Abducted by a Prince (17 page)

In a panic, Ellie sat up straight and swung her feet over the side of the bed. “Give that back to me!”

He glanced up to drill her with a stare. “Kindly keep your foot where it belongs.”

“Only if you return my notebook at once!”

“Why? What could you possibly have to hide?”

Damien had the audacity to look back down at the book, flipping through the pages of sketches. A black eyebrow winged upward as he lingered over one of them.

Ignoring the pain in her ankle, Ellie hobbled over the rug to his side. She snatched the leather-bound notebook out of his hands and cradled it to her bosom. She felt violated and furious to have her imaginary world exposed to his view. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Beast! How dare you look at this without my permission.”

“Pray forgive me, I should have asked you first,” he said mildly. “I didn’t realize your artwork was meant to be so private.”

On that wholly inadequate apology, he jumped up and caught her by the waist, propelling her back to the canopied bed. Dictatorial as ever, he lifted her back onto the covers and rearranged the pillow under her ankle.

Then he stood at the bedside and stared down at her. “So tell me, why
are
you drawing flamboyant rats wielding swords?”

His sharp gaze pinned Ellie in place. She wanted to roll away, to escape the scrutiny of those vigilant eyes, but if she tried to climb off the other side of the bed he would be there to stop her. She couldn’t run, anyway, not on this ankle. He had her well and truly trapped.

“I was merely doodling,” she said tersely, averting her gaze to the green hangings on the bedpost. “Now, will you please just go away?”

The fire hissed into the silence. Snow tapped on the windowpanes like a visitor impatient to come inside. To her dismay, the Demon Prince didn’t move from the bedside. He remained standing directly beside her, so close that Ellie could have touched him had she not been clutching the precious notebook to her bosom.

She braced herself for his ridicule. He was just the sort of insensitive bully to laugh at her fantastical creations. If she refused to talk to him, maybe he’d give up and leave.

His fingers grasped her chin, turning her face back toward him. “You’re telling a story through those pictures, aren’t you?” he said slowly, his gaze intent on her. “The rat and that girl with a tiara—is she a princess? They’re battling a hulking creature with a big head—a giant or some such.”

“An ogre.” Irked that he’d tempted her into speech, Ellie glued her lips shut and glowered at his chest.

Damien cocked his head to one side. “This rat character—I noticed in one of the drawings that his stance appeared somewhat unnatural. He wasn’t handling his sword properly. Did you do that on purpose?”

“What? No!” Now he’d pulled another two words from her when she’d sworn not to speak to him. The last thing she wanted was to encourage conversation and give him a reason to stay.

Much to her relief, he walked away from the bed. But he didn’t collect his greatcoat and head out the door. Instead, he picked up the fireplace poker and brandished it up like a sword. He struck a pose with one arm held stiffly at his side. “This is how he’s standing in your sketch,” Damien said.

Then he shifted position, placing a hand on his hip, his feet set apart as he thrust out with the poker at an imaginary foe. “And this is how he
should
be standing.”

He looked so fluid and elegant that Ellie felt a thrill course through her body. She knew exactly which drawing he meant. It was one that she’d labored over with the sense that something wasn’t quite accurate. Now, she could see precisely where she’d gone wrong.

Forgetting her anger, she picked up the pencil from the bedside table, opened the notebook to a fresh page, and did a quick preliminary sketch, the newly sharpened lead flying over the paper. As the figure took shape, she succumbed to curiosity and asked, “Where did you learn to use a sword?”

“Fencing lessons. An old-fashioned sport, to be sure, but quite popular at Eton.” Damien executed several wickedly swift jabs, the poker making a swishing sound in the air. “By the by, does your rat have a name?”

Her pencil slowed on the paper. Remembering that she was still peeved at him, Ellie said tartly, “Prince Ratworth. And you may be interested to know, I modeled him after
you.
”

The corner of Damien’s mouth curled in that charming, heart-fluttering, almost-grin. He replaced the poker by the fireplace, then came over to the bed and reached for the notebook. “Let me see that again.”

“No.”

“Come, you can’t make such a claim without letting me have another look.”

Reluctantly, she surrendered the notebook, and he studied her latest drawing, then flipped through several other pages. “He
is
a rather dapper fellow, isn’t he? Quite dashing, in fact.” Damien handed the leather-bound book back to her. “I confess to being flattered. I can’t say that anyone has ever put me in a story before. Dare I hope that Prince Ratworth is the hero of your tale?”

He was supposed to be insulted, Ellie thought sourly. She had no intention of telling him that the rat was under a magical spell. Or that once the prince redeemed himself and regained his human form, he and Princess Arianna would live happily ever after. “He’s an arrogant, selfish, demonic rat, so of course he must be a villain.”

“Yet he’s fighting the evil ogre. That seems rather heroic to me.” He eyed her for a moment, then added, “Did Prince Ratworth abduct the princess?”

“No!” Flustered, Ellie regretted revealing that he was her inspiration. He seemed to take it as carte blanche to critique her life’s work. “Pardon me if I don’t wish to explain the entire plot to you. It’s none of your concern.”

His expression grew pensive as he subjected her to a contemplative stare. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His scrutiny made her uneasy, so she lowered her eyes to the page in her lap, distracting herself by adding a flowing cape to Prince Ratworth.

Damien pulled the chair closer and sat down. He propped one booted foot on the frame of the bed as if settling in for a long stay. “You needn’t explain the particulars of the plot,” he said, “but I’m curious about your plans for this story. Were you working on it back in London, too?”

The astute question increased Ellie’s wariness. Her book had always been a closely guarded secret, and now she felt exposed and vulnerable. Why was the Demon Prince so interested, anyway? “It’s just a little hobby of mine,” she dissembled. “Something I do to amuse myself.”

He wore a slight frown as if he were trying to figure her out. “Is there a text to go along with the drawings? Are you intending this project to be a book for children?”

Ellie attempted a cool laugh. “I can’t imagine why it would matter to you,” she said. “Or are you afraid that someone might spot your resemblance to Prince Ratworth?”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Then you
do
intend to seek publication for your story.”

Ellie’s heart pitched in alarm as she realized how shrewdly he’d interpreted her remark. She glanced away lest he read the truth in her eyes. “I needn’t discuss my plans with you.”

To her consternation, the mattress dipped under his weight as Damien seated himself on the edge of the bed. He took her hand in his and lightly rubbed the reddened indentation in her finger left by the pencil. “I know you don’t trust me, Ellie. I can’t say that I blame you. But please know that I bear you no ill intent. Quite the contrary. You’re an exceptionally talented artist and I’d like to see you profit from your work.”

Exceptionally talented?

Ellie absorbed his praise in the starving corners of her soul. For so long she had worked alone and kept her dreams to herself. Now, gazing into his eyes, she wanted to forget all the reasons why she should mistrust this man. The warmth of his hand on hers, the frank sincerity on his face, his nearness on the bed, all had a curious effect on her. She felt a bond of intimacy between them that went beyond the physical. It was as if they’d known each other for years instead of only two days.

She also felt an unladylike hunger to throw herself into his arms and lift her face for his kiss. That made no sense, for she had decided long ago that romance would have no place in her life.
Believe me, Ellie, if ever I decide to seduce you, you’ll know it, and you’ll want me to do it.

Was that what he was doing now? Trying to seduce her with his charm? She couldn’t think clearly when he sat so close to her.

Her cheeks flushed, she extracted her hand from his. “If you really want to hear more, I’ll tell you. But first, you’ll return to your chair.”

Damien complied with a jaunty air just like Prince Ratworth. He settled down on the wooden seat and placed his hands behind his neck in a relaxed pose. “Go on, then.”

Ellie drew a deep breath. “If you must know, I
am
hoping to find a publisher. I’ve been working on my storybook for a while now, and it’s over halfway complete.” She stopped, then added, “Although I’ve lost at least a week’s worth of work, all because of you.”

“Yet because of me, you’ve also gained a bold hero to defend your princess.”

“Villain,” she insisted.

He chuckled. “Perhaps Prince Ratworth is a bit of both, hmm? So, how many pages do you have done?”

She contemplated the thick stack hidden in the chest in her nursery bedchamber at Pennington House. “At last count, close to a hundred.”

“A hundred? This book is meant for children, is it not?”

His sudden frown made Ellie defensive. “Yes, and what’s wrong with that? You can’t make a judgment about it when you’ve only seen a few sketches.”

“It’s not the content, but the length. Children—at least the younger ones—prefer shorter stories.”

How peculiar to hear such a comment coming from a hardened scoundrel, she thought. The Demon Prince leaned back in the chair, one foot on the bed frame, his black hair attractively mussed by the wind. Was he always so confident about everything?

“What can
you
know about children?” she scoffed. “You, who spend your time playing cards and wagering on dice at your gambling den?”

His mouth curling wryly, Damien glanced away at the fire. There was a moodiness to his face that puzzled Ellie. But when he looked back at her again, a cool irony tinged his expression. “You’re quite right. However, I
am
a businessman, and I merely thought to advise you…” He paused. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ve already determined the best way to attract the interest of a publisher.”

Ellie found herself in a quandary. She had just spurned his opinion, yet she felt woefully ignorant when it came to matters of commerce. She far preferred to work on the story itself than to face the intimidating prospect of convincing a stranger at a publishing company to print the pages and bind them into a volume.

Dipping her chin and gazing at Damien through the screen of her lashes, she admitted, “If you must know, I haven’t any notion how to find a publisher. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

“It seems to me your first step would be to go to a bookstore or lending library and see who publishes this sort of book.”

His answer was so logical that Ellie felt foolish for never having thought of it. “You’re right, there should be an address for the publisher on the title page.”

“Precisely.” Damien leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Now, might I make a suggestion? Would it be possible to break your story into sections that could be sold as separate books?”

The notion stupefied her. “Why?”

“I’m assuming that illustrated books cost more to produce, so you might have an easier time convincing a publisher to invest in a shorter book. In addition, you’d likely earn more money by selling a series of works rather than just one.”

“But at what cost to my story?” Ellie burst out. “For heaven’s sake, that’s a terrible idea. It would require extensive revisions.”

Aghast, she turned her head to stare unseeing at the curved stone wall. Everything in her resisted committing the sacrilege of drastically altering the manuscript that she had worked on for so many months. She’d have to tinker with the plot, rewrite portions, and draw new illustrations in places so that each book could stand on its own. It might require weeks and weeks of additional work. And what if it didn’t work? What if she destroyed her precious storybook in the process?

But maybe she would lose her chance of publication if she
didn’t
do as he suggested. Then where would she be?

A flood of self-doubt inundated her. All of a sudden her dream of living in a cozy cottage in the country seemed farther away than ever. Ellie desperately needed to earn enough to support herself, and swiftly, too, because she had a horrible suspicion that her family wouldn’t welcome her return to London after having spent more than a week in the company of a rogue. Her uncle might very well cast her out into the streets …

A loud knocking made her jump. She looked over to see that Damien was already striding forward to open the door.

Mrs. MacNab took a step inside the bedchamber, then stopped to gawk at him. “Why, ’tis the laird. An’ what mischief are ye at, bein’ in milady’s bedchamber?”

“Miss Stratham twisted her ankle on the ice, so I carried her up here.” He took the basket from the maidservant and placed it on the table. “Is it teatime already?”

Mrs. MacNab hurried to Ellie’s side. “Oh, poor lamb. I brung only one cup, sir. Shall I run back down t’ the kitchen t’ fetch another?”

“No, I was about to depart. It appears I’ve overstayed my welcome here.”

Grabbing his greatcoat, he flicked an enigmatic glance at Ellie. She glowered back at him. Did he expect her to beg him to stay? After the way he had shaken the foundation of her future?

Good riddance to him!

As he departed the chamber and closed the door, a sudden inspiration banished her gloom. Perhaps there
was
a simple way to solve her present dilemma. She mulled over the notion while Mrs. MacNab puttered by the table, pouring tea and arranging scones on a plate. By the time the maidservant bustled over to the bed with a steaming cup, Ellie could offer a cheerful smile of thanks.