me out of the path of an Order agent's bullet back in London. The second time, you kept me from drowning when our ship sank in the North Sea."

"If it weren't for that Waterguard vessel, we'd both have frozen," Drake murmured.

"Then at the Pulteney Hotel you saved me from Niall Banks. Unpleasant fellow. If you hadn't come along when you did, he would have strangled me and taken the Alchemist's Scrolls."

"You really can't stay out of trouble, can you?" he said with a fond half smile in spite of their dire situation.

"Well, I'm afraid it's caught up to me this time." Though James smiled weakly, the bandage he held to his middle was turning red.

"I failed you."

"It does not signify. It was bound to end like this for me sooner or later. If you play with fire, and all that. No more glum talk. There is a reason I wanted to speak to you privately, while we still have time."

"Yes, sir?"

"It's about the girl . . ."

"Emily?"

"Yes. I have been watching the two of you since she arrived. To be honest, I've never seen anything like it."

"Like what?" he murmured uneasily.

"Her love for you." James searched his face. "Everyone professes to love something or someone, but they are few, those who would carry it out to the end of the line, unto death. She is not afraid to die for you."

"Nor I for her."

"But you are a warrior. You have the training. All she has is her heart." He shook his head. "We are both undone by her, in our separate ways."

Drake eyed him warily. "I don't understand."

"Ah, my boy, I have defied priests, philosophers, indeed, the laws of justice all my life for what I deluded myself into believing was the love of Mankind. Our Promethean vision . . . bringing all the earth under the rule of one benevolent power . . . no more wars. Universal brotherhood . . . it sounds so inspiring, doesn't it? And yet look at the means we use to try to achieve those ends."

He shook his head. Drake stared at him.

"And here is little Emily, with her perfect willingness to give up her own life. Asking nothing for herself. Pure, unselfish humility . . . Her innocent devotion to you is the genuine article. That is love. She has shown up all our high-minded notions for what they truly are, a sham. You must understand, in my eagerness to do good, I never intended to hurt anyone . . . but it's too late for excuses. All is folly. The truth is, I have sunk into evil."

"James--"

He shook his head, silencing him. "What I wore as virtue was a fine cloak over a monstrosity--and now I must go and face whatever lies beyond the veil. If anything is left of the man I once was, long ago, then I must act now, with my last breath, to try to reverse the consequences of my actions."

"What are you saying?" Drake whispered.

"I was wrong. My whole life has been wrong." He groaned, looking away. "You must know I did not give a damn about you when I first had you removed from that dungeon."

Drake stiffened, but, of course, he knew.

"I have not given a damn for anyone since I let them kill my son." James shook his head with a fierce, inward stare. "He was eleven when I sent him to the altar. Dearest blood. He'd have been about your age by now. You must not let them do this to Emily."

"I never meant to," Drake informed him slowly.

James turned to him at last with an odd, weary smile. "I thought not. Yes . . . I see you clearly now, Lord Westwood. The Initiate's Brand may have marked your body, but the Order's seal is on your soul."

Drake held his stare.

"That is why it all depends on you now. You must finish this."

He looked at James in question.

"Finish what we both know you came here to do. I can help you destroy this bloody death cult once and for all. I can put you into position, but it's up to you to carry it through to the end of the line. Will you do this?"

"Yes."

The old man grasped his hand with a clawlike hold, staring feverishly at him. It was the only time Drake had ever seen his control slip. "Promise me," he rasped.

Drake's heart pounded. "I promise."

"Destroy them all," James whispered. "And then may my son be avenged."

E
mily had moved among the rooms in the castle's main floor, helping the injured. The question of which side they were on at the moment seemed irrelevant. They were human beings, and there were more of them in desperate need of aid than the guards' surgeon could handle alone.

Still, as she followed the sounds of their groans, it was difficult to walk past the place where the dead men lay on the floor with her arrows sticking out of them.

She could not stand to look at them even though it was they who had attacked her, and if she had not defended herself, they would have killed her. They had laughed at her. None of them had thought she'd really shoot.

She hurried into the great hall, a place of carnage. The rug in front of the fireplace was hopelessly ruined, along with most of the upholstered furniture. Lord knew her plan to use the monkshood would have been a great deal tidier.

She picked her way around the bodies and their pools of blood to assist the surgeon with another bleeding lord of the Promethean Council.

She mused on how Lord Rotherstone and the other Order agents would have relished this sight, their enemies laid low. She wondered where he was, if he had even received her letter.

As she and the surgeon helped their patient, one of Jacques's men gain his feet--he was not too badly injured--she saw the parlor door open down the corridor.

Drake stepped out. He must have finished saying his private good-byes to Falkirk. His grim expression was hard to read from that distance, but he called all the survivors in to hear some words from James.

The dying head of the Council wished to speak to all the survivors right away.

The many Prometheans who had come to the castle from all over Europe began shuffling in to hear what he had to say. Emily drifted in surreptitiously, keeping to the outskirts of the room. She wanted to know what was going on. She hoped no one noticed her.

Meanwhile, Drake returned to Falkirk's side. She watched him, still not quite able to believe some of the things she had seen him do that night.

When all the survivors of the attack had assembled, she sensed fear in the hush that fell over them as they gathered around their stricken leader.

"Gentlemen," Falkirk began in a weak voice, "as you've heard by now, I shall be leaving this world shortly. No, it's all right," he assured those who let out sounds of protest. "The important thing is that Malcolm Banks has left it, too--thanks to Drake."

His voice quavered weakly when he spoke again. He cleared his throat.

"Unfortunately, this leaves you all without a leader.

"Losses on the Council have been heavy. Nevertheless, the light always breaks in the darkest hour. I have called you together because I believe that tonight, the moment of our destiny has arrived."

Emily looked at Drake. His hard, beautiful face was inscrutable. He looked like he was carved from stone as he stood by James's side, his arms folded across his chest. Remote, cold, intimidating. His coal black eyes were ominous, his clothes streaked with blood.

He barely looked like the same man, the same tender lover, who had caressed her so passionately the night before.

A silence had fallen over the room.

"There are many secrets hidden in the Alchemist's Scrolls, but one . . . whose time, I feel, has come. I had told the Council earlier . . ." His speech was growing more labored. "But now the time has come for me to reveal it to the rest of you, as well. I think you will agree."

"What is this secret, my lord?" one of the men near the front spoke up.

"Valerian's greatest prophecy, telling of how our ultimate victory would come . . ."

They leaned closer; Emily stared.

"The Alchemist recorded a vision of a knight who would forsake the Order of St. Michael and join our ranks. A warrior-prince who would rise to the apex of our creed and lead our armies to the victory we have so long sought.