My Ruthless Prince

by Gaelen Foley

  Ah, James, if you could see me now, he thought wryly.

  After mounting the dais by the sacrificial altar, Drake lifted his hand: The chanting stopped.

  As its echoes died away, he gestured toward the men stationed by the crankshaft: “Let the doors be opened to the sky!” he ordered.

  Fear of death could make even the most seasoned warrior’s heart pound. A bead of cold sweat rolled down Drake’s face. But it was already too late for him to turn back. Nor would he.

  Emily, my love, he thought as the heavy wooden sky doors slowly rolled back, exposing the huge, golden orb of the moon. May your aim be true.

  Lord Rotherstone had led them to a position farther up the mountain, hidden by the forest. Emily stood with them on a rocky outcropping where a break in the trees afforded them a clear view of the strange activity in the field below.

  They had seen the line of robed figures streaming into the mountain. Now they heard a ponderous creaking sound coming out of the hill.

  “What is that?” Emily whispered. For her part, she was worried. She could not understand why Drake had not yet come. How far was he going to take this before he slipped away?

  She had thought he would have joined them hours ago. By that time, they should’ve already started the long journey home. But perhaps he had run into problems trying to get away. She had asked the men about it. Their responses had been vague.

  Below them, the creaking sound ended with a deep-toned slam. She glanced at the marquess in question.

  “Doors opening, see?” he whispered. “The cave is now exposed.”

  His friends exchanged a glance.

  Emily squinted in the darkness and could just make out a rounded opening that had been closed before.

  “Let’s just hope it works,” muttered Lord Falconridge, the elegant agent she had once smashed in the head with a potato back in London—to keep him from shooting Drake, naturally. To her relief, the agreeable blond earl wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge.

  “What do you mean, you hope it works? What is going on?” Emily demanded in a whisper. “Where’s Drake? How much longer till he comes?”

  All three men looked at her.

  “What?”

  Lord Rotherstone stared at her, then he slowly dropped his gaze. She glanced at the other two. “What’s going on?” she repeated, but these, too, looked away. “Is something wrong?”

  “Emily, Drake’s not coming,” Lord Rotherstone forced out abruptly. “But he left instructions for you. Remember?”

  “Wait—what—not coming? I don’t understand. He said he would join us.”

  “He lied, Miss Harper,” the large, gruff Duke of Warrington tersely informed her.

  She turned to him in confusion.

  “He made his choice,” Rotherstone whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder to steady her near the low cliff where they stood. “He’s going to finish this.”

  “What are you talking about?” she breathed. Horror was spiraling inside her, making her head reel.

  “Take out your bow, Emily,” Falconridge murmured.

  She did as he said, but she still didn’t, wouldn’t, understand.

  Rotherstone nodded to Warrington, who took out a handkerchief and a flask of whiskey and proceeded to douse the one with the other.

  “Give him an arrow, Emily,” Falconridge said softly, nodding toward the duke.

  Her hands were shaking as she reached over her shoulder and quickly took an arrow from her quiver.

  She gave it to Warrington, and he began wrapping the liquor-soaked cloth tightly around the arrowhead, tying it in place.

  “I don’t understand,” she said again.

  “You see that opening in the rock below,” Rotherstone murmured, nodding toward it. “Drake wants you to fire your arrow into there. You told him you’d do it, remember? You said you wouldn’t miss. It won’t be long now. We’ll set this arrow afire when the moment comes. Then you’ll shoot, and you can’t afford to miss.”

  “Why? What will happen? Tell me!”

  “There will be an explosion,” Rotherstone admitted grimly. “The cave where those devils all have gathered is filled with a flammable gas seeping up from an old mine shaft.”

  “But Drake’s in there!” she forced out.

  Lord Rotherstone gazed at her calmly, sadly. “Yes, he is.”

  “But . . . he could die!”

  The three warriors stared at her.

  “Oh, God, no!” she whispered. “No.”

  “Emily, he is counting on you. Do not fail him. Drake’s whole life has built toward this moment. This is what he wants. And as he told you, he needs you to play your part.”

  “I can’t! I cannot possibly do this. I love him! No, this is madness. You cannot ask me to kill the man I love.”

  “I’m not the one who’s asking.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I won’t do it! You all are lunatics. I love him, I want him with me.”

  “And he wants you, too, but this is his destiny, just as loving him was yours. Do you love him enough to fulfill his final wish?”

  “Oh, God.” She turned toward the field, dragging her hand through her hair. She stared toward the hidden temple, furiously addressing her cruel, inscrutable lover in her thoughts. You can’t be serious. You cannot really want this. You lied to me! You said we’d be together. You can’t ask me to kill you!

  But she could see his smiling face in her mind’s eye, the kiss he’d given her back in the dungeon, the promise he had coaxed her to make. Shoot the arrow when the moment came.

  And now she realized that had been a kiss good-bye.

  She shook her head, unable to absorb it.

  She had failed. Her warrior had chosen death and glory over life and love. She had failed to save him.

  Failed utterly.

  She remembered then the first time he had found her in these woods, when he had cornered her and she had begged him to run away without her. She had tried to take him captive, tried to force him to come with her by threatening him with her pistol. Smiling cynically, he had gazed at her in such misery in his dark eyes. He had told her to do it, shoot him.

  Better that it should be you, he had said.

  He had known even then that he would never make it out of there alive, she realized, shaking.

  She had almost changed his mind the night they had tried to run away; but this “destiny” of his had stopped him from leaving in the form of Malcolm Banks’s attack.

  She shut her eyes. Love and fury filled her at the memory of that night, like oil poured on fire. Fury built to rage. They had taken him from her. This hateful, secret war, these evil worshippers. She wanted them dead, too, for what they’d done to him. I’d kill them all for you if I ever got the chance, she had told him once.

  He had smiled cryptically at the time.

  She had been prepared to do it with the monkshood, but that plan had fallen apart.

  Now a second chance to fulfill her vow had arrived. But how . . . ? She shook her head, tears plunging down her cheeks as a dark dragon in the clouds opened its jaws and began to swallow the moon. I can’t. This is all impossible.

  But her whole life with Drake had been impossible . . . a beautiful dream. The earl’s son and the woodsman’s daughter.

  Well, she had failed in her dream, but if this was what he truly wanted—and indeed, he had looked her in the eyes and said so just a few hours ago—then she vowed that at least he could have his. Even if it killed her.

  They were one. If he chose to die, then so must she.

  Life wasn’t worth the living without him.

  “Give me the arrow,” she said in a strangled voice, putting out her hand.

  Falconridge carefully handed the thing to her.

  She gripped it, nocked it, stepped up to the cliff’s edge, and lifted her bow to assess the shot. Except for the veil of darkness, there was nothing particularly difficult about it. Nothing difficult, but the fact that it meant killing Drake. The en
d of his life; the end of hers.

  God give me strength.

  She closed her eyes and lowered her weapon, for the moment had not yet come.

  The shadow spread across the moon.

  Drake hauled open the heavy iron door to the tunnel and left it open. He summoned the lad from the darkness. Stefan emerged, dressed in a white robe like a choirboy.

  The Prometheans watched, riveted, as Drake led him up the few steps to the dais.

  Stefan kept his eyes on Drake, following his every move. He was obviously scared, but he seemed determined to hold on firmly to his courage and trust in his fellow “knight.” Drake had told him how everything would happen, to play along, and that everything would be all right.

  He gestured to the boy to lie down. Stefan hopped up onto the stone slab, paused, and glanced around uncertainly at the dark cavern filled with men, but he did as he was told, lying on his back.

  Drake had told him not to worry about the men, but to keep looking up at the moon. He’d have a fine view of the eclipse, and focusing his attention skyward would help distract the boy from his fear.

  Stefan clasped his hands across his belly as he relaxed on the stone altar, where God only knew how many innocents had been slaughtered over the past hundred years.

  It ends tonight.

  Stefan tossed him a roguish grin, having this fine view of the eclipse, and Drake thanked God the boy still had no idea of what was going on.

  He would give his awaited speech in English so the German-speaking child would not understand the foul things that he was charged to say. James had written the speech before his deathbed change of heart.

  Then Drake lifted his arms in priestly fashion and began. “Infernal Father, ruler of this world, we come to your temple in the deep and gather as one to praise you on this sacred night!”

  “All hail, Prometheus!” the chant returned from the cavern all around him, echoing eerily.

  “Great Prince,” he continued, “through folly we were deceived on the brink of victory by our foul Enemy, the Tyrant. We have suffered our losses and seen the crumbling of our plans. But as your true sons, we will not surrender,” he declared in a loud, firm voice. “We have punished those among us who have failed you, Dark Father. We hold this gathering tonight to vow that we shall rise again and work with all our strength to establish your black kingdom on the earth.”

  “Unholy ruler, guide us,” the followers rejoined on cue.

  “We come to you this night to ask you for the strength to begin our fight anew, and we offer you the sacrifice of this unblemished lamb.” Drake unsheathed the jeweled ceremonial dagger and held it high, the blade pointing skyward. “Great Lucifer, light-bringer, Prometheus, stealer of fire from the gods, friend of man, and guide of our true carnal nature, hear us now!”

  The shadow of the earth had nearly blotted out the moon.

  Stefan stared at him in trepidation but kept still while the Prometheans watched Drake turn the blade downward toward the boy, though he still held the knife high.

  “By the sign of the moon turned to black, by your fire, the hatred in our hearts, by the lies on our tongues in service to you, Infernal Father, accept this gift of innocent blood.”

  The moon was blotted out; the darkness was profound.

  The moment of the eclipse was at hand.

  The signal for Emily to shoot.

  Drake held his pose, but his glance skimmed the black sky. Come on, come on, where are you?

  She won’t do it! he thought in sudden panic. Then what the hell was he supposed to do? He had no secondary plan. If she refused it, he was lost. He couldn’t kill the boy—but they would. And they’d kill him, too. They’d realize Niall had been right: He was still working for the Order and had been all along.

  Then he spotted it.

  One tiny, distant flame arcing into sight against the black hole of the sky, hurled from the heavens, where the moon was but a silvery rim. Relief filled him. Gratitude at the girl’s breathtaking loyalty.

  Emily’s flaming arrow was coming in fast.

  Drake discarded the knife, grabbed the boy off the stone slab into his arms, and with every ounce of speed he possessed, dove toward the iron door to the tunnel.

  Emily fell to her knees as soon as the arrow left her bow.

  She didn’t breathe, watching the tiny flame disappear into the mountain’s hole, but she screamed a second later when the explosion followed.

  The fireball from the mighty blast inside the mountain left her temporarily blinded. The warriors, Drake’s colleagues, had turned away to shield their eyes. In the reeling seconds that followed, Emily fell onto all fours, sobbing her heart out and retching with what she had just done; but the men were all business, drawing their weapons and leaving their vantage point, advancing toward the place, for they were charged with killing any survivors.

  There could be none, she thought, hearing the horrifying screams coming from the distance.

  Oh, God, she couldn’t stop thinking over and over again. He’s gone. He’s gone. I killed him.

  Maddened by grief, she staggered to her feet and stumbled away from the stony outcropping, running down to the field. She did not follow the men, but began wildly searching the edge of the tree line for one last flower of monkshood.

  In the pale light of the moon slowly struggling out from underneath the shadow, she spotted one small stalk.

  She recognized the place where she’d harvested it before. She must have missed that one, or the hardy weed had already grown back.

  She ran to get it, stumbling, clumsy, fell to her knees before the low stalk. I don’t want to live without him.

  There was no reason to.

  She tore a piece of the plant away. The leaves and stems were as deadly as the blossoms. She lifted it toward her lips, pausing to stare at it by the glow of the distant fire, already flaming out.

  Her arrow had done its work. The men inside the temple were naught but charred ruins, burned alive from the second the air around them had ignited, setting fire to their robes. The Prometheans were dead. All of them.

  She could see the agents waiting with their swords and pistols drawn, ready to cut down anyone who made it out alive, but they just waited. No one could survive that.

  She looked over her shoulder with tears in her eyes, but oddly, into her grief came pride . . . in her hero. His courage. His cunning. His heartbreaking sacrifice.

  You did it, Drake. You killed them all. You are the Order’s greatest knight, just like you always said you’d be.

  I love you, she told him silently. And now, in a few minutes, she would join him. Why wouldn’t she?

  Coming here, she had proved she would follow him anywhere. It was time to follow him again.

  She brought her hand up to her mouth to eat the deadly plant when someone suddenly grabbed her arm.

  Emily looked over angrily. Bloody spies and all their stealth! Wrapped up in grief, she hadn’t even heard him approaching—Falconridge.

  “Leave me alone,” she wrenched out. “I did my duty to him. Now let me die.”

  But he grasped her chin firmly and turned her head toward the field. “Look!” he ordered, pointing toward the fire.

  Through her tears, Emily peered in the direction the earl indicated.

  And saw.

  The outline of a small, skinny boy silhouetted against the flames. And, holding him by the hand, leading him away from the billows of smoke, a man.

  She caught her breath on a ragged gasp and threw the deadly plant away.

  Drake did not know if his hearing would ever come back after that deafening explosion. But since he had managed to survive and had saved the boy, as well, he was not about to complain.

  Stefan had covered his ears the second Drake had picked him up, just like they had planned. He thought it a wonder he hadn’t crushed the boy under him when he had leaped off the altar, pulled the iron door shut, then sheltered the child with his own body.

  He could still fee
l the echo of that great blast reverberating through him, like being on a gunner’s crew beside the cannon.

  As they walked out into freedom, he was dimly aware of the little knight chattering away, giving him a chirpy recounting of their adventure, as if he had not been there himself. Drake couldn’t hear more than a high, muffled singsong.

  Then, as he and his wee pageboy crossed the field, through the smoke, he saw Emily racing toward them, crying.

  He let go of the boy’s hand as she came barreling into his arms. He caught her up around her waist and held her to him, trying to comfort her.

  He could not imagine what she must have been feeling. “Shh, shhh,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Overcome with guilt, he dimly sensed her muffled voice but could not make out the words.

  It hardly mattered. Nothing had ever felt as wonderful as her body in his embrace in that moment. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face against her neck, loving the silk of her skin, inhaling the smell of her, faint flowers, through the heavy, acrid sting of smoke that clung to him.

  She was hope incarnate to him. Living, breathing love, and, God, she had proved her loyalty now as never before.

  His eyes stung with fierce tears of love as he set her down and stared at her. “I can’t hear a word you are saying,” he enunciated carefully, watching her lips move.

  She stopped, frowning.

  Then he spotted Max, Jordan, and Rohan joining them.

  Emily turned to them, and apparently informed them he couldn’t hear.

  Max said something to her; she left the men to confer with Drake for a moment and went to have a word with little Stefan, lowering herself to one knee before him a short distance away.

  Drake could not take his eyes off her. He saw her check the boy for any injuries.

  Drake felt a tap on his arm and turned to Max in question. “You’ll have to speak up,” he said loudly, pointing to his ear. “I’ve ruptured an eardrum.”

  Max pointed toward the mountain. “You did it.”

  Drake watched his lips, then gave him a rueful look in answer. “Close call, that.” Then he shook hands with Max and accepted his congratulatory bear hug.

  Warrington did likewise. From the giant duke’s hug, there was no escape. “Man, I am in awe of you. And to think, I wanted to blow your head off!” He clapped Drake on the back and released him. “Virgil would be proud.”