My Ruthless Prince Page 10

  Of course, if she had listened to him, she wouldn’t even be there. Her mind made up to at least have a look, she glided silently down the stairs.

  They turned, then came to an odd, stone room with octagonal walls and only one narrow window. There was a thick wooden door reinforced with iron on the other side of the room; it was open a few inches.

  It was the only place the cat could have gone.

  Once more, Emily followed, half-intrigued, half-uneasy. She hauled the heavy door open wider and stepped through into darkness; then she pulled it back to the same position in which she had found it before proceeding down the next set of stone-carved steps.

  The atmosphere grew cold and clammy. It was not the sort of warm, cozy place where any sensible cat would want to drop her litter, but Emily was much too curious to turn back.

  Deeper and deeper the stairs led down into the bowels of the castle. She wished she had grabbed some source of light, but her eyes adjusted to the indigo shadows, and she pressed on.

  The weight of stone above, the darkness palpable, the smell of stale air, mold, and earth, and the ancient sense of age made her feel like she was entering a crypt. Every step down was like walking back in time to a lost age hundreds of years ago, when Waldfort’s foundations had first been laid.

  When she came to the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, staring ahead uneasily.

  A few, narrow defensive windows high above let in just enough light to sketch the shapes of mighty columns reaching up into elegant vaulted arches.

  What is this place?

  Some kind of old cistern?

  Cautiously, she walked on. To her right, the great stone blocks of the castle’s foundations bore the scars of ancient battles. Burn marks. The limestone was pitted and scored in places where various missiles had struck it over the centuries. She could almost hear the ghostly echo of embattled knights in chain mail ducking away from the incoming fire of catapults.

  Then she halted once again, staring ahead at the row of cells she spotted lining the aisle on both sides of her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end; gooseflesh rose on her arms as she realized that it was definitely not the castle’s cistern.

  No, she was standing in the dungeon.

  The first cell she peered into had a heap of ancient human bones littering the corner. Emily swallowed hard, her heart pounding.

  Everything in her wanted to run away, but she could not. To think, Drake had been kept prisoner somewhere in a place like this . . .

  Her throat tightened. The eeriness was almost more than she could bear, but she found herself compelled to go a little farther, just to look around.

  All the cells were empty, thankfully.

  She had forgotten all about the cat in the meanwhile, but she saw it then, sitting rather contentedly in a chink in a crumbling section of the wall that appeared to have suffered from decades of water damage. Chunks of stone or perhaps cement were missing, and since the dungeon sat beneath ground level, that must have made it convenient for the cat to come and go as it pleased, with naught but an easy climb.

  Drake’s words about not going around snooping were a faint memory by now. Emily told herself she would leave in a moment, but first, she wanted to see what was in the odd chamber straight ahead.

  At the end of the corridor lined by cells, an open door beckoned into a dark stone room. She approached it, trembling with mingled repugnance and fascination. She stopped a few feet from the open door, not daring to go closer.

  There was just enough light to reveal the sinister outlines of medieval instruments of torture.

  She recoiled from the sight of an iron chair in the center of the room with built-in manacles and leg irons. That did not look medieval.

  No. It looked much newer.

  How horrible. Was it possible that Drake had endured such fiendish devices when he had been captured? The thought turned the blood in her veins to ice. The vaulted space beneath the castle was so silent—but to her the air seemed thick with the screams of prisoners once trapped inside the walls.

  Backing away from the unspeakable chamber, she whirled around and ran, fleeing back up the stairs.

  Reaching the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs, she found it still cracked, just as she had left it. She listened for anyone else’s presence before stealthily reemerging into the empty, octagonal anteroom.

  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 façade.

  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 h
er love could ever be enough to save him.

  Chapter 8

  The 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?”