My Ruthless Prince (11 page)

She shut the dungeon door behind her all the way.

That cat should stay out, where the dogs can't
get her,
she thought in shaky anger and lingering dread.

Crossing the octagonal room, she mounted the next set of stairs, taking care not to let anyone notice her coming up from the stairwell when she reached the hallway above.

Upon reentering the rococo main floor of the castle, she put her head down, as Drake had advised, and hurried back toward his room. When she passed two of the foreign bodyguards, the men eyed her rather like the dogs had eyed the pork chop.

She kept her distance, skittering along the edge of the wall as the cat had done. With her pulse thudding in her arteries, she sped on, but when she stepped around the corner, she nearly ran headlong into James Falkirk.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir!"

"Miss Harper." He stopped also, rather startled at their near collision. The old man lifted his chin, studying her, his eyes narrowed in curious speculation. "You seem lost, my dear."

More than you know.
She hid her surprise at his too-perceptive words. "No, sir. I-I'm finding my way round all right. I was just, um, seeing to milord's laundry."

"Ah. I trust you are settling in, then?"

"Yes, sir." She bowed her head in deference.

He had the most unsettling stare. "It was quite brave of you to come all this way for your protector. I daresay he is in need of a woman's touch."

Emily peered up through her lashes at him in trepidation.

"I do hope you are able to, ah, fix him with your skills, Miss Harper. He's been slow to heal. Not his fault, of course. He's been through considerable unpleasantness." He paused, weighing and sifting her very soul with his penetrating gaze. "This was where he was held, you know."

Emily lifted her head in shock. "Here?"

"I'm afraid so. Coming back to Waldfort, where it all happened, has been very difficult for him. But it could not be avoided." He shrugged.

Her wits were suddenly reeling at the revelation.

This castle? That dungeon?

That unspeakable torture room?

"Are you quite well, Miss Harper?" James Falkirk inquired with the tranquil air of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Emily could barely catch her breath. "Y-yes, sir. I-I must be on about my duties."

"Indeed."

She sketched a curtsy and turned to go, but halted, glancing back at him. "Drake told me you saved his life, sir," she forced out. "For what it's worth, you have my thanks for that--from the bottom of my heart."

"Hmm. If you would thank me, then help your master to make a full recovery, and soon. We're awfully keen for him to get his memory back. That is what would be best for Drake," he added pointedly.

She could not be certain, but his words sounded to her like a veiled threat. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Good. I'm glad we understand we each other, my dear." He nodded her dismissal with a vaguely reptilian smile. "Off you go, then."

Her heart in her throat, Emily bobbed another respectful curtsy and whisked away from the seemingly harmless old man in a state of terror and revulsion. Why, he knew just what to say to people to make them do exactly what he wanted!

She could still feel the cunning old chess player watching her in mingled suspicion and amusement as she sped off in a bit of a panic.

Nevertheless, for whatever reasons of his own, James Falkirk had given her some stunning information.

She could not have withstood her brief tour of the dungeon if she had known that was the place, the very place, that had been Drake's hell on earth.

And he was here--! Where it had all happened. Forced to face it every day. How could he bear it?

No wonder he was
so angry that
I came,
she thought as she ran up the main staircase, taking the steps two at a time in an unladylike fashion that would have made his haughty mother cringe. Drake was afraid they both might end up down there--he just hadn't wanted to say so!

He hadn't wanted her to know the full extent of the danger she was in.

And the danger she had placed him in, as well.

And through him, all his brother agents.

Oh, what have I done?

Yes, Drake had taken the Initiate's Brand, but she still was not entirely convinced he was a real Promethean; if it was some insanely brave ruse he was playing out, if he was still the great knight of the Order that he had always been, then she was truly a serious liability for him, being there.

Lionhearted as he was, he might have withstood the torturers' worst, himself, but if they were to put
her
in that wicked chair, she did not doubt he would soon tell them whatever they wanted to know. Simply because it was so deeply ingrained in him to protect her.

Good God, she had better play her part as his servant plaything well, exactly as he had explained it to her.

Gaining the upper hallway, she hurried on, eager to reach his room so she could at least have a moment alone to collect her thoughts. At the moment, her fears continued to savage her. Of course, she had long known that the Prometheans were very dangerous people, aye, ever since Drake had first told her about them as a lad.

But seeing the evidence of their evil firsthand had suddenly made it all real to her in a way it had not entirely been before.

God, she would never forgive herself if she caused Drake to be returned to that terrible place through some mistake of hers. She did not think he could survive it.

Indeed, in that moment, she quite hoped that it
was
no ruse--that he
was
a real Promethean, just as he claimed, no longer a hero--because if he really was one of them, then at least they would not hurt him again. He might have turned evil, but at least he would be safe.

Of course, she now knew Drake had not told James Falkirk that his memory had returned, since just a few minutes ago, the old man had encouraged her to help Drake remember. Meanwhile, however, just this morning, Drake had admitted to her, cautiously and reluctantly, that his memory
had
returned, before he had left England.

Well, she thought, rather dazed and confused. At least this showed that he still trusted her more than Falkirk.

That wasn't saying much, but it was good to know.

Reaching their chamber at last, she flung the door open, then stopped in her tracks to find Drake already there.

He was leaning over his opened cache of weapons and ammunition, retrieving a few items from the trunk, but he glanced over when she burst in.

The slight smile that greeted her and the sudden warm glow in his eyes hinted that he was still thinking about their kiss.

But then he noticed her air of distress.

"You all right?" He furrowed his brow, straightening up to his full height.

Emily opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She abruptly found she did not know what to say.

After what she had just learned, she was not sure she was quite ready to see him yet.

His smile vanished, and he stepped toward her with an increasing look of concern. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she whispered, and shut the door behind her.

"Emily." Drake studied her with a frown, resting his hands on his waist. "Did somebody bother you?"

"N-no, it's, um--" She swallowed hard and lowered her head, trying to decide if the truth or a lie was the best answer in this case.

God only knew how he would react if she told him the truth, that she now knew this was the castle where he'd been held prisoner. A bad idea, surely, to try to bring it up.

On the other hand, his trust in her was her only weapon in this fight. If she tried to lie to him, a trained spy, he'd know. And then he'd trust her less.

Casting about, she opted for a safer middle ground. "I-I just ran into Mr. Falkirk. That's all."

He took a step forward. "Did he question you?" he asked tersely.

"Not really. He asked if I was settling in."

He scanned her. "And what did you say?"

"I said yes, and I showed him I was--doing your laundry."

One eyebrow lifted. "You did my laundry?"

She nodded. "It's drying."

He stared at her. "You didn't have to do that."

"Better than being bored out of my wits."

He absorbed this, then gave her a nod as his guarded smile returned. "Well, thanks for that." Satisfied with her answer, Drake started to turn back again to his weapons case.

I can't lie to him.
How could she hold the secret in?

It went against her nature and was beyond her power.

"He told me something," Emily blurted out abruptly.

"Hmm, what was that?" he asked, glancing at her with an array of guns laid out in front of him on the bed.

Emily stared at him, her heart pounding. "He told me t-this was where you were held."

He held her gaze sharply, frozen for a second, then, before her eyes, he shut down completely. "Did he, now?" he murmured as nonchalantly as if she had told him she thought it was going to rain.

Emily winced at his casual facade.

But the way his broad shoulders stiffened and his lips thinned, like an animal ready to bare its teeth, and the cool manner in which he turned back to his weapons and would no longer meet her gaze spoke volumes.

"Drake--is there anything at all that I can do?"

"Well, you've mastered the laundry. Why don't you try shining my boots."

If that was a jest, it fell utterly flat, thanks to the bitterness in his voice.

She just looked at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "Do what you like. I hardly care."

She took a step toward him. "It's all right," she whispered. "I only want to help."

"Do you?" He turned and glared at her though she doubted the fury in his eyes was really aimed at her.

She nodded.

"Then never mention this to me again." He put the rest of his guns back in their case, closed the lid, and walked past her, ignoring her tender gaze as he stalked to the door.

As she turned, watching him imploringly, she could no longer hold back. "I would do anything to take this from you."

He paused at her anguished whisper, but he did not answer and did not look back. He was quiet for a moment, his hand on the door.

"I have to go," he said at length. "James needs my help with something."

"Drake." She laid her hand on his back.

He flinched. "Don't touch me."

Then he walked out.

Tears rushed into Emily's eyes. She leaned against the wall behind her. Unfortunately, when she closed her eyes, she could only see the imaginings that now tormented her. The thought of Drake in that iron chair being brutalized, terrorized, humiliated.

Shaking, she shook her head at the image in near panic, and when she opened her eyes, she wept for what had been done to him.

What had been stolen from him.

All she wanted was to take him in her arms and swear that she would never let anyone hurt him again. But she did not have the wherewithal to make any such promise.

Her own powerlessness to help him infuriated her.

Now she saw the full extent of what she was up against, not just the demons around him, but the ones inside him, too.

And for the first time, Emily faced the black, sinister doubts that rose up before her in all their hellish fury to confront her heart, jeering at her for foolishly believing her love could ever be enough to save him.

Chapter 8

T
he secret Promethean temple inside the mountain had not been used in an age, James explained. He wanted to go and make sure it was in good repair for the night of the eclipse, in two weeks' time.

Drake escorted him, as usual, riding in the carriage and keeping an eye out the window on Jacques's men, who provided the outer layer of protection for the Promethean leader, on horseback ahead and behind them.

The sturdy coach made slow progress up the bumpy, rural road; it soon narrowed to little more than a cart path. The local farmers were probably the only ones to use the road a few times a year, he thought, when warmer weather allowed them to drive their goats to higher pastures or to bring tools that they might need for mending fences up the mountain.

The landscape was even wilder than that just around the castle. Wildflowers burst out everywhere from the ground. The wind rippled through the forest. Birds flittered from tree to tree. An eagle circled overhead, and a few deer went bounding across the road.

Whenever there was a break in the trees, the towering forests dropped away to reveal blue sky and white peaks across the distant green valleys.

Drake gazed at these vistas and tried not to think about Emily.

He had no intention of ever speaking one word to her or to anyone else about what he'd experienced. He had stowed the horrible memories in a strongbox in the back of his mind and had no desire to open it again, not even a crack, not even for her.

If he did, he feared it would be like Pandora's box, and every ugly thing inside him would come flying out, beyond what she or Max or James or anyone else could have possibly imagined.

He would burn down the world.

No, it was much better to block it from his mind and carry on with the rest of his short stay on this earth.

But he wished she would not ask him any more questions, so he could just hold her. He needed her so much more than he cared to admit, more than she had any idea.

But if she insisted on asking questions, that cramped little room was going to start to feel much too small.

Just then, they hit a rut in the road that made the carriage pitch violently. James bumped into Drake, who steadied the old man. "Are you all right, sir?"

He nodded but was visibly uncomfortable. "We should be there shortly."

Drake glanced at the remote location. "Hard to believe there's a structure as large as you say somewhere close by."

James smiled. "It's just beneath our feet. Its isolation is part of what makes it preferable. We're generally left to ourselves out here." He squinted against the sunlight as he studied the nearby meadows out the carriage window. "The site was donated by one of our members a hundred years ago. Owner of a mining company. The caves you'll see were originally part of his operation. Gold, silver, coal."

"Really?" Drake said in surprise.

James nodded. "The riches of the Alps. Many minerals have been found in these mountains. When the gold and silver ran out, and the coal had been mined as deeply as his engineers were able to go, he donated the space to us. There are quartz crystals in the walls that were of no interest to him as a merchant but have long been revered by those with an interest in occult science."

"I see."

The carriage rolled to a bumpy halt. Drake glanced out the window. The mountain road had ended, but from its terminus, a footpath continued on, climbing toward the peak. When they got out of the coach, James pointed with his walking stick toward the footpath. Drake offered his arm for the old man to lean on.

They proceeded up the path.

"By the way," James murmured as he hobbled along the steep dirt path beside him, "I'd like you to lead the team who'll be sent to France to kill Malcolm. You can choose whom you want to take with you from among Jacques's men."

Drake glanced at him in surprise.

"You will do this for us?" the old man said.

"Gladly."

He nodded, satisfied. "I'll have details for you on how to penetrate his chateau in the Loire Valley. Security is very high. But if you go, even if the others are cut down, I know I can rest assured that at least you will finish the job."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"It won't be too long before I send you. We can't risk Malcolm's catching wind of what's occurred, or you'll never get near him."

"Just say the word."

James patted his arm in a grandfatherly fashion as he leaned on him. "Good lad. A bit of a fly in the ointment the other Council members and I have to work out first, though, before we send you off."

"What's that?"

"The bastard's hidden the Council's operating funds. He's moved the accounts around without telling anyone."

Drake snorted. "Sounds like him."

"We need to know where he's hidden the money before we dispose of him."

"I could always go and capture him, sir. Bring him here and make him talk."

James shook his head. "I had thought of that, but I'd rather not bring him here. He's ruled the Council with an iron fist for so long, I'm concerned he might intimidate the others into backing down if they have to face him in person. If they go wobbly and crawl back to him, you can imagine what that will mean for me."

"I understand, sir."

James winced, leaning harder on him, while the path ended a few yards ahead at a wall of naked rock surrounded by massive boulders and overgrown brambles. "Better to have him dispatched in France before he knows what's coming."

Drake nodded. "I agree. My only concern is who will be protecting you while I am away?"

James patted his arm fondly. "I am touched by your concern, my boy, but I shall be quite safe once you've rid the world of Malcolm Banks. Ah, here we are! It should be . . . right through there." James pointed with his walking stick to the mounds of wild shrubbery and great stones that looked like they had been tossed there by a giant.

"I'll go and have a look." Drake left the old man to rest his bones against a large rock, jogging the rest of the way up the trail.

Cautiously stepping into a natural break in the thick screen of thorny brambles and the huge rhododendrons in bloom, he pushed the branches aside and saw the rounded entrance to a small, dark cave.

He advanced, pressing through the bushes and, walking behind them, ventured into the cave. It was quite dark but did not go very deep, perhaps ten feet, before he came to the back wall and found a smooth door of stone or some form of cement. It appeared to be no more than the place where the spent mine had been sealed, but James had said it was the entrance to the Prometheans' lair within.

Intrigued, Drake ran his hands along the cool, rectangular frame of the door, but he had no idea how to get it open. Either they would need explosives, or James had some new trick up his sleeve, as usual.

Drake went back out and called the all clear.

Jacques assisted Falkirk up to the place where Drake waited.

"We'll need light in there," the old man advised as he crossed the cave, pushing his spectacles up higher onto his nose.

The Frenchman gestured to one of his subordinates, who lit a lantern and brought it over to James. Indeed, they had been instructed to bring along an odd assortment of things in the carriage, tools for cleaning and repair, whatever might be needed for their task of putting the underground temple back in order after long disuse.

"Now, then." When James lifted the lantern before a spot on the back wall of the cave, the light played over something flat, with a dark gold hue.

James rubbed the spot with his gloved hand, and Drake moved closer, fascinated as the old man's efforts revealed a small brass plaque set into the back wall of the cave.

It had a dial in the center, which in turn was surrounded by a circle of engraved markings that James's attentions presently revealed.

"Greek letters," Drake murmured, glancing at him in question.

James cast him a smile askance with a glint of schoolboy mischief in his eyes. "Send the men out."

"Move back," Drake ordered them at once.

The others retreated, but he remained. Then James began turning the dial back and forth, pointing it to a series of letters in succession.

Some sort of code.

"It's a combination lock?" Drake exclaimed.

James chuckled. "Indeed. And now . . ." As he turned the dial to what was apparently the final letter in the code, a deep, grating rumble of stone scraping stone shook the little cave.

To Drake's amazement, the solid stone wall before them rolled aside, sending up a puff of dust. When it stopped, the hidden opening was revealed, leading into the mountain.

James smiled matter-of-factly and handed him the lantern.

Drake moved closer, thrusting the light into the pitch-black darkness beyond. He saw stairs carved into the rock wall, curving down into a vast, hollow cavern.

"That's a long way down," he commented. "Take my arm, sir. Jacques, bring up the supplies."

The hired mercenaries were peering curiously into the cave, but Jacques sent them off to fetch the necessary items. Then Drake stepped into the cave, turning back to assist the old man.

James accepted his offered forearm, but they made slow progress, climbing down the long, curving steps that had been carved right into the living rock.

The earthy smell combined with the damp chill that clung to subterranean stone, and Drake shivered with unbidden memories of the dungeon. He thrust them out of his mind, as usual, and regarded the few bats flapping through the dark vault instead.

James made a sound of discomfort, wincing.

"Mind your footing, sir," he advised, still privately marveling from some detached region of his battered psyche, that he, a former team leader for one of the Order's cells, should be helping the new head of the Promethean Council into one of the evil cult's most sacred sites.

As far as he knew, no Order agent had ever got so far inside the enemy's organization.

At least that made all that had happened to him worth it.

"What's that?" he asked, pausing and ready to reach for his weapon as the lanternlight hinted at two large, human shapes waiting at the bottom of the steps.

"That's Prometheus and his protege," James said wryly.

"Oh." They continued, and, drawing closer, the lantern's feeble glow revealed the details of two large figures carved from stone. He could make them out better as they neared the bottom of the staircase, which the looming statues framed.

Steadying James with one arm, Drake raised the lantern to stare at the giant idol of Prometheus, with his menacing narrowed eyes and small, goatish or perhaps satanic horns; this sinister towering figure was depicted passing a torch to a smaller but still-Herculean figure of a man.

Drake and his supposed master passed under the archway formed by the statues' outstretched arms, each with a hand gripping the same handle of the torch.

Then he stepped down onto the cavern floor, helped James down, and nodded to the others, who were following them into the great chamber, bringing supplies as well as more light, both torches and lanterns.

As James bent to rub his sore knee, Jacques arrived. The French sergeant met Drake's gaze with an uneasy question in his eyes.

Drake looked back at him matter-of-factly.

Jacques dismissed his nonanswer with a very Gallic shrug, then beckoned his men on: Some of the French soldiers were making a swift sign of the Cross as they saw the place ahead.

Drake smirked. If any of them thought God heard or cared, they were deluded, but he returned his attention to the old man. James was gesturing impatiently for the lantern. "Give me that. We'll let some daylight in so we can see what we're doing."

Drake followed James over to one of the raw stone walls of the great cavern. "Here it is," James muttered, padding his brow from his exertions. "You will have to turn this crank."

"What's it do?" he responded as he stepped over to man a wood-handled crank anchored to the stone.

"You'll see." James nodded.

Drake threw his shoulder into the crank, which hadn't been touched in decades. As he worked it back and forth, chains running up from it began to grind and clank, clattering over the pulleys above.

He glanced up warily as the handle's reciprocating motion was turned into circular motion. The mechanism above began to open a round gap in the cavern's ceiling, exposing the blue sky.

Massive wooden doors reinforced with iron slowly parted and lowered inward; these widened as he worked the wooden arm. When it would go no more, he locked the handle into place and let go of it, dusting off his hands.

James was beaming. "The observatory! These mountains put us so much closer to the stars . . ."

Drake said nothing, glancing up at the sky doors overhead. A few bats swooped out, disturbed by the intrusion.

"From here, we shall have a perfect view of the lunar eclipse on the night of Valerian's ritual." James clapped him on the back and walked back toward the center of the cavern. "Now let's get this place cleaned up! There is much to be done to make everything ready."