by Olivia Drake
He held her easily with one arm while he opened the door and stepped outside. The screeching of the wind precluded any further conversation, though his last comment already had silenced Ellie. Did he truly find her pretty? She immediately scolded herself for wondering. He was her captor, for pity’s sake. Why should she care a whit for his good opinion of her?
Better he should think her a warty old witch. At least then she could be certain he didn’t have designs on her.
Even with his arms full, Damien appeared to have no trouble navigating his way over the snow. The monstrous dark sky hurled handfuls of icy flakes at them. Ellie turned her face toward him for protection from the elements. Unfortunately, the action only made her more aware of him as a man: the hard muscles of his chest, the solid width of his shoulders, the iron strength of his arms around her. With every breath, she drew in his earthy masculine scent.
He felt threatening and thrilling all at the same time, and she had the scandalous desire to snuggle closer to him, to touch her mouth to the exposed skin of his throat and see if he tasted salty. Ellie pursed her lips to deny the thought. He was a rat, and not even an enchanted one at that. Damien Burke was tough and bad-mannered, and he couldn’t ever magically transform into a prince.
Even if he had loved his Mimsy. Even if he had wrapped Ellie’s foot with his own cravat and now gallantly transported her back to her chamber. None of that changed the fact that he’d abducted her without caring a fig for the damage to her reputation.
She knew the moment they’d left the castle yard. The gale ceased tugging at her cloak, and the dark afternoon grew even dimmer. Against her bosom, she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t seem winded in the least by the burden of carrying her. He carried her through the short passage and then up the circular tower stairs, his heavy footsteps echoing off the stone walls.
He shouldered open the door, kicked it shut behind them, and stopped in the middle of the bedchamber. Tilting her head back, Ellie found him gazing down at her with a peculiar intensity. That look caused a lurch deep inside her that she didn’t want to acknowledge as attraction. His hair was mussed by the wind, tumbling across his brow, and she clenched her fingers to keep from reaching up to straighten it.
No matter how much the Demon Prince captivated her, she must guard against him. She must never forget that he was a rogue and a gambler who used people for his own purposes.
“Pray, put me down,” Ellie commanded. “I can do just fine on my own now.”
He chuckled low in his throat, the sound reverberating against her breasts. “Why do I have a suspicion you won’t be a very good patient? I shan’t release you until I have your promise that you’ll stay in bed and rest that foot.”
“All right! I will! It’s where I spent the morning, anyway.”
He carried her to the four-poster and lowered her to the mattress. With great relief, she loosened her arms and let go of him. The notebook tumbled out of her grip and onto the coverlet.
Damien stood close, too close, for he didn’t step back immediately. She was keenly aware of his nearness as he unfastened the clasp at her throat and helped her remove the cloak. Feeling awkward and discomfited to be lying beneath him, Ellie scrambled to push herself into a sitting position.
While she peeled off her gloves, he straightened the pillows behind her back. Then he proceeded to remove her boots, letting them thump to the floor.
“I presume you were sketching in bed today?” he asked, glancing curiously at her as he placed a spare pillow under her injured foot.
Ellie felt uncomfortable discussing her personal habits with him, especially when it involved her sleeping arrangements. “I … yes. It seemed a good day for such a pastime.”
“I’m pleased to hear that it kept you occupied.”
He stripped off his greatcoat, flung it over a chair, and then crossed to the hearth. The fire had burned low during her absence, though it still crackled and hissed. While he added another log, Ellie wondered in alarm if he meant to stay.
“It isn’t necessary for you to sit with me,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll want to finish your shoveling. Or your ledgers. Or something.”
“All in good time.”
Damien turned toward her, thrusting his hand into an inner pocket of his dark blue coat. Despite the expensive tailoring of his coat and trousers, the waistcoat with its silver buttons, he didn’t resemble any civilized gentleman she’d ever known. He seemed so much more powerful and dominant. He exuded a raw virility that made Ellie’s pulse race.
He held her pencil in one hand and a penknife in the other. Standing close to the hearth, he proceeded to sharpen the pencil, letting the tiny wood shavings fall into the fire. The clean, controlled motion held her attention. She stared at his fingers and remembered how strong they had felt around her calf. What would it be like for him to touch her elsewhere on her body?
A warm throbbing stirred in her most secret depths. Ellie flushed and glanced away from him. How mortifying to harbor such lustful thoughts. Never in her life had she experienced so strong an attraction to any man. Being confined to the nursery as governess to her two younger cousins, she hadn’t known many gentlemen outside the circle of her family. She had seen them at church on Sundays or during a rare walk in the park. Over the years, she’d occasionally encountered one or another who would engage her in polite conversation. But any interest on his part would end when he realized that although Ellie was niece to the Earl of Pennington, she had no marriage portion and no prospects of inheritance.
So she had poured her heart into writing and illustrating her fanciful stories. It gave her something to look forward to at the end of each day. No matter how many dreary tasks she had to perform, no matter how petulant Beatrice might be or how critical her uncle was, Ellie always had that one precious secret to brighten her spirits …
“Your pencil.”
Startled out of her reverie, she saw that Damien had come to the bedside to place the sharpened pencil on the table. His nearness brought heat to her cheeks. She felt breathless, hardly able to bring herself to look up at him for fear that he could read her private thoughts. The sooner he left her alone, the better.
“Thank you,” she forced out, pleased by the coolness of her tone. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you to leave now…”
Her words trailed off as he leaned over her and picked up the notebook where it lay forgotten on the coverlet. Perhaps it was the swiftness of his action or her own torpid state, but she didn’t react until he’d seated himself on a nearby chair and had begun to leaf through the pages.
In a panic, Ellie sat up straight and swung her feet over the side of the bed. “Give that back to me!”
He glanced up to drill her with a stare. “Kindly keep your foot where it belongs.”
“Only if you return my notebook at once!”
“Why? What could you possibly have to hide?”
Damien had the audacity to look back down at the book, flipping through the pages of sketches. A black eyebrow winged upward as he lingered over one of them.
Ignoring the pain in her ankle, Ellie hobbled over the rug to his side. She snatched the leather-bound notebook out of his hands and cradled it to her bosom. She felt violated and furious to have her imaginary world exposed to his view. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Beast! How dare you look at this without my permission.”
“Pray forgive me, I should have asked you first,” he said mildly. “I didn’t realize your artwork was meant to be so private.”
On that wholly inadequate apology, he jumped up and caught her by the waist, propelling her back to the canopied bed. Dictatorial as ever, he lifted her back onto the covers and rearranged the pillow under her ankle.
Then he stood at the bedside and stared down at her. “So tell me, why are you drawing flamboyant rats wielding swords?”
His sharp gaze pinned Ellie in place. She wanted to roll away, to escape the scrutiny of those vigilant eyes, but i
f she tried to climb off the other side of the bed he would be there to stop her. She couldn’t run, anyway, not on this ankle. He had her well and truly trapped.
“I was merely doodling,” she said tersely, averting her gaze to the green hangings on the bedpost. “Now, will you please just go away?”
The fire hissed into the silence. Snow tapped on the windowpanes like a visitor impatient to come inside. To her dismay, the Demon Prince didn’t move from the bedside. He remained standing directly beside her, so close that Ellie could have touched him had she not been clutching the precious notebook to her bosom.
She braced herself for his ridicule. He was just the sort of insensitive bully to laugh at her fantastical creations. If she refused to talk to him, maybe he’d give up and leave.
His fingers grasped her chin, turning her face back toward him. “You’re telling a story through those pictures, aren’t you?” he said slowly, his gaze intent on her. “The rat and that girl with a tiara—is she a princess? They’re battling a hulking creature with a big head—a giant or some such.”
“An ogre.” Irked that he’d tempted her into speech, Ellie glued her lips shut and glowered at his chest.
Damien cocked his head to one side. “This rat character—I noticed in one of the drawings that his stance appeared somewhat unnatural. He wasn’t handling his sword properly. Did you do that on purpose?”
“What? No!” Now he’d pulled another two words from her when she’d sworn not to speak to him. The last thing she wanted was to encourage conversation and give him a reason to stay.
Much to her relief, he walked away from the bed. But he didn’t collect his greatcoat and head out the door. Instead, he picked up the fireplace poker and brandished it up like a sword. He struck a pose with one arm held stiffly at his side. “This is how he’s standing in your sketch,” Damien said.
Then he shifted position, placing a hand on his hip, his feet set apart as he thrust out with the poker at an imaginary foe. “And this is how he should be standing.”
He looked so fluid and elegant that Ellie felt a thrill course through her body. She knew exactly which drawing he meant. It was one that she’d labored over with the sense that something wasn’t quite accurate. Now, she could see precisely where she’d gone wrong.
Forgetting her anger, she picked up the pencil from the bedside table, opened the notebook to a fresh page, and did a quick preliminary sketch, the newly sharpened lead flying over the paper. As the figure took shape, she succumbed to curiosity and asked, “Where did you learn to use a sword?”
“Fencing lessons. An old-fashioned sport, to be sure, but quite popular at Eton.” Damien executed several wickedly swift jabs, the poker making a swishing sound in the air. “By the by, does your rat have a name?”
Her pencil slowed on the paper. Remembering that she was still peeved at him, Ellie said tartly, “Prince Ratworth. And you may be interested to know, I modeled him after you.”
The corner of Damien’s mouth curled in that charming, heart-fluttering, almost-grin. He replaced the poker by the fireplace, then came over to the bed and reached for the notebook. “Let me see that again.”
“No.”
“Come, you can’t make such a claim without letting me have another look.”
Reluctantly, she surrendered the notebook, and he studied her latest drawing, then flipped through several other pages. “He is a rather dapper fellow, isn’t he? Quite dashing, in fact.” Damien handed the leather-bound book back to her. “I confess to being flattered. I can’t say that anyone has ever put me in a story before. Dare I hope that Prince Ratworth is the hero of your tale?”
He was supposed to be insulted, Ellie thought sourly. She had no intention of telling him that the rat was under a magical spell. Or that once the prince redeemed himself and regained his human form, he and Princess Arianna would live happily ever after. “He’s an arrogant, selfish, demonic rat, so of course he must be a villain.”
“Yet he’s fighting the evil ogre. That seems rather heroic to me.” He eyed her for a moment, then added, “Did Prince Ratworth abduct the princess?”
“No!” Flustered, Ellie regretted revealing that he was her inspiration. He seemed to take it as carte blanche to critique her life’s work. “Pardon me if I don’t wish to explain the entire plot to you. It’s none of your concern.”
His expression grew pensive as he subjected her to a contemplative stare. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His scrutiny made her uneasy, so she lowered her eyes to the page in her lap, distracting herself by adding a flowing cape to Prince Ratworth.
Damien pulled the chair closer and sat down. He propped one booted foot on the frame of the bed as if settling in for a long stay. “You needn’t explain the particulars of the plot,” he said, “but I’m curious about your plans for this story. Were you working on it back in London, too?”
The astute question increased Ellie’s wariness. Her book had always been a closely guarded secret, and now she felt exposed and vulnerable. Why was the Demon Prince so interested, anyway? “It’s just a little hobby of mine,” she dissembled. “Something I do to amuse myself.”
He wore a slight frown as if he were trying to figure her out. “Is there a text to go along with the drawings? Are you intending this project to be a book for children?”
Ellie attempted a cool laugh. “I can’t imagine why it would matter to you,” she said. “Or are you afraid that someone might spot your resemblance to Prince Ratworth?”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Then you do intend to seek publication for your story.”
Ellie’s heart pitched in alarm as she realized how shrewdly he’d interpreted her remark. She glanced away lest he read the truth in her eyes. “I needn’t discuss my plans with you.”
To her consternation, the mattress dipped under his weight as Damien seated himself on the edge of the bed. He took her hand in his and lightly rubbed the reddened indentation in her finger left by the pencil. “I know you don’t trust me, Ellie. I can’t say that I blame you. But please know that I bear you no ill intent. Quite the contrary. You’re an exceptionally talented artist and I’d like to see you profit from your work.”
Exceptionally talented?
Ellie absorbed his praise in the starving corners of her soul. For so long she had worked alone and kept her dreams to herself. Now, gazing into his eyes, she wanted to forget all the reasons why she should mistrust this man. The warmth of his hand on hers, the frank sincerity on his face, his nearness on the bed, all had a curious effect on her. She felt a bond of intimacy between them that went beyond the physical. It was as if they’d known each other for years instead of only two days.
She also felt an unladylike hunger to throw herself into his arms and lift her face for his kiss. That made no sense, for she had decided long ago that romance would have no place in her life. Believe me, Ellie, if ever I decide to seduce you, you’ll know it, and you’ll want me to do it.
Was that what he was doing now? Trying to seduce her with his charm? She couldn’t think clearly when he sat so close to her.
Her cheeks flushed, she extracted her hand from his. “If you really want to hear more, I’ll tell you. But first, you’ll return to your chair.”
Damien complied with a jaunty air just like Prince Ratworth. He settled down on the wooden seat and placed his hands behind his neck in a relaxed pose. “Go on, then.”
Ellie drew a deep breath. “If you must know, I am hoping to find a publisher. I’ve been working on my storybook for a while now, and it’s over halfway complete.” She stopped, then added, “Although I’ve lost at least a week’s worth of work, all because of you.”
“Yet because of me, you’ve also gained a bold hero to defend your princess.”
“Villain,” she insisted.
He chuckled. “Perhaps Prince Ratworth is a bit of both, hmm? So, how many pages do you have done?”
She contemplated the thick stack hidden in the chest in her n
ursery bedchamber at Pennington House. “At last count, close to a hundred.”
“A hundred? This book is meant for children, is it not?”
His sudden frown made Ellie defensive. “Yes, and what’s wrong with that? You can’t make a judgment about it when you’ve only seen a few sketches.”
“It’s not the content, but the length. Children—at least the younger ones—prefer shorter stories.”
How peculiar to hear such a comment coming from a hardened scoundrel, she thought. The Demon Prince leaned back in the chair, one foot on the bed frame, his black hair attractively mussed by the wind. Was he always so confident about everything?
“What can you know about children?” she scoffed. “You, who spend your time playing cards and wagering on dice at your gambling den?”
His mouth curling wryly, Damien glanced away at the fire. There was a moodiness to his face that puzzled Ellie. But when he looked back at her again, a cool irony tinged his expression. “You’re quite right. However, I am a businessman, and I merely thought to advise you…” He paused. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ve already determined the best way to attract the interest of a publisher.”
Ellie found herself in a quandary. She had just spurned his opinion, yet she felt woefully ignorant when it came to matters of commerce. She far preferred to work on the story itself than to face the intimidating prospect of convincing a stranger at a publishing company to print the pages and bind them into a volume.
Dipping her chin and gazing at Damien through the screen of her lashes, she admitted, “If you must know, I haven’t any notion how to find a publisher. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”
“It seems to me your first step would be to go to a bookstore or lending library and see who publishes this sort of book.”
His answer was so logical that Ellie felt foolish for never having thought of it. “You’re right, there should be an address for the publisher on the title page.”