My Ruthless Prince

by Gaelen Foley

  As Virgil arrived in the torchlit hollow of the Order’s in-house jail, bringing the prisoner his supper, he remained on his guard, still uncertain how sophisticated Niall’s training had been.

  He dared not underestimate him, but to his expert eye, with years of evaluating the countless warriors and agents he had trained from boyhood, Virgil detected a hint of spoiled, civilian softness in Niall Banks, though the red-haired man was a giant, like many of their Highland blood.

  Faced with Niall’s flat stare, Virgil hid the surge of fatherly pride to behold the braw specimen that he and Catherine had produced. He himself was six-foot-three, but Niall had even an inch or two on him. The lad must have weighed about eighteen stone. Massive. Even more heavily muscled than Virgil had been at Niall’s age, in his prime.

  They looked so much alike that surely Niall perceived the truth, Virgil thought, unless he was being willfully blind. Malcolm was only five-foot-ten with blond, spiky hair and ice blue eyes.

  But Niall refused to accept the news of who his real father was because he did not want it to be true. What he wanted was to become the next head of the Prometheans, following Malcolm.

  Niall had apparently been groomed since boyhood for this eventual post, and with all the cult’s delusions of grandeur, fully expected to rule the world one day, if even from the shadows, as was the Promethean way.

  Well, thought Virgil, ignoring the fact that he was making excuses for him again, the truth about who had sired him was a lot for the lad to take in.

  He ignored the knowledge, as well, that a man of thirty could hardly be called a lad. Most of all, he ignored the murderous hatred in Niall’s eyes.

  He could not bear for Niall to hate him. Losing his son had been bad enough, but to be despised on top of that was worse.

  Treasuring the chance to take care of his son as he had not been allowed to during Niall’s boyhood, Virgil carried in the covered tray of food. He went and set it on the high table pushed up against the wall across from the cells, out of the prisoner’s reach.

  Niall got up from his cot and sauntered toward the bars.

  “I brought your supper,” he told him gruffly.

  “Well, give it to me, then.”

  “If you want this food, I need some information.”

  “Oh, really?” Niall replied with a mocking smile.

  Virgil rested his hands on his waist, keeping a wary distance. “What do you know about Waldfort Castle?”

  “Why?” he countered.

  “Just answer the question. Who owns it, and how do we get in?”

  “Go to Hell,” Niall said.

  Virgil took a step closer, restraining an impulse of fatherly discipline that made him want to take Niall out to the proverbial woodshed. “My agents want your blood,” he said. “I cannot continue to hold them in check unless you give me something.”

  Niall stared at him for a long moment. “The owner is Count Septimus Glasse. He’s the head of operations for all the German principalities.”

  “There. Was that so hard?”

  “Can I have my bloody food now, or is starving me for information part of what you consider being a good father?”

  “How do my men get in?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never been there. I don’t know!” he reiterated at Virgil’s look of doubt.

  Virgil suppressed a sigh, feeling old. Reluctantly, he took the tray over to the cell. Niall approached on the other side of the bars. Virgil took the lid off the tray, made sure there were no utensils for Niall’s use as weapons, and that the plate was tin, not glass, which could be broken and used as a blade.

  Satisfied that there was nothing on the tray but food, he slid it into the short, horizontal opening in the bars fashioned for that purpose.

  Niall took the tray with a nod of thanks, but as Virgil turned away, Niall suddenly cast the tray aside and grabbed Virgil from behind, snaking his arm through the bars and throwing it around Virgil’s neck. He pulled him back against the bars with a crash.

  Aghast, Virgil struggled to tear away the massive arm cutting off his air.

  “You think you’re my father?” Niall snarled in his ear. “Do you think I give a shit if you are? I’ll kill you just the same.” His choke hold tightened.

  Virgil clawed at the giant arm around his neck. “Don’t—do this! You are my son!”

  The chokehold tightened. “No, I’m not. You’re nothing to me.”

  They were the last words Virgil heard.

  Niall’s heart pounded. He refused to think about what he was doing but just held on.

  When the old man stopped struggling and slumped, Niall used all his strength to hold the body up with one arm while he reached his other hand into Virgil’s coat pocket and searched for the keys that were kept there. He’d made a mental note of that detail weeks ago but had bided his time since then, waiting for the proper moment.

  Listening intently a while ago, he had heard the agents leave. He had to get out of here before they came back.

  His fingers suddenly grasped the keys. He shoved the body away from the cell door.

  Virgil’s corpse dropped to the ground.

  Niall did his best to still the shaking of his hands and unlocked his cell, triumph throbbing in his veins as he slid the door open.

  He helped himself to his uncle’s weapons, then checked his pulse, making sure the man was dead. A part of his mind or soul was screaming at what he had just done, but he did not stop to think.

  All that mattered was escape.

  Not that he was afraid of them. How weak they were! He still couldn’t believe he hadn’t been tortured. But it seemed old Virgil had no stomach for such work.

  God knew the man had been foolishly easy to lie to, for Niall had been to Waldfort Castle once before, about two years ago. That was where he had first met the black-haired lunatic who had dislocated his shoulder, James’s so-called bodyguard. If he ever crossed paths with that bastard again, he would finish him off.

  The pistol he took from Virgil’s body was loaded; Niall checked it to be sure, then stole the old man’s knife, tucking the large, sheathed blade through his belt as he crept down the tunnel.

  As he approached the meeting room, he listened intently for any telltale sound that one of the Order’s agents might still be in the next chamber. He could hardly hear above the pounding of his heart; but if they had wanted his blood before, they’d stop at nothing now to snuff him out for what he had just done.

  He did not intend to give them the chance.

  He paused and listened hard at the edge of the tunnel, but there was only silence. Pistol in hand, he glanced around the rough-hewn wall of the tunnel into the adjacent chamber.

  Empty.

  He stepped into it the torchlit chamber, searching for a way out, but what he saw made him pause. He scanned the chamber, fascinated.

  Damn. The Order’s inner sanctum.

  As Niall crept across the meeting room, he wondered if this was what he might have been a part of if Virgil’s claim about being his father were true.

  Might he have ended up as an agent of the Order rather than the heir apparent of the Prometheans?

  He studied the room in mingled amazement and disgust.

  A white Maltese cross hung on rusted chains from the ceiling of the cavern. A table with a lantern on it sat in the middle. An ancient Byzantine mosaic of the Archangel Michael was embedded in the floor.

  Niall was tempted to piss on it, but there was no time for churlish tricks. He crossed to the table and quickly riffled through the maps and papers strewn on it. What are the bastards up to?

  He glanced nervously over his shoulder, but then his gaze was captured by a letter on the table.

  He picked it up, his eyes narrowing as he read it. Well, well, James. My father will hear about this.

  Traitor!

  He slipped it into his breast pocket, but he wasted no more time seeking an exit. There were a couple of ladders leading up into the house, bu
t Niall had often heard the guard dogs barking from above. They’d tear him apart. He had to find another way out.

  He tried a tunnel that led off the main chamber, unsure of where it might lead. But a cold smile crossed his face when it brought him to a small dock with three rowboats tied to it.

  He rushed to crank open the river gate that separated the Order’s private dock from the Thames, under the overhanging eaves of the house.

  Within moments, Niall was rowing out into the river under cover of night, turning the boat to coast swiftly along with the current.

  He cast a grim look over his shoulder at the back of the mysterious house where he had been kept. It was receding fast, along with the lights of London.

  Good-bye, Uncle. Niall refused to heed the doubts gnawing at his soul. Being captured had been nothing but a temporary inconvenience, but he was none the worse for wear thanks to his captor’s foolish sentimentality.

  Indeed, his captivity had paid off, for now he knew exactly where Falkirk had gone.

  Waldfort Castle.

  Niall had to get back to his father. Warn Malcolm about James Falkirk’s little meeting.

  There could be no doubt as to its purpose.

  Falkirk had called the others together in secret to scheme against Father and him.

  Niall had to hope there was still time to bring the situation under control.

  In the meanwhile, he rowed harder to gain as much of a lead as possible on the Order agents who were sure to come after him like the hounds of Hell.

  He smiled coldly to himself, wishing he could have seen their faces when they came back and found their handler dead.

  Chapter 6

  Bavaria

  Comfrey to speed the healing of wounds.

  Blessed thistle to restore the patient’s loss of appetite.

  Feverwort to break the hold of ague.

  Coltsfoot and bloodroot for a cough.

  Beggar’s buttons to ease pains of the joints.

  Marshmallow root for a queasy stomach . . .

  Fragments of memory wove themselves into a fitful dream as Emily slept alone in Drake’s bed . . . for he was not the only one who had ever fallen into a dark place.

  One afternoon when she was seventeen, she had gone collecting herbs to keep her apothecary jars well supplied. Bark, roots, berries, and flowers, weeds, worts, and sedges, each had its own medicinal purpose, and she had crossed the Westwood acreage on the hunt, rambling through wood, marsh, and meadow, gathering the plants to be dried for diverse uses.

  She knew to watch her step for poachers’ traps, but she was unconcerned, having helped Papa set most of them herself. Beyond that, she had sensed no danger, upon reaching the edge of the Westwood property. Indeed, she had felt no more than idle surprise when the sound of hoofbeats came thundering over the rolling green meadows of the adjoining estate.

  She straightened up with her herb basket in hand as she spotted Mr. Lamont exercising his fine bay hunter. The London dandy had his beaver hat cocked at a dashing angle, the tails of his impeccable riding coat flapping over the gelding’s haunches.

  The Thoroughbred impressed her with its gliding liquid canter. The haughty London rakehell did not.

  Well, our neighbor’s back. The absentee landlord only came from London twice a year to make sure his tenants were paying their rents. It kept him in funds for the gaming tables, she supposed.

  Drake had invited him over once for port when both landowners had happened to be at home, and that was when he’d first caught sight of Emily.

  She clutched the handle of her basket harder and edged back toward the cover of the trees as he reined in before her.

  “Well, hullo there!” he hailed her, sweeping off his fashionable hat.

  She bowed her head and sketched a humble curtsy. “How do you do, sir,” she mumbled.

  While his tall blood horse pawed the turf, he had perused her with a grin from ear to ear, perusing her with an idle stare. “Well, how perfectly charming! A little country maiden and her basket—like you just stepped out of a Wordsworth poem. I fear I’m quite enchanted. Please, refresh my memory, darling. Who are you, exactly?”

  She awkwardly informed him who she was.

  “Oh, right! Jack Harper’s little girl. All grown-up now, or nearly so. How is your father, child?”

  “I’m afraid he hasn’t been well, sir. It’s his back. I’m collecting some herbs to help him.”

  “You must allow me to assist,” he announced, and he swung down from his horse, not waiting for her permission.

  Emily wished he would go away, but who was she to say such a thing to a wealthy gentleman?

  With no real choice about his company, she let him tag along for a bit while she plucked a few linden flowers.

  He stared at her, inhaling one of the blooms. “You’ve grown into a very lovely girl, Miss Harper.” She had pulled away when he had followed his compliment with a light touch of her cheek.

  She had stepped back with a warning stare. “Excuse me, sir. I must get back to my father.”

  “What’s your hurry?” Still smiling, he had captured her wrist.

  Something in his eyes had begun to make Emily very nervous.

  “Don’t be shy, my dear. What beautiful eyes you have. Has anyone ever told you that? The color’s splendid. I shall have my tailor make me a waistcoat in just that shade.” He ignored her resistance and pulled her closer, pretending to inspect her eyes.

  Her heart pounding with rising fear, Emily did her best to hide her distaste. “Thank you, sir, but I have to get back to the house.”

  “Stay.” He paused, holding her in a frank stare. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Her eyes widened in confusion.

  “Come, little country maiden, let me teach you a few of the pleasures we know in Town.”

  “Let go of me!”

  “Spirited filly!” He laughed when she tried to knee him in the groin. “Easy now. Just relax,” he ordered as he yanked her against his body. “Don’t be coy. I won’t do anything you don’t like. I’m told I’m quite good at this, actually—”

  “If you do not let go of me this instant, I shall tell Lord Seaton that you attacked me.” Drake had been known by that courtesy title while his father was alive. “He’ll put a bullet in you if you touch me!”

  “And why is that?” A flicker of uncertainty passed behind his leering eyes, but a mocking half smile curved his thin lips. “Has Seaton already broken you in to the saddle? Good, then I’m sure he won’t mind sharing. We both know he’s in Town at the moment.”

  “He’ll be here in a trice if I call for him,” she warned.

  “Oh, really? And what are you? Whatever he’s promised you, I assure you, it was a lie. He’s got even more women in London than I do. Oh, you didn’t know that? Well, you might as well take my offer. I’m afraid you’re nothing to him but a little country sport.”

  Emily hit him on the head with her basket and pulled away with all her strength, then ran.

  “Come back here, girl! I did not dismiss you!”

  Terrified, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him chasing her. Her heart in her throat, she fled him, bewildered by his lewd actions and hurt by his spiteful words. She was not as familiar with this section of the property, however, and as she pounded through the woods, perhaps she was distracted by the pang of knowing that what he had said was at least partly true.

  Drake was always in London; he seemed to have forgotten all about her. But this was no time to pout over how her childhood friend seemed to have abandoned her.

  All of a sudden, she stepped on something that crunched.

  Her foot smashed through the layer of loose dirt and scattered leaves, and the next thing she knew her body followed; she screamed as she fell through the rotting boards concealing an old, abandoned well.

  She seemed to fall for ages down the pitch-black shaft, but landed with a jolt, crying out on impact as she slammed down to the bottom. Her right foot t
ouched down first, instantly breaking her ankle; she was hurled against the packed-earthen wall, banging the back of her head, jamming her elbow and biting the inside of her lip so hard it bled.

  Then she fell silent, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. For one woozy-headed moment, she struggled to make sure she was alive, that nothing had impaled her. Her ribs felt bruised, but she could move her hands and arms; she wiped the blood off the corner of her lips, and concluded that her ankle had got the worst of it.

  The blinding pain made her eyes smart with tears. But she was more furious than scared.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain and looked up slowly to where Mr. Lamont had come to stand at the edge of the well. His face was as white as a sheet.

  “Go and get my father,” Emily ordered in as forceful a tone as she could muster. “I’m hurt. Tell him to bring rope. And a doctor.”

  She heard Mr. Lamont curse to himself. He backed away from the edge of the abandoned well.

  “Mr. Lamont? Mr. Lamont!”

  He did not reappear.

  To Emily’s horror, it dawned on her that this coward was willing to leave her to die out here, merely to hide the fact of what he had done.

  If she was dead—disappeared—then she’d never be able to tell anyone that he had tried to rape her.

  She had nothing to eat or even to drink with her; there was no water in the well. She had no cloak to keep her warm for the next three nights while despair set in that no one was ever going to find her in this lonely tomb.

  Why, Papa and she knew these woods as well as anyone, and neither of them had even been aware that this ancient, dried-out well was there.

  After the first day had passed, Emily had the sense and skill and the raw temerity to set her own broken ankle, shoving the bone back where it belonged, only to faint with pain.

  When she had come to, she had torn off part of her dress and wrapped the wound.

  But by the time Drake’s face appeared days later at the jagged edge of the broken boards many feet above her, she was only semiconscious.

  Up in the woods, her father tied the rope around a nearby tree and steadied it as Drake climbed down into the pit with her. He took her in his arms and brushed her tangled hair out of her eyes as he whispered questions, trying to learn the extent of the damage.