My Ruthless Prince (7 page)

"Does anyone else in the Order know where you are?" he demanded in a soft but steely voice.

She shook her head slowly.

His dark eyes probed her, but after a heartbeat, he seemed to take her at her word. He nodded, lowering his hand to his side.

Then he bent down slowly, still studying her face. "Back in London, you followed me to the Pulteney Hotel. I assume you saw my fight with Niall Banks. That red-haired man."

She nodded, her heart in her throat.

"Did the Order find Niall where I left him? What happened after my carriage pulled away?"

Emily swallowed hard. "I saw Lord Rotherstone and Virgil and the others take that red-haired man into custody. He came out screaming when they emerged from the hotel. I think you dislocated his shoulder."

The trace of a cruel half smile curved his lips. "Pity. What else?"

She shook her head, lifting her shoulders. "They drove away. Then I followed you."

His gaze softened slightly as he stared at her. "Stop looking at me like you're terrified of me. I'm not going to hurt you."

"You've taken their mark," she forced out in a strangled voice, nodding at his chest though it was covered now by his jersey. "The Initiate's Brand. I saw it."

He nodded once, holding her stare defiantly.

She couldn't believe it. "Did they do that to you against your will?"

"I cannot say that they did."

"Oh, Drake." She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob, tears rushing into her eyes.

Some of the fire retreated from his eyes, but he shook his head ever so slightly. "It's not worth crying over."

No, Drake, it's a tragedy.
She turned away, unable to look at him, in her sheer confusion and disappointment. It was true. The Drake she knew and loved was gone.

The Prometheans had won. He bore the proof on his body that he was now a traitor to everything he had once held dear. And when his friends arrived, they would have to kill him.

She would not stand in their way.

She brushed off his hand when he tried to cup her cheek.

Studying her, he offered no tender word of solace, no reassurance. "Good night." He straightened up to his full height and prowled off toward the balcony. "Leave these doors unlocked. I'll have to leave early. I'm back on duty at dawn." He took one of his pistols with him and went out to sleep on the balcony.

N
o word in any of the languages Drake spoke could have expressed his disgusted, miserable fury at the success of his deception as he dragged himself outside and dropped heavily into the chair he had brought out.

Through the balcony doors, he could still hear Emily crying softly as he set the gun down nearby within easy reach. He pulled the blanket over himself, propped his feet up on the balcony railing, and stared across the forest treetops at the white half-moon.

Half in darkness, half in light.

Rather like himself.

Bloody hell.
Drake rubbed his eye sockets with one hand, trying to drown out the sound of Emily's little sobs.

But he had to hold the line. Though her tears wrenched him, he could not risk letting her see behind his mask as a Promethean convert.

If he told her the truth, she'd never be able to lie well enough to fool James. Chances were, she would unwittingly give away the game, and they'd both be dead.

True, Drake had come back to the castle on what was likely a suicide mission, but he did not intend to die until he had also made sure that his enemies would join him.

Things were moving in the right direction. The meeting had yielded an encouraging development. James would be sending for all the Prometheans still left out there to come to the castle. He could kill them all together. At this point, it was only a matter of figuring out how.

In the meanwhile, lying to Emily was for the best.

Perhaps doing so would help to inspire her to leave. He wanted her out of here, but he could not get rid of her without her cooperation. The sort of escape he could provide for her would require her to run on her own two feet and use her woodland skills to hide and flee.

Attached to him as she was, he had known he might need some useful means to drive her away. Letting her believe he was evil was as good a ploy as he was likely to find.

Drake sighed, resting his head back against the chair.

It was not very comfortable, but she was welcome to take the bed. He didn't sleep much, anyway.

Presently, as he closed his eyes, he could still see her in crisp detail in his mind, his oversized shirt draping her petite frame.

When he had stepped into the room earlier, bringing her dinner, he had been stunned at the delicious prospect of her in his room, all clean and warm and tousled, as if she had spent the day lounging in his bed.

She had almost caught him looking her over, from her dainty bare feet all the way up to her cascade of long, golden brown hair, flowing past her delicate shoulders.

His shirt hung to midthigh on her, and when she had turned away, his glazed stare had raked her slim, smooth legs and the alluring curve where the fabric loosely skimmed her firm derriere.

Then she had turned to face him again, pushing up the long sleeves. Though she had fastened the buttons at the neck, the deep V of the shirt still exposed the full, silky run of the white valley between her breasts.

At the sight of that lovely valley, he had felt his blood heat up with real, hot, needy desire for the first time in two years. He could not stop thinking about the way she had tasted when he had kissed her earlier in the forest.

And he pondered the interesting knowledge that it had not bothered him to do so.

Once upon a time, he had been a lover of legendary prowess. But ever since his sojourn in the dungeon, he could hardly stand for anyone to touch him, even by accident.

He felt very different after that kiss this afternoon, however. He had liked it a great deal. In truth, he'd been shocked at how quickly, how fiercely his body had responded to her. Savoring the thought of her scantily clad figure, he suddenly looked down at himself in surprise.

All his musings on Emily's many enticements had started getting him hard.

He reached under the blanket in astonishment and grasped himself.

"Damn," he whispered, surprised but pleased.

He hadn't had one like that since before he'd been captured.

Indeed, he had not lain with a woman in two years, and frankly, had lost all interest in sex--at least, it would seem, until today.

Considering he had lost his mind and his memory for a while due to his ordeals, losing his potency as a man had seemed to him the least of his problems.

It had comforted him slightly to know that at least his many malfunctions weren't his fault. Everything had worked perfectly before the torturers had got hold of him.

Afterward, however, well, he had more or less concluded it was all over for him where women were concerned.

Back in London, James had hired that whore to pleasure him, but the experience had only traumatized him further. Her too-aggressive touch had nearly made him retch; all he had been able to feel toward the high-priced harlot was revulsion and disgust. It had been a humiliating episode, but Drake had put it out of his mind because the bleak truth was, he didn't really care anymore about sex or women or anything. All that mattered was killing Prometheans.

He had all but accepted the fact that his once-splendid manhood, which had brought delight to so many was defunct, a poor fallen soldier who would not rise again.

But lo and behold, he had discovered that he was wrong. He held hard evidence to the contrary in his hand. He gave it a welcome-back squeeze through his trousers: aye, a full-fledged and extremely needy erection.

Well! It would seem his ol' fella had come raging back to life on account of the lovely Emily.

Rather delighted by this surprising upward turn of events, he removed his hand from his crotch. Even his own touch felt wonderful after all that time, but he didn't dare push his luck.

It occurred to him that this unforeseen and still tentative, instantaneous, nay, magical repair to his member could be of use if he could not get Emily to leave. If it was her virginity that could put her in danger from the Prometheans, perhaps they could do something about that, the two of them--only as a last resort, of course.

He had been warned since boyhood in the most dire terms not to touch her, that if he misbehaved where his whimsical little playmate was concerned, her father would be dismissed from his post, and both Jack Harper and his violet-eyed daughter would be sent packing.

Drake had obeyed his parents in this, all the more so when he grew old enough to understand the duty of a gentleman not to molest the females under his employ.

Nor had he ever wanted to behave in a way that made Emily lose respect for him or cease to trust him. Quite in contrast to his many casual bed partners, she had become a necessity to him over the years, one of the few constant pillars of his life. She was always there for him to go home to whenever his work for the Order started steering him into a dark place in his head. She never had to say much. Just being around her soothing, quiet simplicity helped him sort things out in his own mind.

So deeply was it ingrained in him to treat her as chastely as a brother that he barely dared allow himself to imagine what it would be like to make love to her.

Still, if it came to a question of keeping her safe from these bastards and their sick hunt for a virgin sacrifice, perhaps there was something the two of them could do about that.

The easiest way to guard her from the threat would be to make their ruse a reality. He could seduce her . . .

His cock was alive and well, indeed, throbbing at the possibility. Drake slowly turned and peered over his shoulder into the room through the open balcony doors. Emily lay curled up on the edge of his bed, staring into the small fire she had built in the hearth before his arrival.

His pulse pounded. He did not want her to cry. He did not want her to be sad or to doubt him or to see him as a traitor. Her opinion of him was one of the last things he still cared about in life. The temptation was strong.

How easy it would be to go back in there and comfort her. Tell her it would be all right. She would believe him. She always did. He could touch her at last, and let her take him into her exquisite arms. Lay her down.

He knew in his blood she wanted him, too.

Then they could have what they both had longed for and fantasized over and totally pretended to ignore for so long, playing innocent, as if they were not in love, no matter who forbade it. At last, they could become lovers.

Drake stared at the curve of her hip, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath in the hunger that gripped him. His blood was on fire.

Yes, why not?
he thought with a hard swallow, his pulse racing.

But then came the grim reminder from his worldly, warrior half.
Because you're going to die,
it said.
Remember what you're here for. She's already lost you once.

You've already put her through enough.

Well, that put rather a damper on his enthusiasm.

He let out a cynical sigh and looked forward again at the mountains and the moon.

He stared at the dark landscape for a long moment, recalling her silly attempt to convince him earlier today that life was worth living because of some picturesque scenery, trees and whatnot, as if he gave a damn.

He shook his head to himself wryly.
Beautiful little fool.

But . . . perhaps the Alpine view wasn't half-bad, he conceded with a faint, begrudging smile.

There was something far more beautiful to gaze at inside the room, in his opinion. But gazing would only lead to touching and get him in trouble.

Drake shut his eyes with the trace of a smile still on his lips. Feeling more like himself than he had in two years, he did his best to go to sleep.

He had no intention of admitting it, but damned if a part of him wasn't glad she was there.

Chapter 5

London

A
thick fog blanketed London that night as the ornate black carriage rolled up to Dante House.

The Tudor mansion on the Thames looked even more sinister with the vaporous night air swirling around its turrets. Max St. Albans, the Marquess of Rotherstone, alighted at once from his town coach, not waiting for his footman, and marched through the forbidding wrought-iron gates to the front door of the Inferno Club.

The brass knocker in the shape of a medieval scholar made after a portrait of the poet Dante seemed to smirk at him as he rapped forcefully.

The butler, Gray, admitted him in short order. Max shooed away the giant guard dogs, who gave him a clamorous welcome.

"Virgil?" he clipped out.

"Downstairs, my lord. The others have also arrived."

"Good." Max gave Gray his opera coat, for he had been sitting in the theatre box with his lady when the messenger had brought him this most consequential communique.

At last, they had word of Drake.

He had sent word around at once, calling the others together immediately to discuss what to do, and he now headed down to the Pit to join them.

He paid no mind to the florid excess of the decor with its crimson walls and heavily carved wood; Dante House had been deliberately fashioned to look like some lavish bordello or gaming house in keeping with the Inferno Club's scandalous reputation.

This facade, of course, helped to keep the decent world away. The Prometheans in particular would not have ventured near it, taking such care as they did to appear as upstanding pillars of Society.

Stepping into the dusty music room, Max crossed to the harpsichord. He glanced over his shoulder out of habit, then played the few notes that triggered the bookcase to turn away from the wall.

Gears and mechanisms based on simple clockwork science creaked beneath the floorboards. The bookcase popped away from the wall, revealing the opening.

He walked over silently and opened it like a door, stepping into the dark labyrinth hidden inside the walls. He pulled it shut behind him and made his way down to the Order's covert lair hewn into the limestone beneath Dante House, their headquarters, affectionately known to all their London agents as the Pit.

He found his team and their handler, Virgil, already waiting for him when he arrived, the torchlight flickering on the clammy, cavelike walls.

They sat at the rough wooden table where they had planned many a mission. Rohan Kilburn, the Duke of Warrington, was wiping a smudge off the gleaming blade of his knife, while Jordan Lennox, the Earl of Falconridge, was scanning the advertisements in the evening newspaper for any coded messages that someone might have been trying to send.

Sebastian, Viscount Beauchamp, the Earl of Lockwood's heir, had also joined them. The younger agent was drumming his fingers restlessly on the table, annoying Virgil.

The taciturn old Highlander had recruited all of them ages ago and had long served as the head of the Order in London. The men all looked over as Max jumped down lightly off the ladder.

"There he is," Beauchamp murmured.

"Max," Jordan greeted, while Rohan merely nodded.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly," he said as he tossed his cloak aside and joined them.

"What's all this about?" Jordan asked.

Max reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper. "I've just received a letter from Drake's little friend."

"The gamekeeper's daughter?" Rohan echoed in surprise.

Max nodded. "Emily Harper. They're in Germany."

"What, she followed him?"

He nodded wryly, and every man there reacted with the same astonishment Max had felt when the courier had brought it to him.

"How on earth . . . does she even speak German?"

"She barely speaks at all," Max said. "A woman of few words."

"Now there's a rarity," Beau muttered.

"Well, she's discreet. Which is why I reckon Drake trusted her years ago with information he never should've shared."

"Shite," Rohan muttered.

"Exactly," Max replied. He hesitated. "It would seem Drake is now officially James Falkirk's head of security."

Virgil cursed, got up from the table, and walked away.

They all stared after him for a second, then Beau turned to Max with a dark look. "So, where exactly are they? Did she give specifics?"

"Waldfort Castle in the Bavarian Alps. It's north of Munich. She says various men have been arriving. It sounds to me like Falkirk has called a number of the leaders together to meet there. Now we know why Drake took off."

"Not necessarily," Jordan cautioned.

"When do we leave?" Rohan asked bluntly.

"Wait a second," Jordan insisted. "What makes you think this girl can really be trusted? As much as it chagrins me to remind you of the incident, now that you've just barely let me live it down, none of
you
got hit in the head with a potato by this charming little miss. I did."

Rohan laughed aloud. The other two couldn't help smiling. Virgil merely frowned over his shoulder, arms folded across his chest.

"The girl's got damned fine aim, I'll give her that," Jordan muttered. "But one thing only drives her: Whatever helps Drake. Why would she tell us where he is when she knows what we intend?"

"He's right, it could be a trap," Beau agreed, but Max scoffed, shaking his head.

Max threw the paper down. "Read it. She's begging for his life. That's why she wrote it. She says she's gone to bring him back. Only, at this point, she's not sure she'll be able to do it by herself."

"But she helped him escape," Jordan said skeptically. "You told us at the time that you thought she might have even been in on that whole charade of Drake's putting a knife to her throat and taking her hostage. That's how he made you back off."

Max shrugged. "I considered the possibility that she might be in on it, but she was genuinely devastated after he escaped."

"Devastated enough to go after him," Rohan agreed. "I wonder if Kate would do that for me."

Beau smirked at him.

"This girl is no actress," Max said grimly. "She struck me as the sort who can barely tell a lie."

"Oh, that'll really help if the Prometheans get a chance to question her," Beau muttered.

"So, what do you want to do?" Jordan asked.

Max shrugged. "We've got to go get him."

Rohan nodded in agreement. "We'll just make sure we're ready for whatever we might find."

"Virgil, what do you think?" Max asked.

The Highlander walked back slowly to the table. "Jordan makes a good point. This could be an ambush. Either way, leaving Drake out there is not an option we can entertain. He can identify all of you, and if he has turned traitor as a result of all he's been through, the consequences could be disastrous."

"Don't forget, Falkirk has the Alchemist's Scrolls now," Jordan reminded them. "That's sure to impress the rest of the Council. We've known for some time he's been trying to find a way to overthrow Malcolm. James could seek to use these scrolls as a tool to rally supporters against your brother." He directed his words to Virgil, for it was no small irony that the head of the Order and the head of the Promethean Council were brothers.

With very bad blood between them.

Max nodded, meanwhile, resting his hands on the table. "If this girl's letter is in earnest, as I believe it to be, not a trap, this does present us with a profound opportunity. Not just to recover Drake but to wipe out the whole Council with one blow where they are gathered."

"I say we'd better get to Munich. Fast," Rohan murmured.

"It'll take time. The Alps are not exactly easy terrain," Beau remarked.

"They didn't seem to pose much of a problem for our little tracker," Max said with a wry half smile.

"She must have an impressive set of survival skills," Jordan agreed with a nod. "Lucky for us that Drake chose the woodsman's daughter for his dalliance rather than the chambermaid."

"Actually, he never touched her. It was obvious," Max said with a wave of his hand. "Chit's as pure as the Alpine snow."

"Then God help her if the Prometheans catch her," Jordan murmured.

"Drake will protect her."

"If he's turned?"

"He could never turn that evil. He'd feed us to the wolves before he would ever betray her," Max said. "You saw how he was with us--"

"Like a rabid dog," Beau agreed.

"But she had him eating out of her hand."

"Maybe she's right," Jordan said with a shrug, directing his comment to Virgil. "Maybe he can be saved."

"Don't get sentimental," Rohan said flatly. "
I
can still pull the trigger if you two can't. I just need your orders." Rohan also looked at Virgil in question.

The tall, brawny Scotsman, his wild red hair shot through with gray, considered his response for a long moment before speaking. "You're going to have to assess the situation when you get there and deal with him accordingly. It's impossible to say from the distance if he is with us or against us. He could have done all this as a ruse."

"Then why would he not contact us?" Jordan argued. "Why wouldn't he include us?"

"Maybe he thinks he can handle it on his own. I know a few agents who've acted likewise on occasion." Virgil raised an eyebrow in particular at Rohan. "However," Virgil continued, "if you catch up to them and find that he has truly joined their side, he must be sacrificed. And the girl, as well, if she tries to get in the way. She already knows too much."

Rohan flinched ever so slightly and laid his knife down on the table. As their team's most expert killer, he knew Virgil was speaking to him. "Yes, sir," he promised quietly.

As chilled as Max was by their handler's reply, he knew the Highlander was right. Drake was, at best, playing a role as a Promethean. But it would be foolish to place too much faith in his mental state.

Max had seen for himself how confused his boyhood friend had become after months of torture in a Promethean dungeon. Drake had not given up their names through all that time, but that was because his mind had shut down, his memory splitting off from itself, as it were, so that he was no longer
able
to tell the enemy what he knew.

At the moment, they had no way of knowing if his return to Falkirk was an act of genius or lunacy.

"For myself, I find it hard to imagine that Drake would ever betray us. He told them nothing even under torture," Max reminded them. "I know this man. I cannot think he'd do it."

"Well, Falconridge will make the call once you arrive," Virgil instructed. "Whether Drake lives or dies."

"Me?" Jordan exclaimed. "Why is it always me?"

"You're the most objective. The best observer," Virgil answered. "Max wants him spared for loyalty's sake and Rohan wants him put down to protect the Order. I can always count on you to weigh both sides, lad." The old man slapped him fondly on the shoulder.

"Sir, maybe Niall knows something about this castle. The layout, anything that could help us get inside."

Virgil nodded. "I will talk to him."

The agents exchanged a grim glance. It was Beau who spoke up. "With all due respect, sir, hasn't the time has come for stronger measures than just talk? You've been 'talking' to Niall ever since he was captured weeks ago, and it's yielded next to nothing--"

"Mind your tongue!" Virgil scolded, smacking the young agent in the back of the head. "How dare you?"

"You're coddling him!"

"Sir, we all can see the prisoner knows more than he is telling." Jordan spoke us with all his gentlemanly tact.

"Perhaps you'd let
us
question your, er, nephew before we go."

"Aye, I can make him talk."

"No," Virgil shot back.

"Stop protecting him!" Rohan warned. "Whatever he is to you, he's still an enemy!"

"Sir, he is an asset like any other," Max said calmly, knowing that if Virgil and Warrington started, they would never get out of here. They were more like father and son than Virgil had ever been with Niall.

"I will question him myself!" their handler boomed, outshouting Rohan when he started to protest, holding a finger in his face. "I was interrogating prisoners since before you were born, you coxcomb! Now, stay out of it and go make your preparations for the mission!"

Rohan let it go with a large, disgruntled sigh.

The men exchanged ominous looks.

"I'll arrange for the boat to take you across the Channel. Kiss your wives good-bye," Virgil grumbled in a cynical tone. "You leave at dawn."

"Yes, sir," Jordan murmured.

As they got up from the table, Max heard Beau attempt to placate the old man.