My Ruthless Prince

by Gaelen Foley

  He just looked at her.

  She put the forkful of food in her mouth.

  Then he dropped his gaze dismissively, hanging his gun belt on a peg and unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  Emily washed down a bite of sausage with a swallow of ale. “This is good. It was kind of you to think of me.”

  His insolent one-shouldered shrug feigned nonchalance, but she smiled cheerfully at him when he sauntered over and borrowed a swig from the tankard after she had set it down. Then he went about his business.

  Emily sampled the pickled cabbage, coaxing it onto her fork with the hunk of dark bread. “Well, you must admit, it’s a little strange, an earl working as a bodyguard,” she pressed him.

  He eyed her warily, tossing his waistcoat over the chair. But he remained as silent as the tomb.

  “Why do you care so much what happens to that old man?” she inquired.

  “I told you. He saved my life.”

  “And you saved his, which means the debt is paid. So, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

  “Mind your own business, Emily.” He turned away, lifting his shirt off over his head.

  Lifting the fork to her mouth, she went motionless at the sight of his muscled male beauty. His supple flesh glowed with warm vitality in the candlelight.

  Emily lowered the fork again in a daze. Egads. She had not seen Drake without his shirt on since he’d been a skinny ten-year-old splashing about in the swimming hole.

  Good Lord, he was all man now, tall and sinewy, though scarred here and there, to her dismay. Yet somehow the evidence of these old, healed injuries only emphasized the fierce power of his magnificent body, the unstoppable quality of the man.

  It was useless. She could not stop staring, captivated by the sleek curve of his shoulder, the rugged bulk of his arm, the chiseled splendor of his abdomen.

  He glanced over at her with a rather sardonic look as he poured some water from the pitcher into the white washbowl. “You all right?”

  “Um—ahem, yes—of course,” she forced out with an awkward little cough and a sudden scarlet blush. Nodding nervously, she forced herself to turn away, chagrined.

  Thankfully, Drake opted to ignore her. He leaned down to splash his face. She studied him again while he was distracted, marveling that he had muscles where she didn’t even know muscles could be.

  By the time she heard his low sigh of weary relaxation a moment later, she had managed to regroup. She smiled faintly and, still blushing, went to hand him the towel.

  He accepted it with a low, male grunt of thanks.

  Now I understand how you drove all those London women mad, she thought, gazing at him as he straightened up again, drying his face and throat.

  She could not tear her eyes from him, watching with a queer, ticklish pleasure in the pit of her stomach.

  She thought again of his kiss that afternoon in the forest, and her rapt gaze followed Drake’s hand as he ran the towel down his chest to catch a stray drip of water.

  But then, as he turned toward her, she saw the marking on his chest, and her blood ran cold.

  By the lantern’s light, the small, round brand burned onto his powerful chest marred his Adonis-like perfection. She sensed his posture stiffen the second her gaze homed in on it, but truly, she could not believe her eyes.

  Her stare flew up to his in bewilderment.

  His face had become a mask of cold, hard challenge; he stared back as though daring her to question him.

  Emily was too shocked to say a word.

  The mark on his body matched the torch engraved on the arch outside the castle gates. The torch of the so-called Illuminated Ones. He had told her about it long ago. The Prometheans seared their true believers with what they called the Initiate’s Brand.

  Well, it seemed she had her answer. She could not seem to catch her breath.

  He turned away while she stood there reeling.

  Heart pounding, she dropped her gaze, trying to absorb what she had seen.

  He pulled a dark, knitted sweater on over his head.

  “Drake,” she forced out at last.

  “Just eat your supper,” he advised her in a cool tone.

  Then he grasped the single chair in the room and carried it out onto the balcony. After placing it outside, he took the extra blanket and one of the pillows from the bed.

  Emily stood by, barely knowing what to say. Shaken, she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, feeling as stunned as though someone had clubbed her on the head.

  After a moment, Drake approached her slowly. With her head down, she saw his black boots halt in front of her.

  “Look at me,” he murmured.

  She was not sure she could bear to.

  He did not wait for her to lift her head, but grasped her chin none too gently and lifted her face to make her meet his gaze.

  “Who else knows you’re here?” he demanded in a low tone, staring shrewdly into her eyes.

  Emily floundered. She suddenly did not dare confess that she had sent the letter to his former colleagues.

  There was no telling how he might react.

  “Does Rotherstone know where you are?” he prompted, as if he could read her mind. “Answer me.”

  “No,” she whispered hoarsely. It might have been the first lie she had ever told him.

  Meanwhile, she was acutely aware of his fingertips beneath her jaw, pressing into his skin.

  “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.

  No word in any of the languages Drake spoke could have expressed his disgusted, miserable fury at the success of his decepti
on 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.