Abducted by a Prince (15 page)

Damien clenched his teeth to keep those questions to himself. Poking into her private affairs would only invite her to poke into his.

As she scooped up the notebook and pencil, he went ahead of her to open the door. A spray of freezing raindrops blew inside to sting his face and whip at his clothing. Miss Stratham drew up her hood, murmured a distracted good-bye, and plunged out into the storm. As if she’d already forgotten him.

He stood in the doorway and watched her struggle against the heavy gusts. Dusk had spread deep shadows beneath the archways in the castle walls. The muffled crashing of the surf and the howling of the wind enhanced the gloomy atmosphere. Solitude surrounded him again, exactly as he preferred.

Yet a strange sense of loneliness plagued him.

It had nothing to do with Miss Ellie Stratham, Damien told himself. He missed his daughter, that was all. He could scarcely wait to leave this blasted island and return to his home in London. He yearned to sweep Lily up in his arms and find out what she’d been doing in his absence, to once again have tea with her upstairs in the sunny nursery.

Nevertheless, long after he’d shut the door and returned to his work, his thoughts kept returning to the mystery of Ellie Stratham.

Chapter 12

The next day, the tempest continued to blow unabated. The wind moaned like a banshee outside the tower, and the rain sounded to Ellie like sharp fingernails tapping on the narrow windows. Yet despite her imprisonment on the island, she felt remarkably cheerful. The fire in the hearth made a pleasant crackling sound, there had been delicious scones at breakfast, and most of all, she had a notebook full of blank pages just waiting to be filled.

Now that she had paper and pencil, Ellie was perfectly content to spend the day alone in her bedchamber. Clad in a lemon-yellow gown, a shawl draping her shoulders, she sat against a mound of pillows in the old four-poster with its green brocade hangings. She had her knees up, the notebook propped against her thighs, as she sketched by the light of the oil lamp on the bedside table.

She had been working all morning on preliminary drawings for the next chapter of her storybook. In his new role as the enchanted prince, the rat had acquired a flowing cape and a jaunty hat with a large ostrich feather. Ellie had decided to name him Prince Ratworth. In one paw, Prince Ratworth wielded a long broadsword while defending Princess Arianna against an attacking ogre.

Despite his ugly snout and twitching whiskers, Prince Ratworth had the most extraordinary green-gray eyes. Or at least he would once Ellie returned to London and had access to her watercolor paints.

Pensively, she nibbled on the end of the pencil. Thank goodness Damien Burke finally had conceded to the futility of waiting for a ransom that would never arrive. Walt wasn’t likely to wrench himself from the comforts of civilization on her behalf. He had never been one to put much effort into anything other than his own idle amusements.

Besides, he probably didn’t want to face her, anyway, after the reprehensible manner in which he had behaved that one night outside her bedchamber. The memory of him pawing at her bosom made Ellie shudder, and she quickly pushed it away.

And what of the rest of the family? Had the modiste delivered her cousin’s new gowns? Who was taking Beatrice shopping for the rest of her accessories? Who was making sure Grandmamma remembered to drink her tisane before bedtime? Who was reading each morning to sweet Lady Anne as she did her embroidery?

Did they only miss having Ellie around to perform tasks for them? Or did they actually miss
her
? Well, perhaps Lady Anne did, but Ellie couldn’t fool herself. No one else in the household would shed any tears over her disappearance.

She released a long sigh. Despite a twinge of nostalgia for her familiar old life, she also acknowledged a sense of guilty pleasure, too. In all her time at Pennington House, never had she enjoyed an entire day free of responsibilities. It was a rare indulgence to be able to sketch for hours on end. How peculiar to feel so happy here at this castle when she was a prisoner of the most notorious scoundrel in England.

The Demon Prince. How
had
he earned that name? He’d claimed not to remember, but Ellie suspected otherwise. He had thwarted her every attempt to learn anything about him. Truly, he was the most exasperating man she’d ever met.

With deft strokes of the pencil, she added black knee boots to Prince Ratworth, modeling them after the ones Damien Burke had worn the previous day. All the while, she pondered his cold, curt manner. He had to be furious with himself for abducting the wrong woman. Men didn’t like to be made fools, and Ellie hoped he was flaying himself raw over the matter. That was the real reason why she had decided to join him for dinner the previous day. So that he would look at her and be reminded of his stupid blunder.

Of course, she’d also been very curious about his shadowy past, too. How disconcerting it must be to not know even the names of one’s parents. Although her own family wasn’t perfect, she had fond memories of her late father and the mother who’d died when Ellie was just a little girl. By contrast, Damien Burke had no roots, no relatives, no knowledge whatsoever of his ancestry.

His only clue was that stolen key.

Why had Walt refused to return it? Was it possible that Damien Burke was wrong, and Walt no longer had the key? Perhaps her cousin had tossed it into the rubbish years ago.

But if there was a chance that he hadn’t …

Yes, she could understand why Damien Burke wanted it back. Nevertheless, he should not have resorted to such an extreme tactic. He’d had no right to disrupt
her
life in order to achieve his goal.

Looking down, Ellie saw that in the corner of the page, she had doodled a likeness of his face. In a few strokes, she’d captured his high cheekbones, the blade of a nose, the square jaw. A visceral reaction that had nothing to do with aversion stirred deep within her. As galling as it was to admit, Damien Burke fascinated her.

The attraction she felt made no sense. Not only had he snatched her off the street, drugged her, and held her imprisoned, he also owned a gambling club. That alone ought to repulse any proper lady.

Gripping the pencil, Ellie furiously blackened out his portrait until she’d dulled the lead tip. Men like him had taken advantage of her father’s weakness for cards and dice. They didn’t care how many lives they ruined. Without suffering a qualm, they would entice a hapless gentleman into wagering sums beyond his means …

A knock sounded on the door. Ellie tossed aside the notebook, jumped out of bed, and hurried on stocking feet to answer the summons. In a rush of cold air, Mrs. MacNab came bustling into the tower bedchamber. In her hand she carried a large covered basket, which she set on a table by the hearth.

The maidservant removed the shawl that was draped over her salt-and-pepper hair. “Oh, ’tis a nasty day outside, indeed! I see yer fire’s died down. Poor wee lamb, ye’ll catch yer death.” Going to the fireplace, she used the poker to stir the embers before adding another log.

Ellie felt guilty to have neglected that duty; she had been too absorbed in her own thoughts. “I assure you, there’s no harm done. I’ve been perfectly warm sitting in bed.”

She lifted the cover of the basket. The delicious aromas of roasted chicken, fresh bread, and treacle tarts made her realize just how long ago breakfast had been. Spreading out the feast on the table, she poured herself a cup of steaming tea.

“Will you join me for luncheon?” she asked.

“Nay, ’twouldna be right, me sittin’ with such a fine lady as ye. Besides, I must be awa’ t’ tend poor Finn. He slipped an’ bumped his noggin whilst clearin’ awa’ the snow.”

Ellie stared in surprise over her teacup. Snow? The window was too high for her to view more than the scudding dark clouds. “Is he all right?”

“Aye, though there’s a lump like a hen’s egg on his brow. The auld fool wanted t’ stay outside, but the laird ordered him t’ have a lie-down.” The maidservant clucked her tongue. “’Tis a sheet o’ ice out there. Ye’re wise t’ stay indoors today, miss.” With that, she bobbed a curtsy and hurried out of the bedchamber.

Ellie had no intention of staying indoors. Not when there was a blizzard to be observed for future reference. Snow could be difficult to depict in a drawing, and she looked forward to the challenge of trying her hand at it. Perhaps she’d even create a chapter in her book wherein Prince Ratworth and Princess Arianna traveled through a frozen land …

After making swift work of her luncheon, Ellie threw on her boots and cloak, grabbed the notebook and pencil, and started down the winding stone steps. The air had a decidedly frosty bite. Reaching the base of the tower, she proceeded through the short passageway and to the yard. There, she stopped beneath the archway and gazed out in delight at the transformed scene.

Overnight, a mantle of snow had draped the gray stone of the castle, covering the crenellated walls and clinging to the roofs of the towers. Long icicles hung from every nook and cranny. The wild wind flung icy particles that stung like tiny needles against her face. With the sky dark and dreary, she fancied the scene as a fairy-tale setting, perhaps the home of an evil wizard.

How fitting, Ellie thought, that the Demon Prince lurked outside.

Near the keep, a hulking black figure labored with a spade, scraping away the snow and making a path across the yard toward the kitchen. Damien Burke must be finishing the task that Finn had been forced to abandon.

Heading in that direction, Ellie found the way treacherously slippery. Yesterday’s rain had frozen beneath the coating of snow. She proceeded slowly, her stiff new boots sliding on the layers of ice, the precious notebook clutched beneath her cloak. If not for the fact that she needed something vital from him, she might have turned back.

Approaching from behind, she was almost upon Damien Burke before he noticed her. The howling wind and the metallic scrape of the shovel must have masked the sound of her footsteps. Turning to shake a load of snow off the spade, he stopped to glower at her.

“What are you—” he began.

Before he could finish, a strong gust struck Ellie just as the toe of her boot met a patch of ice. The combination thrust her off balance. Her right ankle gave way, and with a gasp, she felt herself plunging forward.

In the next instant, she was caught up against a solid form.

Damien Burke clamped his arm around her waist. She was splayed against the hard wall of his chest, her cheek resting on the fine black wool of his coat. Her heart hammered madly as she tilted her head back to look up at his stark features. Immediately, she found herself riveted by those extraordinary green-gray eyes.

Thick black lashes enhanced the unusual hue, and she marveled to see such beauty in a blatantly masculine face. A flake of snow landed on his cheek and melted at once. The fierce wind whipped his dark hair in a frenzy, and his ears looked deep red from the cold.

Without thinking, she reached up to cup one with her gloved hand. “You must be freezing,” she said. “Why aren’t you wearing a hat?”

“It kept getting blown off.” His mouth thinned into a critical line. “What the devil are you doing out here, anyway? Don’t you have the sense that God gave a peahen?”

Ellie yanked back her hand. “
You’re
out here—and without adequate covering. So tell me again, which one of us is foolish?”

She stepped back, only to realize that although the notebook was still safely cradled in her arm, the pencil had dropped from her fingers. Simultaneously, she felt a spasm of pain in her ankle and clutched at his arm.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in that gruff, demanding tone. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No! I’m just looking for my pencil.”

Pretending that she needed to hold on to his forearm for balance, she bent over to scan the drifts of snow. The slim cylinder was nowhere to be seen. Since it had flown out of her hand, it could have landed anywhere, even been blown by the wind …

“Here it is,” he said, reaching down in between his black boots.

Ellie straightened up to accept the pencil from him. “Thank you,” she said. “It needs sharpening. I was hoping that you might have a penknife that I could borrow.”

Damien Burke gave her a keen stare, and the tingling flutter that swept through her had nothing to do with the cold. “Come inside, then.”

He slid his arm around her as they slowly headed across the snowy yard to the keep. Ellie made a valiant effort not to limp. After the way he’d snapped at her, she didn’t want him to notice that she was trying not to put weight on her right ankle. He would only use it as cause to criticize her.

Not that he needed any cause. The bad-tempered man seemed to have no end of insults at the ready. Maybe he lay awake at night, making lists of them in his mind.

Opening the door, he guided her inside. The air in the great hall felt only marginally warmer, but at least they were out of the snow and wind. She expected him to release her now that there was no more danger of slipping on the ice. But he remained at her side, his hand at the small of her back as he steered her toward the bench by the hearth.

As she sat down in relief, he turned away to add a few logs to the fire. Ellie set the notebook and pencil beside her on the bench. While he was absorbed in stirring up the blaze, she cautiously moved her ankle back and forth beneath her skirt, trying to assess the damage. Feeling a twinge of pain, she compressed her lips to keep from wincing.

The hollow echo of his footsteps approached. “You
did
hurt yourself,” he accused. “Don’t deny it. I noticed you were favoring your right foot.”

“No! At least not much. It’s nothing, really.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Before she could object, he sank down on one knee in front of her, thrust his hand beneath her skirts, and lifted her leg so that her booted foot was exposed. The warm pressure of his fingers cupping her stockinged calf struck Ellie speechless. She could only watch in stupefied silence as he carefully felt her ankle through the leather of her short boot.