by Olivia Drake
In a fit of desperation, Ellie set down the candlestick on the floor and used both hands to wrestle with the latch. She couldn’t see a keyhole in the gloom. Was the door bolted from the outside? Or was there a bar across it to hold her inside? If so, her plan was doomed.
Beneath her fumbling fingers, the latch abruptly lifted with a loud, scraping protest. She laughed in relief, the sound a hollow echo in the gloomy stairwell. Praise God, the fastener had only been stuck in place.
Then disaster hit. As she pushed at the heavy door, a rush of frigid air came through the opening and doused her candle.
At once, a stygian blackness enveloped her. Ellie stood quaking in her too tight boots. She was afraid to move, afraid to step out of the tower and into the unknown. Heaven only knew what lay waiting for her in the darkness ahead.
It might be the Demon Prince.
Swallowing hard, she considered making the trek back up the winding staircase to relight the wick at the glowing embers of the hearth. Alternatively, she could simply crawl back into the warm cocoon of her bed and go to sleep.
Would Princess Arianna be defeated by the loss of a tiny flame?
No. Ellie drew a deep, cold breath. She had come this far and she mustn’t turn back now.
Abandoning the useless candle, she applied her shoulder to the heavy door and it fully opened to a loud creaking of hinges. Icy fingers of air clutched at her face. The breeze must be coming from somewhere ahead of her, perhaps an opening to the outdoors.
Encouraged, she ventured slowly into the dense darkness, her arms outstretched. On either side, her fingertips brushed the unyielding stone walls. Was she in a passageway? Apparently so, yet the place had the oppressiveness of a tomb.
Gradually, her eyes adjusted and she distinguished a faint paleness in the form of a large archway some distance ahead of her. As she moved in that direction, the cold gusts grew stronger, tugging at her cloak and chilling her to the bone.
Ellie arrived at the opening and cautiously peeked out. To her great relief, she could discern the crenellated walls of the castle outlined against the vast expanse of the night sky. There was no moon. Only a few stars were visible between the massive charcoal clouds. Yet that small trace of light had lifted the mask of her blindness.
She was gazing out at the courtyard. In the center, the tall square keep crouched like a menacing black giant. According to Mrs. MacNab, the monolithic structure was the den of the Demon Prince.
Of course, the maidservant had not described the building in quite so gothic a fashion. She had merely confided that the laird had his quarters there, and that Ellie was not to worry about him troubling her because he was a fine, upright man despite his gruff manner.
Fine, upright man, indeed! Ellie didn’t believe that description for the snap of a finger. Only a villainous rat would abduct a lady and hold her for ransom.
Over the whistling of the wind, she could hear the rhythmic roar of the sea. So the castle was located on the coast, after all.
Before leaving the shelter of the doorway, she scanned the open courtyard, straining her eyes to spot any movement in the shadows. All lay still. Where was Damien Burke? With any luck, he was sound asleep in his bed, secure in the unwise belief that a pampered debutante would never attempt to escape.
Well, perhaps Beatrice would have been too distraught and weepy to formulate a bold plan of action. She would have been aghast at the notion of abandoning her creature comforts and creeping through a cold, gloomy castle in the middle of the night.
But not Ellie.
The gatehouse loomed on the adjacent outer wall. She decided against taking a straight route across the courtyard, opting instead to follow the wall where the shadows would conceal her progress. She needed to be certain that Damien Burke or his henchman, Finn, weren’t hiding nearby. As she hurried along, the wind yanked at her hair and she drew up the hood of her cloak, holding it tightly beneath her chin.
The prospect of foul weather daunted her. If a storm was brewing, she would have to find shelter quickly once she left the castle. Perhaps there was a village nearby where she could conceal herself in an outbuilding or, better yet, throw herself on the mercy of a kindhearted crofter.
Reaching the gate at last, Ellie found the portcullis firmly shut. The crashing of the waves sounded louder here, and through the iron grating she could see the faint glimmer of water in the distance.
She walked back and forth, studying the massive barrier, but could find no handle or latch with which to open it. Now what? There had to be a way for the gate to be drawn up. Was there some sort of mechanism in a nearby chamber?
Spying a door in the wall, Ellie opened it. Instead of a room, however, she was startled to see an extremely narrow passageway. At the far end lay a shadowy aperture. Hardly able to trust her senses, she scurried through the tunnel and in a moment found herself standing outside the castle walls.
Euphoria lifted her spirits. She started to whirl around in a jig. Then a sudden squall of wind nearly knocked her over, reminding her of the need to make haste before the weather worsened.
On the theory that any pursuer would expect her to follow the dirt track in front of the gate, she turned in the other direction. Rocks and boulders littered the slope and she had to proceed slowly in the darkness. But at least there was no moat, probably because the castle appeared to be perched on a cliff overlooking the sea.
Ellie stumbled a few times going down the steep hill. Her boots were stiff, and she could barely see her way. Fierce gusts off the water cut like knives through the layers of her clothing. She kept moving, conscious of the need to flee the area as swiftly as possible. She had a vague plan of following the coast for a bit before veering inland and doubling back to the road.
At last the way flattened and the going became easier. On her right, the crashing waves glimmered in the faint starlight, foaming over the rocks and pebbles on the beach. To her other side, the castle loomed on the bluff facing the churning sea.
The cold seeped into her bones, and Ellie hunched inside her cloak, trying to stay warm as she hurried along the rocky beach. She cheered herself by imagining how dumbfounded Damien Burke would be when her absence was discovered in the morning. The Demon Prince would rant and rave, furious that his dastardly plot had been foiled.
Of course, it would have been foiled anyway when the ransom money failed to arrive. And then what would he have done to her?
She didn’t want to contemplate that scenario.
Shivering, Ellie picked her way over the stone-littered sand. Freezing droplets of salt spray spattered her cheeks. She hastened onward, driven by the need to put distance between herself and the castle.
But when she glanced back to gauge her progress, the fortress still towered over her. Frustrated, she increased her pace, tramping over pebbles and keeping to the shoreline. The wind forced her to keep her head down, lest her hood be blown off. Her boots squelched in the wet sand, her hem felt damp and dragging, and several times she nearly stumbled under the sudden buffeting of a squall.
After a long period of slogging onward, she noticed that just ahead of her, an enormous boulder loomed on her left. Beside it lay a dirt track which ended abruptly at the edge of the rocky beach. Looking to see where the path went, she stopped dead, unable to believe her eyes.
The track meandered up the steep slope to the portcullis of the castle. She was back where she’d started.
How was that even possible?
Ellie blinked the salt spray from her lashes, convinced she must be hallucinating. It seemed she’d walked for close to an hour. Had she somehow become disoriented in the dark?
No, that explanation made no sense, either. The coastline had been at her right the entire time. She was absolutely certain of it.
Just then, something moved from behind the boulder. The silhouette of a huge hulking beast reared against the night sky. Like a creature from the netherworld, it sprang straight at her.
Shock paralyzed Ellie. Her
heart gave a mighty jolt. She screamed, but the wind swallowed up the sound and carried it away.
She started to run, but the monster was upon her. His massive paws latched onto her shoulders. In the same instant, she spied his familiar features through the dense darkness.
Damien Burke. The Demon Prince.
“There’s a storm brewing,” he shouted over the wind. “You chose a rough night for a stroll on the beach.”
Aghast, Ellie could only stare up at him. Her initial terror mutated swiftly into relief and then into anger at the fright he’d caused her. She yanked herself free and stepped back, nearly coming off-balance when her heel hit a stone. “You! You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“I would have been had I not spotted you from the window, creeping through the castle yard. I must say, it’s been rather cold waiting for you to complete the entire circuit.”
“Circuit?”
“We’re on an island, my lady. Surely by now you’ve figured that out.” His mocking chuckle joined the crashing of the surf.
The news crushed Ellie. An island! No wonder she had never lost sight of the castle. No wonder he hadn’t bothered to lock her door or station any guards. Her escape had been doomed from the start. She was as much a prisoner as if he’d thrown her in the dungeon.
And now, after all the ill-treatment she’d endured at his hands, he had the gall to laugh at her.
In a blind rage, she launched herself at him, hammering his hard chest with her fists. “Monster! Evil rat villain! I hate you! I’d kill you if I could!”
She kicked viciously at his shins, stubbing her own toes without a care. At the same time, she lashed out at his jaw and boxed his ears. He caught hold of her upper arms, but she managed to stretch up her fingers to claw at his eyes.
Uttering a muffled curse, he twisted Ellie around and pressed her bosom against the huge boulder. She found herself trapped in between the hunk of cold stone and his large, muscled frame.
His fingers shackled her wrists so that she could no longer punch. The weight of his thighs at the back of hers immobilized her legs. Still, she fought in a fury to throw him off, wriggling in vain, panting from the effort. He merely held on tightly and waited her out, until eventually, she recognized the futility of the struggle and went still.
As she regained her breath, an unwelcome awareness of him seeped into her. The wind whipped frigid droplets against her face, but she felt toasty warm with his massive form molded to her back. His spicy scent invaded the brininess of the air. Never in her life had she been so close to a man. It felt shocking … scandalous … and curiously exhilarating.
No, that was anxiety churning in the pit of her belly. Although he hadn’t struck back at her, she didn’t trust him an inch.
He bent closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Evil rat villain?”
Ellie bristled at the humor in his tone. “It’s the perfect description of you. Or would you prefer that I called you the Demon Prince?”
A deep growl emanated from his chest. “Walt told you that name. When?”
“What does it matter? Now, remove your hands from me at once.”
He did nothing of the sort. “First, I must have your assurance that you’ve recovered from your tantrum.”
Her blood boiled again, and she tugged at his iron grip. “Tantrum? Did you expect me to be docile when you’re holding me imprisoned? When you kept me drugged for three days?”
“I expect you to behave, my lady. Else I’ll be forced to lock you in your chamber.”
Ellie bit back a retort about his fiendish nature. It was more important to correct his misconception. “Stop addressing me as ‘my lady.’ I’m not Lady Beatrice. I’m Miss Stratham. Miss Ellie … Eloise Stratham.”
“So we’re back to that again.”
“Yes, because it’s the truth. Beatrice is my cousin.” In wretched frustration, Ellie turned her head, looking over her shoulder to glower at his harsh features through the gloom. “She has strawberry-blond hair while mine is auburn. She has blue eyes and mine are brown. Her skin is like cream, mine is freckled. And you yourself said that I’m not pretty. That’s because my cousin is the beauty of the family—not me!”
The darkness shielded his expression. But Ellie could feel his hands tighten ever so slightly on her wrists. His entire body felt rigid with skepticism. Did he believe her? She couldn’t tell.
Abruptly, his weight lifted as he stepped back. “Come along,” he growled. “We’ll talk inside, out of this gale.”
With that, he started up the dirt path to the castle.
Left alone on the beach, Ellie stood shivering in the absence of his warmth. She resented being ordered to heel like a pet dog. Especially by a man who was a despicable, ill-mannered rat.
For a moment she contemplated hurling herself into the sea, drowning in the cold brackish depths just to spite him. But then she would never have the chance to finish writing her storybook. She would never know the joy of reuniting Princess Arianna with her long-lost royal parents. She would never have that cozy cottage in the country where she could be free to pursue her dreams.
Gritting her teeth, Ellie started up the rocky slope to the castle. She had a plan for her life, and Damien Burke mustn’t be allowed to ruin it. Somehow, she had to convince him that he’d abducted the wrong woman.
Chapter 8
Had he abducted the wrong woman?
Wrestling with the door to the keep, Damien wanted to punch his fist through the wooden panel. Every latch in this godforsaken castle was corroded by the sea air. He gave the iron handle another mighty tug and it finally lifted with a loud, creaking protest.
Pausing in the open doorway, he glared back at the hooded figure marching toward him across the darkened castle yard. The storm was gaining strength, and she staggered several times under the force of the powerful gusts. But he resisted the impulse to go to her and offer his assistance. The little witch would only bite his head off.
Dammit, she had to be Lady Beatrice Stratham. He didn’t want to believe he’d made such a catastrophic mistake. He had tracked Walt’s sister for several days. He had waited for hours outside that damned modiste’s shop. He had grabbed her unawares and then smuggled her aboard one of his ships, a fast schooner with a loyal crew that had deposited them at this island without questioning the presence of an unconscious woman in his arms.
Damien had congratulated himself for pulling off the perfect plan.
Except maybe it wasn’t so perfect, after all. If what she said was true, then it was an unmitigated disaster.
When she’d awakened in the tower bedchamber the previous afternoon, he had shrugged off her protests as a feeble attempt to trick him. He had been cocky and contemptuous, certain that she was lying about her identity in order to secure her release. Granted, his captive had looked rather ordinary compared to the exquisite girl he’d watched from afar. But he’d attributed the discrepancy to the fact that he hadn’t ever viewed her up close. Anyway, how could she possibly be that middle-aged companion in the dowdy, shapeless garb? The slenderness of her body surely disproved that possibility.
Yet a few moments ago, she had catalogued the physical differences between her and her cousin: the hair and eye color and complexion. And he had heard the unmistakable passion of truth ringing in her voice. You yourself said that I’m not pretty. That’s because my cousin is the beauty of the family—not me!
Dread soured his gut. How in hell could he have made such a blunder? If this irksome female turned out to be Lady Beatrice’s spinster cousin—and he feared it to be true—then his plan to retrieve the stolen key from Walt was in serious jeopardy.
She approached the doorway where Damien waited. Though her features were shrouded by darkness, her manner radiated disapproval. When he stepped back to let her into the keep, she flicked her skirts aside to keep from brushing against him.
He caught a whiff of lilacs amid the cold sea air. That same feminine fragrance had enticed his senses while he’d
held her imprisoned against the boulder.
He cursed the rise of heat in his blood. No matter who she was, it would be the height of idiocy to imagine himself in bed with her. He shouldn’t think of how supple and energetic she’d felt while struggling in his arms. Nor should he recall how her rounded bottom had rubbed him in exactly the wrong place. His business with her had nothing to do with seduction.
To hammer that point home, Damien banged the door shut. They were standing in the gloomy great hall with its rusty shields and the ragged tapestries on the stone walls. The only illumination came from an oil lamp sitting on a table and the glimmer of embers on the hearth.
“Follow me,” he snapped.
He tramped toward the massive fireplace and threw several logs onto the grate. Then he grabbed the poker to stir the glowing coals, using more vigor than was necessary. As tongues of flame began to lick at the wood, he turned around to find his prisoner lurking in the shadows while eyeing the iron implement in his hand.
Good God. Did she think he meant to use it on her?
Irritated, he propped the poker against the stones and then waved at a wooden bench near the hearth. “Sit down,” he said curtly. “You must be frozen.”
She remained standing. “Where is Mrs. MacNab?”
“Asleep, I’m sure. It’s after midnight.”
“I shouldn’t be here alone with you.”
“Considering this wild claim of yours, Miss Stratham, you’ll forgive me if I expect you to answer my questions straightaway. Would you prefer to do so here—or in your bedchamber?”
She pursed her lips and then seated herself on the bench at the end closest to the fire. “It isn’t a wild claim. It’s time you accepted that Lady Beatrice is still in London.”
As she stretched out her gloved hands to the flames, the hood of her leaf-green cloak fell back to reveal an untidy mass of wavy hair that glowed red in the firelight. Her complexion had been rather sallow when she’d awakened some hours ago, but now her cheeks were rosy from the cold. The faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose lent her an innocent look at odds with her shrewish, outspoken nature.
