Abducted by a Prince (14 page)

“Yes.”

She cocked her head to one side. “But why would you purchase a place that’s in such disrepair? Because you needed a remote locale in which to hide Beatrice?”

Damien picked up the bottle and refilled their goblets. “If you must know, I didn’t buy it. I won the castle—and the island—in a game of chance several years ago.”

A shuttered expression descended over her face. She sat back, her gaze turning cool and intolerant. “I see. I should have guessed that you were a gambler.”

“Oh, it’s much worse than that. I own the gaming establishment.” Damien was glad to have erased the softness from her features. He felt more comfortable with Miss Stratham, the disapproving governess. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it. The Demon’s Den.”

Her eyes widened, and she surprised him with a small laugh. “Demon’s Den? How odd, that’s exactly how I’ve been thinking of this keep! Tell me, how did you acquire the name Demon Prince?”

He tensed. Did she know? Had Finn revealed that Mimsy had told Damien a fairy tale about him being a prince? Was Ellie Stratham fishing for a confirmation from him? She wouldn’t get one. “It was back in school,” he said brusquely. “Other than that, I really don’t recall.”

But he did recall. Far too clearly. When Walt and his cronies had attacked Damien all those years ago, Damien had been desperate and foolish.

In the throes of raw rage, he forgot all caution, shouting, “Let me go! I’m a prince! My father is a king, and he’ll chop off your heads.”

A moment of stunned silence reigned. Then derisive laughter burst from the trio of boys. “King?” one jeered. “You don’t even have a father.”

His nose bloody, Walt bared his teeth in a sneer. “You’re a filthy bastard.” He grabbed the key, snapping its gold chain. “Your sire must be the Devil. That’s what we’ll call you. The Demon Prince.”

He realized that Miss Stratham was studying him with a frankly inquisitive air as if she didn’t quite believe that he’d forgotten. In no humor for more of her probing questions, Damien resorted to rudeness. He pushed back the bench with a loud scraping noise. “I’ve work to do before all of the light is gone. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Stratham, but I’m afraid I shall have to ask that you leave now.”

Taking his goblet, he went to the other end of the table, sat down, and opened the ledger. He fixed his gaze on a long column of figures, though he didn’t comprehend a single number. His full awareness remained on Ellie Stratham.

He could see her out of the corner of his eye as she took a drink of wine. Arising gracefully from the bench, she glanced down and dusted a few crumbs from her skirt. She started toward her cloak, which lay on a chair by the fire. Then she pivoted abruptly and marched toward him.

She stopped beside the table. Damien felt a childish urge to pretend she wasn’t there. Instead, he grudgingly looked up at her. “What is it now?”

“Have you paper and pencil that I might borrow?” she asked. “A sketchpad would be ideal.”

“Why?”

“It appears likely that I shall be stuck here for some time. Since you’ve brought me to this castle against my will, you should at least provide me with a pastime.”

“Mrs. MacNab placed some books in your room.”

“I don’t care to read all day. I prefer to draw.”

Damien fixed her with his best glower, not that it did him any good. Miss Ellie Stratham stood with her hands folded at her waist like a governess waiting for a naughty boy to repent. Judging by the resolute expression on her face, she looked prepared to stare at him for the next hour if necessary.

Worse, he was uncomfortably aware that she had a point. None of this was her fault. She hadn’t asked to come here. He
was
holding her prisoner with little provision for her amusement.

Concluding that the best way to regain his solitude was to fulfill her request, he snapped, “Wait here.”

Damien sprang up and stalked across the keep, his footsteps echoing in the vast space. He mounted a narrow flight of steps in the corner and proceeded to the solar, which currently functioned as his bedchamber, returning downstairs a few moments later.

He handed over a pencil and a large, leather-bound notebook with blank pages in which he’d intended to work out his plans for a potential investment opportunity. But giving up the book was a small sacrifice to make in the name of peace and quiet. “Take this and run along now.”

Then he sat down to resume work on the ledger.

Naturally, Ellie Stratham disregarded his wishes. She rounded the table and sat down on the very edge of the bench—much too close to him. As she did so, he caught a whiff of lilac soap. And he felt a mad urge to press his nose to her generous bosom and discover the source of that scent.

Thank God, she appeared not to have noticed his reaction.

Opening the notebook, she laid down the pencil on the first blank page. “Before I go, will you draw a picture of that stolen key? Perhaps seeing it will jog my memory.”

He frowned. Why would she offer to help him? It had to be a ploy to convince him to return her to London in spite of the stormy seas. “My artistic talent is nonexistent.”

“Then just sketch the rough form. Please, do give it a try.”

Damien wanted her and that enticing feminine fragrance gone from the great hall so that he could concentrate again. He snatched up the pencil and made a few crude lines that showed the three teeth at one end. He laboriously added a circle at the other end with a crown enclosed within it. The crown was crooked, so he dampened his fingertip and tried to erase it, leaving a smudged mess that looked like something done by his six-year-old daughter.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, slamming the book shut. When he tossed down the pencil, it rolled to the other side of the planked table.

Ellie Stratham hopped up to catch the implement, but it fell to the stone floor. Tut-tutting, she went chasing after it to the hearth. Then she returned to the table and seated herself across from him. “Let me have a look,” she said, taking the notebook.

Her mouth quirked slightly as she surveyed his drawing, but he didn’t care if she was amused by his inexpert attempt. He was too preoccupied by the sight of her.

The shawl had come loose again. It had slid down one shoulder and gave him a peek at the delectable mounds revealed by the low cut of her gown. Ellie Stratham seemed utterly unaware of her disarray. Her gaze focused on the notebook, she leaned over the table and employed the pencil on the page in front of her.

Meanwhile, Damien had a direct line of view to the shadowed valley between her perfect breasts. His body reacted to the sight with intolerable heat. And his mind concocted a fantasy that involved hauling her into his arms and kissing her senseless, coaxing her upstairs and undressing her, caressing her naked form and spending a passionate hour or two in bed with her. They were all alone here and no one need ever know if he seduced her …

Irked by the direction of his thoughts, he jumped up and strode to the hearth to hurl another log onto the fire. What the devil was he thinking? Ellie Stratham was a lady. She wasn’t a harlot to be used for his pleasure and then discarded.

Hadn’t he already learned his lesson about the dire consequences of seducing innocent ladies?

Taking the poker, he stirred savagely at the glowing embers until the flames shot up and engulfed the new log. He’d already damaged Ellie’s reputation by abducting her. If truth be told, her situation was far more dire than Lady Beatrice’s would have been. At least then, Walt would have felt obliged to protect his sister. He’d have delivered the key in exchange for Lady Beatrice and that would have been that.

Damien had strong doubts that the weasel would do the same for Ellie Stratham. Her face had revealed anxiety when she’d spoken of the matter. She clearly believed that Walt wouldn’t bother to rescue her. Well, she didn’t know it yet, but Damien could scarcely wait to return her to London and forget this farce had ever occurred. If it wasn’t for the damned choppy seas …

“Are there any other decorative elements?”

At the sound of her voice, he spun around, the poker in hand, to stare blankly at her. “What?”

“On the key,” she said, tapping her chin with the pencil as she glanced from him back to the drawing. “Is there only the crown and nothing else? It seems rather plain.”

He cudgeled his brain to pull up the memory. “There’s a swirly embellishment around the edges of the circle—open fretwork, I suppose you might call it. Like this.” At a loss for how better to describe it, he traced the simple design in the air with his fingertip.

“Ah! Thank you.”

She bent over the notebook again, and this time he caught himself admiring the smooth curve of her neck. A few loose curls gleamed reddish-brown in the firelight, and he wondered how she’d react if he pulled the pins out of that prim bun.

She’d jam her pencil into his groin, that’s what.

Wincing at the thought, Damien propped the poker against the stones. Ellie Stratham had a blistering temper beneath all that ladylike decorum. He had an indelible memory of her attacking him on the seashore the previous night. In a fit of rage she had come at him with her fists flying, her fingers prepared to gouge out his eyes. He’d been forced to imprison her against the boulder, while she wriggled and squirmed against him …

“Is this accurate?” she asked.

She held out the notebook to him. Damien crossed to her in three steps and tilted the open page to the light of the fire. He stared in slack-jawed amazement.

Underneath his smudged, crude effort, she had redrawn a perfect rendition of his key. There were the three teeth at one end, and at the other end, a crown surrounded by a delicate design of open whorls. She had done something clever with shading to make the key appear three-dimensional. It looked so real, Damien felt as if he could reach down and pluck it off the page.

“You
have
seen it,” he accused.

With a slight smile, she shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. I merely followed your description.”

She was telling the truth. He knew it by the way she met his eyes without hesitation. The discovery of her talent made him curious. “You’re quite the gifted artist. What do you usually draw? People? Landscapes? Vases of flowers?”

She glanced away into the fire. “A bit of everything, I suppose. It’s … a hobby of mine.”

Then she stole a glance at him with a furtiveness that further piqued his interest. Ellie Stratham clearly felt discomfited by the mention of her artistic aptitude. Was she merely shy of praise? Or was she hiding something?

Taking back the notebook, she changed the topic. “About this key,” she said, fingering the sketch. “Finn said that it was left with you when you were a baby. And that you have no knowledge whatsoever of your parents.”

Damien stiffened. Blast that tattletale. “Finn talks too much. Don’t pay him any heed.”

“But you
did
go to Eton. When I enrolled my cousin Cedric there last year, it was plain to see the school only accepts boys from the best families. So, someone in admissions must have known that you come from a highborn background.”

Damien had wrestled with the same supposition many times. Upon reaching his majority, he had returned to the school to make inquiries. He also had gone back to Southwark to question his old neighbors. He even had hired a private detective to track down anyone who might have known his late guardian, Mrs. Mims, or might have information as to the fate of her effects when she’d died, including the letter she’d mentioned that was supposedly related to his birth.

His efforts had been to no avail. Everything had vanished. It was as if he’d sprung from nothingness.

But he
did
have a past, dammit, even if it was obscured by shadows. A man had fathered him and a woman had birthed him. Then one or both of them had gone to great lengths to conceal their identity.

From him.

The thought stirred a frustration so bitter and raw that he feared Ellie might glimpse it on his face. It took all of his willpower to keep his voice cool. “I appreciate your help, Miss Stratham. But my private life is really none of your concern.”

From her seat on the bench, she fixed her relentless gaze on him. “It became my concern when you abducted me in order to reclaim that key. Now, are you certain the headmaster knows nothing? There may be something in your file stating who paid for your schooling—”

“There’s nothing,” he bit out, pacing in front of the hearth. “Do you truly think I haven’t looked into all this myself? The key is my last clue and I
will
have it back. No matter what the cost.”

Pursing her lips, she ripped out the page from the notebook. “I’m afraid
this
is the only key that I can give to you at present.”

Damien waved the paper away. “Keep it. Maybe it’ll help you find the real one at Pennington House.”

She sat up very straight. “Are you saying you’ll take me back to London, then? You won’t keep me locked in this castle like that laird did to his unfaithful wife?”

The sudden sparkle in her brown eyes had an unexpected effect on Damien, as did her fanciful assertion. His tension vanishing, he actually had to suppress a grin. He only just managed to keep his mouth from tilting up at the corners. “We’ll depart as soon as the storm dies down.”

She jumped to her feet. “I do hope you’re a man of your word, Mr. Burke.”

“Quite. Though I warn you, the gale may last for another day or two. You should have ample time to fill that notebook.”

“Indeed, I shall.”

Her smile took on a keen yet secretive quality that reignited his curiosity. “What will you draw?” he asked.

“Oh, this and that. Whatever strikes my fancy.”

Turning her back, Ellie Stratham flung the leaf-green cloak around her shoulders and fastened the clasp at her throat. She could not have made it more clear that their conversation was concluded. So why did he feel a compulsion to find out more about her life?

Damien watched moodily as she donned her gloves. She was evasive about her art, and he wondered why. Had her family denied her the time to draw? Did they require her to labor from dawn to dusk? Living in the Earl of Pennington’s household, she ought to dress in fine garments as she did now, not dowdy sacks that added decades onto her age. And why had she never married? Had the Earl of Pennypincher not allowed her a season?