Abducted by a Prince (13 page)

No family or friends? Poor wee lad? Ellie’s mind conjured up a picture of Damien Burke as a boy, all tousled black hair and sharp, sullen features. Even if he
had
been bullied by Walt, the Demon Prince had a prickly nature that might very well have contributed to his unpopularity with the other boys. “What was he like as a child? Was he as cruel and disagreeable as he is now?”

“The laird isna cruel,” Mrs. MacNab protested. “Mayhap a harsh man at times, but he willna harm a soul.”

“Now, now, hinny,” Finn said. “The young miss only kens what she sees.”

“I know that he dislikes my cousin Walt, Viscount Greaves. They attended Eton together as boys. Do you remember him?”

“Aye, that I do,” Finn said with a sage nod. “A sturdy lad with gingery hair, always with his gang o’ young lords.”

“Gang?”

Finn hesitated, stirring the contents of the bowl with his pewter spoon. “I dinna wish t’ speak ill o’ yer cousin, miss. Yet I fear he an’ his cronies had a reputation for tormentin’ the smaller lads.”

That corroborated what Damien Burke had told her. Ellie wanted to know more. “Your master mentioned that my cousin stole a key from him. I believe it happened in his first year?”

“Aye, ’twas also the first time I spoke t’ the young laird.”

“So you were a witness?” she said with a flash of eagerness. “If you wouldn’t mind, I should like to hear the whole story.”

He gave her a measuring look, then nodded. “As ye wish, then. One winter’s eve, I spied that band o’ miscreants comin’ out from behind the cloisters, laughin’ an’ chatterin’ an’ lookin’ far too pleased with themselves. Soon as they’d gone, I hurried back an’ found the young master with his lip bloodied an’ his robes torn.” Finn gave a rusty chuckle. “He was none too happy fer anyone t’ see him—too full up with pride t’ ask fer help, even back then. I bade him come with me, but the little termagant was in no humor t’ obey. He kicked an’ wiggled, an’ I had t’ pull him by his ear into the kitchen.”

Mrs. MacNab had arisen from the table to stir the pot. Now, she turned to exclaim, “Oh, he was a sight! I sewed up the rips in his robes whilst Finn scrubbed the wee lad’s face an’ tended his bruises. We couldna let the headmaster find out, lest the poor lamb be expelled.”

Ellie resisted any softening in her heart. That long-ago event may have been a wretched experience for Damien Burke, but it didn’t excuse his reprehensible behavior toward her in the present. “Since he’d been set upon by a band of boys, perhaps it would have been wise of him to report them—so they could be stopped from attacking anyone else.”

Finn gave a vigorous shake of his bald head. “Nay, miss. The headmaster wouldna heed his word over those high-and-mighty sons o’ lairds.”

“Why not? Perhaps he wasn’t heir to a title, but to be accepted at Eton he must have come from a respectable family.”

He hesitated, trading a glance with Mrs. MacNab. “Go on, tell her, Finn,” she said. “It willna harm naught.”

Finn said, “The young master wasna so fortunate as his classmates. He attended on a charity scholarship.”

Ellie was taken aback by the news. She hadn’t known the exclusive school admitted destitute boys. But even so, Damien Burke must have had a blue-blooded background, for Eton would never welcome a common urchin. “You said he had no family, that he was an orphan. But he must have come from
somewhere
. Who brought him to the school?”

“’Twas his guardian,” said Mrs. MacNab. She laid two wooden trays on the table and arranged pewter cutlery on them. “What was her name, Finn?”

“Mrs. Mims, if memory serves. Not long after, she passed on t’ the next life.” Rising, Finn carried his empty bowl to the dry sink, adding over his shoulder, “Indeed, miss, the young master learned o’ her death on the same day yer cousin stole that key from him. I reckon he’d gone behind the cloisters so the other lads wouldna see him weep.”

This time, Ellie couldn’t stop a rush of compassion for the little lost boy. She knew the tragedy of losing the one person dearest to her heart. She had been fourteen when her father had died, and although Papa had had his faults, she’d never doubted his love for her. At times, she still felt the keen ache of his loss. Never again would she laugh at his silly jests, smell the pungent aroma of his pipe, or feel his good-night kiss upon her brow …

Yet plenty of children experienced misfortunes and
they
didn’t grow up to be wicked scoundrels who abducted women off the streets.

“I understand that the key was given to him as a child,” she said. “Do you know by whom?”

Finn shrugged. “’Twas tucked in his blankets when he was a babe. Perhaps his mam put it there.”

“Who were his parents? Do you know their names?”

“I dunno, miss, nor does he,” Finn said. “I suppose he’s hopin’ the key will help him find ’em.”

If Damien Burke didn’t know their identity, Ellie could only conclude that he’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket. She’d heard whispers of disgraced ladies who’d been forced to retreat to the country for an inconvenient birth, then left the newborn to be fostered with a wet nurse. How curious that he’d been given a key, though, and without any explanation.

Ellie told herself not to dwell on the mystery. But at least now she could understand why he was so keen to retrieve the key. It was his only link to the parents he’d never known.

Not, of course, that that made any difference to
her.
He was still a callous ne’er-do-well who had imprisoned her against her will. He hadn’t spared a thought for the way he’d disrupted her life—and quite probably ruined her in the eyes of her family.

Mrs. MacNab ladled the fragrant stew into two bowls and placed them on the trays. She added slices of crusty bread and pats of butter and then covered each tray with a linen towel.

“Finn,” she ordered, “take the laird his meal afore he starves. An’ dinna forget to wear yer bonnet.”

Obligingly, Finn jammed a bright red cap over his bald head before donning his coat. He fastened his gnarled fingers around one of the trays. “Wish me luck, hinny,” he told his wife with a grin. “The master’s like to bite my head off fer bein’ late with his dinner.”

As Ellie hurried to open the door for him, he gave her a broad wink and went out into the passageway. She turned to see Mrs. MacNab donning a fringed gray shawl over her ample form. “Ye must be famished, miss. I’ll carry yer tray up t’ the tower.”

Ellie opened her mouth to say that she was perfectly happy to eat right here in the warm kitchen. Then another notion struck her, and she took the tray from the table before the maid could do so. “Thank you, but there’s no need for you to wait on me. At home, I’m accustomed to fending for myself.”

“But, miss, ’twouldn’t be proper—”

“Nonsense. This isn’t London, so we needn’t follow decorum here.” After reassuring the woman with a smile and a few more platitudes, Ellie finally escaped the kitchen with the tray in her hands.

She didn’t turn to her tower bedchamber, however. Instead, she went down the corridor to the outer door. There, she bent her head against the driving rain and hurried toward the tall monolith of the Demon Prince’s den.

Chapter 11

As Finn whisked the cloth off the tray, Damien caught a delicious whiff of beef stew from his seat at the other end of the table. His stomach gave a hollow rumble. Needing to keep himself busy in this godforsaken place, he had spent the past few hours diligently applying himself to one of the account books that he’d brought from London. Now, he gratefully closed the volume and slid down the bench to the place where Finn was arranging the meal.

“It took you long enough,” Damien said, picking up the pewter spoon and dipping it into the bowl. “Did you send all the way to Edinburg for the ingredients?”

“Nay, ’twas only that yer prisoner paid us a visit.”

Instantly suspicious, Damien paused with a spoonful of steaming stew halfway to his mouth. “She came to the kitchen? Why?”

“Starved fer company, I’ll guess. We had a long, cozy chat, that we did. O’ course, she wouldna have set a dainty foot in the servants’ quarters if she was truly her ladyship.”

Seeing the glee in Finn’s squinty blue eyes, Damien compressed his lips. The action wasn’t conducive to eating, so he strove to relax his mouth. He had no intention of discussing Miss Ellie Stratham—or the stupid mistake that he’d made in abducting the wrong woman. “A chat about what, precisely?”

“Oh, this ’n’ that. She was most interested in—”

The door banged open, thwarting Damien’s need to find out just how much Finn had blabbered. A whoosh of icy air made the flames waver on the hearth. Then the object of his displeasure came scurrying into the great hall.

Miss Ellie Stratham looked like a half-drowned cat. The hood of her leaf-green cloak had tumbled back and her auburn hair glistened with raindrops. She was toting a tray, and as she attempted to nudge the door shut with her booted foot, Finn galloped bandy-legged to the rescue.

The manservant closed the heavy panel and took the tray from her hands. “Why, miss, I’d’ve brung that if ye’d asked.”

“Thank you, Finn. But it’s quite all right. I managed perfectly well.”

Her appearance belied her words. The gale had yanked tendrils of hair from her bun to create a curly disarray around her face. Her damp cheeks were rosy from the cold. Advancing into the great hall, she stripped off her gloves and then undid the fastening of her cloak, draping the wet garment over a chair by the fire.

In the process, the shawl she wore beneath the cloak slipped off her shoulders. As she bent down to pick it up from the stone floor, Damien found his gaze dipping to her bodice. The plunging neckline revealed two mounds of creamy flesh that strained against the green fabric of her gown.

He sat riveted, his meal forgotten. Never had he imagined while spying on Lady Beatrice that her companion’s shapeless garb could hide such voluptuous perfection.

Miss Stratham’s eyes narrowed as she caught him staring. The flush on her cheeks deepened. Turning away, she arranged the fawn-colored shawl around her shoulders, tying it in such a manner as to conceal her spectacular assets. She smoothed back her hair and then walked to the table, where Finn was arranging her dishes directly across from Damien.

Seating herself, she afforded Damien a gracious smile worthy of a London drawing room. “I trust you don’t mind if I join you, Mr. Burke. It’s rather dreary to dine alone in one’s chamber.”

Those brown eyes gleamed like topaz in the firelight. He felt her direct gaze like a punch to his gut. Her attempt to tidy her hair had done little to tame the reddish-brown curls. She had the look of a woman who had just arisen from bed, more like a mistress than a dried-up spinster.

Realizing that he still clutched the spoonful of uneaten stew, Damien muttered, “Do as you please.”

He shoved the spoon in his mouth with the intention of conveying the message that he was interested in his food. Not in her.

Finn poured two goblets of wine, and placed the bottle on the table. “Just as ye ordered, master. The finest French burgundy. I’ll wait by the fire in case ye’d like a refill.”

Damien had no wish to be left alone with Miss Ellie Stratham. She had invaded his sanctuary, and the prospect of being forced to make polite conversation set his teeth on edge. But he wouldn’t hide behind a servant—especially one who clearly intended to eavesdrop. “I’m sure we can manage on our own. The dishes can be collected later.”

“’Tisn’t proper fer ye an’ the miss t’ be alone.”

“Then don’t alert the London newspapers. Now go.”

Finn made a disappointed face and trudged toward the door, looking back once as if hoping to be recalled. Damien glowered at the man until he vanished out into the storm. The moment the door banged shut, he focused his attention on eating. The stew was rich and hearty, the gravy thick with potatoes, carrots, and chunks of meat. Gradually, the warmth of food in his belly began to ease his ill humor.

Across from him, Miss Ellie Stratham also had applied herself to the meal. He noted that she didn’t take dainty bites like most ladies who pretended to have the appetite of a canary pecking at a few crumbs. She ate with gusto, pausing only to slather butter on a slice of bread.

She didn’t even speak until they were nearly finished. For blessed minutes, there was only the hissing of the fire, the clink of cutlery, and the muffled wailing of the wind.

She said abruptly, “I’ve been wondering about something.”

He shot her a contentious glance, wondering again what the devil she and Finn had spoken about in the kitchen during their so-called cozy chat. “Yes?”

“It seems rather odd to place a castle on an island. If fortresses were built in medieval times as a means for a lord to secure his lands, then what could he have been defending on such a small island?”

“His wife.”

“Pardon?”

Damien scraped the last of the stew from the bottom of the bowl before washing it down with a swig of wine. “As legend has it, the local laird once had a young and beautiful wife who had been unfaithful. He caught her in bed with one of his men, and he slew the traitor on the spot. Then he constructed this castle and kept his wife imprisoned here until she died an old, toothless woman.”

Ellie Stratham’s face took on a wide-eyed look that made her appear much younger. Damien calculated her age, noting the lack of lines around her eyes or mouth. Mid-twenties, perhaps? She glanced up at the high, barred windows that let in the rain-washed gray light of late afternoon. She appeared to be imagining what it would be like to be locked away for a lifetime within these stone walls.

That enthralled expression caught at him in spite of his determination to remain aloof. He would never have taken her for a dreamer. Her manner was too direct, her outlook too sensible, her tongue too sharp.

She returned her gaze to him, her fingertips idly tracing the base of her goblet. “Is that a true story, do you think?”

He shrugged. “It’s what I was told by the previous owner.”

“Am I to conclude that
you
own the castle now?”