My Ruthless Prince (32 page)

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," he whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I did it--"

"For the same reason you do everything," she interrupted. "To protect me. I know." She caressed his cheek. "It's all right, my love. I forgive you, I suppose."

He turned his face to kiss her palm. "You are all that is good in the world to me," he breathed. Then he captured her hand and kissed it, and sent her on her way. "Now go. And do as Max tells you in the meanwhile. You can trust him as you'd trust me."

"Hurry," she shot back. "I'll miss you. And don't scare Stefan. Keep him smiling as best you can, all right? Just pretend it's a game."

He nodded.

Then she climbed up toward the break in the wall; he steadied her as she crawled toward freedom.

Emily glanced back, holding on to his hand a moment longer through the stones. "I love you!" she whispered.

"I love you, too, sweetheart. I always will."

His soft words made her beam and blush and smile from ear to ear. "See you soon?"

H
e nodded mutely, unable to speak.
Someday, my love.
She sent him a kiss, then her fingertips slid out of his grasp, and she was gone, vanishing through the wall.

The emptiness in that stone crypt without her was profound. All the light seemed to go out of the world. But Drake warded off the temptation to despair.

His work that day had only just begun.

He filled his lungs slowly with a deep breath, lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and headed for the stairs.

Stopping to blow out the lantern nearby, the better to conceal the fact that his "prisoners" were no longer in their cells, he paused, suddenly realizing that he was standing near the entrance to the torture chamber.

Icy loathing arrowed down his spine. Instinctual terror choked him, making his heart pound. He stood very still for a long moment, but then he knew he had to face it one last time . . . before the end.

Slowly, by inching, agonized degrees, he made himself walk over to it and peer through the open doorway into that dark place. The chamber where they had taken a hardened agent who had once, as a lad, aspired to be the Order's greatest hero and turned him into a ruined, cringing wretch to get their information. Every name of every agent that he knew. But they had failed.

He had never broken.

Somehow, near the border of all that his body and soul could take, his mind had performed a sleight-of-hand trick that had left even
him
fooled, folding in on itself, as it were, leaving him a blank slate who could remember nothing.

And then James had made them stop, fearing they'd kill him, and the information would be lost.

Dear old James, that master manipulator, had taken a man born an earl and turned him into a slave.

And so he would have remained if it were not for Emily. She had rescued him as he had once rescued her.

Fully restored by her love to what he truly was, he had to fulfill his destiny--not the Alchemist's foolish prophecy. The one Virgil had prepared him for.

But it would cost him . . . everything. And after their brief taste of love in this dark place, it was a price he did not want to pay.

He would have given up anything to stay with her, even his soul, his sense of right and wrong, and so, yes, he had wavered in the face of temptation; but she was gone, and he would be an Order agent to the end.

He would go into the temple and die tonight killing the enemy, as he brought his well-played ruse to its close.

It was the only way. He could finish this war for all of them, forever. The Prometheans en masse would meet their fiery reward, and his own suffering would end.

Peace filled him at last as he finally accepted the inevitable. This was his destiny.

He knew that Max and his team would take care of Emily for him. He did not have to worry anymore about keeping her safe. She would be devastated when she realized the truth, but this was how it had to be.

She'd heal in time, he told himself, and, someday, she would find a way to be happy without him. For himself, he was grateful for the time they had had together. At least they had had a taste of the love that could have been.

Drake reached in and pulled the door to the torture chamber shut. He locked it, then slid the key under the door, where no one would ever be able to find it. They'd never be able to open that hellish compartment to terrorize anyone else.

With that, he pivoted on his heel and marched resolutely toward his fate.

At the end of the corridor, he began climbing the stone staircase that led back up into the castle.

Still lost in his wistful thoughts of Emily, he opened the heavy door at the top of the stairs, stepped out into the octagonal antechamber--and was suddenly grabbed from behind. Niall Banks jerked him off-balance, slipped behind him, and thrust a pistol against the back of his head.

"
Don't move.
"

Chapter 21

N
iall was gratified when Westwood froze for a second, taken off guard, but the current leader of the Prometheans recovered his composure--and his sarcasm--rather quickly.

"Gracious, Niall, a guest in this castle, and this is how you behave?"

Niall wrenched his arm for his insolence. "Mind your manners, or I'll blow your fucking head off."

"Easy--"

"Shut the hell up." Niall's heart pounded.

While the surgeon had tended the gunshot wound to his shoulder up in the tower room, a few of the Prometheans who had once been loyal to Malcolm had slipped in to see him, defying Westwood's orders.

In hushed tones, they had told him all that had transpired at the castle, and having heard it, Niall vowed it would not stand.

His entire being churned with hate, rage, confusion, and loss. But he focused all his fury on this lying upstart, the interloper, who had killed the only man he'd ever thought of as his father.

Now he'd never know if Malcolm or Virgil had really been his sire, and therefore, would never know who he really was.

It was all Westwood's doing, and yet the bastard had the nerve to stand there and mock him--even after stealing
his
rightful place?

It was time to take back control.

Niall knew, however, that he couldn't just kill Westwood in cold blood and simply expect the others to recognize him as leader.

He was well aware that some of them did not respect him as they should, believing he had received his prominence in their organization merely because he was Malcolm's son, not because he'd earned it.

He had to show them once and for all that he deserved to be the next head of the Prometheans, and he realized he could do so by exposing Westwood as a fraud.

Somehow, he had to make the earl admit that he was lying.

Niall had found some supporters to back him up--men who were also unsure if Westwood could be trusted, but feared the black-eyed Englishman too much to stand up to him without someone like Niall to lead the charge.

They, as well as men loyal to Drake, had come rushing into the cramped octagonal chamber.

Hostility filled the room.

"We're going to have the truth now. Watch his face, all of you!" Niall barked at them. "You'll see it in his eyes if you look hard enough. That's right. Take a good look at your so-called leader," he instructed over the buzz of their low, worried murmurs. "He got to James somehow and tricked you all, but there is no doubt in my mind this man is still working for the Order!"

"Oh, really?" Westwood countered in a bored tone, sounding not the least impressed with their insurrection nor concerned about the gun to his head. "And have you got proof of that? Because I'm really beginning to find your accusations rather tedious."

"We both know you're just trying to distract attention away from your own incompetence. You led those Order agents straight to us by allowing yourself to be followed. Your father would be so disappointed."

The pain of his father's death still fresh, Niall tensed at the reminder. "Don't you dare speak of him, you lying bastard."

"Niall, it's plain that grief is clouding your judgment. We all know you are a man ruled by emotion. But you need to stop and think about what you're doing here," he advised calmly. "Otherwise, you're going to end up just like Malcolm. Dead."

Niall shook his head with a low laugh at the impudent warning, checking his outrage. He thrust his pistol harder to the back of Westwood's skull. "You're in no position to be making threats, you cocky son of a bitch. I know why you're here. To deceive us all, just like Virgil taught you to, under deep cover. But it's over, Westwood, you filthy Order spy. You're not going to get away with this deception anymore. Not with me. I'm not James."

D
rake was counting the seconds.

He had already raised his hands in a token surrender, but his true purpose in doing so was merely to keep them high enough to strike more easily when his moment came. He'd have to be damned fast about it, too, or things could go nastily awry.

Meanwhile, the fact that so many of the guards had left their posts, drawn to watch the confrontation, would give Max and Emily a few more precious seconds to get away.

"Now, Westwood, if you want to save yourself a great deal of pain, I suggest you start talking. You can begin by admitting in front of all of us what you're really doing here. Or shall we go down to the torture room and have a more serious talk, alone?"

A slight shudder ran through him at that threat though he knew it wasn't going to happen. He could not let them go down to the dungeon, for they'd see that Max and Emily were gone.

Drake strove for patience, planning his attack. He had to draw this out a little longer to give her and Max a few more minutes to speed farther away from the castle. He decided to distract his foe by goading him to anger.

"Niall, Niall," he said with a casual sigh. "You don't seem to grasp how your situation's changed. I realize you're jealous of me. That you think you're entitled to lead this organization. But the brethren learned the hard way they couldn't trust your father; and as you've been riding Malcolm's coattails all your life--"

Niall muttered a choice expletive at him.

"Nobody has any reason to trust you, either.

"You lack experience, discretion," Drake continued. "You can't control your temper. Hardly anyone takes you seriously."

"Is that a fact?" he asked through gritted teeth.

He could sense Niall's fury building.
Perfect.
"The
fact
is, you don't have what it takes. You know it, and so does every man here. That's why they chose me instead of you to be their leader."

"Well, that's a mistake that I intend to correct," he ground out in a tone that said he'd had enough, and he pulled the gun back a few short inches to get a cleaner shot.

Now!

With lightning speed, Drake dropped his body and drove his hands upward, shoving Niall's arm high; he spun in a flash, steadied himself with a slight step to the left, and delivered a massive round kick to the outside of Niall's knee.

Niall lost his balance with an oath, and Drake lunged for the gun; in the next heartbeat, he had stepped behind the red-haired giant, wrenching his arm up behind him. But Niall still clutched the pistol.

"Drop it," Drake ordered, panting.

Niall hesitated.

Drake wrenched the pistol; Niall cursed again, his finger tangled in the trigger.

"Drop it now, or I'll tear your goddamned finger off," Drake snarled.

"Relax," Niall rasped, and slowly let go of the gun.

As soon as Drake pried it out of his grasp, Niall suddenly rammed his elbow straight back into Drake's midsection.

Drake bent forward with a low woof of pain, but quickly blocked the upright fist that came hurtling toward his jaw.

Immediately, Niall stepped away, and, reaching for his blade, he spun to face Drake.

The dagger came slashing toward him. Drake grabbed Niall's arm and pulled as he took a deft step to the side, using his enemy's own momentum to throw him off-balance.

Having deflected Niall's attack, Drake retaliated with a sharp chop of his hand into the crook of the man's neck.

At the blow to the sensitive nerves there, Niall went rigid and let out a gasp of pain, automatically dropping the knife. But, recovering quickly, he bent to try to retrieve his weapon; Drake kneed him in the gut.

Niall stumbled backward, the air knocked from him. Drake pursued and sent him sprawling with an explosive uppercut to his jaw.

Toppling onto his back, Niall winced as he banged his head on the stone floor.

Drake kicked him in the ribs for good measure, then, looming over him, pointed Niall's own pistol at him.

"Go on, beg," he taunted in a low tone. The darkness rose in him, eager for revenge.

"You won't shoot me! You can't," Niall gasped out rather desperately, his chest heaving. "I know what you are! The Order's code won't allow you to kill an unarmed man!"

The chap had balls, to try a bluff like that, Drake admitted to himself. He'd give him that. But then his eyes narrowed as he saw Niall's hand creeping toward another small knife discreetly hidden in his boot.

He smiled, much to the consternation of the men watching, who hadn't noticed the weapon.

"You're right," Drake said softly, "except for one small point. I don't work for the Order anymore."

He pulled the trigger.

The others jumped at the bang.

Niall crumpled onto his back, dead, a bullet to the heart.

His few supporters started forward in surprise, but they froze when Drake glanced over at them.

The watching French guards, loyal to him, exchanged startled glances.

Satisfied, Drake threw the empty pistol onto Niall's body. Then he surveyed the men, lightly dusting off his hands. "Are we through here, or would anyone else like to question my authority?"

They shrank back from him with murmurs of denial, terror stamped across their faces.

"Good. Then get back to your duties, and stay away from my prisoners." He sent a meaningful glance over his shoulder at the closed dungeon door. "A few hours in solitary will make them more amenable. And bury this idiot," he added in a lower tone, stepping over Niall's body on his way out.

After that, Drake thought his own mother would have believed he had indeed become the true leader of the Prometheans. He'd half convinced himself.

When he returned upstairs to his chamber, he braced his hands against the chest of drawers and stared into the mirror, his heart still pounding after that near miss.

He had looked into Niall's eyes before he killed him and realized the man had truly been on the brink of exposing him. Still, it had been harder to pull the trigger than he had expected because the red-haired bastard had looked so much like Virgil.

Drake let out a long exhalation and lowered his head, still leaning on the chest of drawers. He told himself he only had to keep the charade going for a few more hours and it would all be over.

In the meanwhile, his old beloved handler was avenged.

A sound from the doorway jolted him, still in his heightened battle state. He turned, ready to fight, then quickly reined in the instant wrath of his warrior response.

It was just the little boy.

The sight of him reminded Drake bitterly of the Prometheans' hypocrisy. For all their talk, none of them had volunteered some loved one of their own for the sacrifice of "dearest blood." Instead, they had kidnapped an unsuspecting child in broad daylight.

He nodded to the boy. "What are you doing, Stefan?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound calm.

"I heard a bang," he said. "It woke me up."

That's because I just killed someone.
The deed seemed even darker in light of the child's innocence.

Drake rubbed his eyebrow. "Very well, you might as well come in for a moment. There's something I have to talk to you about--privately. Shut the door, eh?"

Stefan did so, and Drake slapped the surface of the chest of drawers and stood next to it, one fist on his waist.

The boy hopped up to sit on it, which brought him closer to Drake's eye level so they could talk, man-to-man.

"Now, then. Do you still want to be a knight, or have you changed your mind?"

Stefan's eyes brightened. "I still want to!"

"You're sure? It's a very dangerous job. You have to be very brave. You're sure you haven't lost your nerve?"

"I can do it! Well--are there any wolves?"

"No," Drake answered. "No wolves."

He looked relieved. "I know I can do it, then!"

"Very well. Now, let me tell you something." He sent a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder. "I don't go around telling everyone this, but I actually
am
a knight myself."

"Really?"

"Shh." Drake signaled his little accomplice with a finger to his own lips. "No one but you and I must know. Now, knights, you know, we always have adventures. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I actually have one planned for tonight, but the truth is, I could use a little help," he confessed rather ruefully. "Perhaps you would come along to help out, as my page?"

"I don't want to be a page boy, I want to be a knight!" Stefan declared firmly.

Drake rolled his eyes. "Very well, you can be a knight, then, but you have to do exactly as I say, no matter what. Do you agree to these terms? I will not tolerate disobedience. This is only your first mission, after all. You have to listen to me."

"All right," Stefan said, wide-eyed.

"No, it's 'yes, sir.' And salute." He showed him.

"Yes, sir!" the boy said brightly, his flattened hand zinging from his brow.