by Olivia Drake
“Precisely.” Damien leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Now, might I make a suggestion? Would it be possible to break your story into sections that could be sold as separate books?”
The notion stupefied her. “Why?”
“I’m assuming that illustrated books cost more to produce, so you might have an easier time convincing a publisher to invest in a shorter book. In addition, you’d likely earn more money by selling a series of works rather than just one.”
“But at what cost to my story?” Ellie burst out. “For heaven’s sake, that’s a terrible idea. It would require extensive revisions.”
Aghast, she turned her head to stare unseeing at the curved stone wall. Everything in her resisted committing the sacrilege of drastically altering the manuscript that she had worked on for so many months. She’d have to tinker with the plot, rewrite portions, and draw new illustrations in places so that each book could stand on its own. It might require weeks and weeks of additional work. And what if it didn’t work? What if she destroyed her precious storybook in the process?
But maybe she would lose her chance of publication if she didn’t do as he suggested. Then where would she be?
A flood of self-doubt inundated her. All of a sudden her dream of living in a cozy cottage in the country seemed farther away than ever. Ellie desperately needed to earn enough to support herself, and swiftly, too, because she had a horrible suspicion that her family wouldn’t welcome her return to London after having spent more than a week in the company of a rogue. Her uncle might very well cast her out into the streets …
A loud knocking made her jump. She looked over to see that Damien was already striding forward to open the door.
Mrs. MacNab took a step inside the bedchamber, then stopped to gawk at him. “Why, ’tis the laird. An’ what mischief are ye at, bein’ in milady’s bedchamber?”
“Miss Stratham twisted her ankle on the ice, so I carried her up here.” He took the basket from the maidservant and placed it on the table. “Is it teatime already?”
Mrs. MacNab hurried to Ellie’s side. “Oh, poor lamb. I brung only one cup, sir. Shall I run back down t’ the kitchen t’ fetch another?”
“No, I was about to depart. It appears I’ve overstayed my welcome here.”
Grabbing his greatcoat, he flicked an enigmatic glance at Ellie. She glowered back at him. Did he expect her to beg him to stay? After the way he had shaken the foundation of her future?
Good riddance to him!
As he departed the chamber and closed the door, a sudden inspiration banished her gloom. Perhaps there was a simple way to solve her present dilemma. She mulled over the notion while Mrs. MacNab puttered by the table, pouring tea and arranging scones on a plate. By the time the maidservant bustled over to the bed with a steaming cup, Ellie could offer a cheerful smile of thanks.
No longer did her prospects appear so grim. Now, she knew exactly how to make the Demon Prince pay for ruining her life.
Chapter 14
The following morning, Damien ducked his head to avoid the low lintel as he entered the kitchen. Mrs. MacNab stood washing dishes at the dry sink, an apron tied around her stout waist. Finn sat at the rustic table, stuffing himself with jam-slathered scones. The angry red knob on his forehead didn’t appear to have affected his appetite.
“Have you any linseed oil?” Damien asked.
His mouth full, Finn could only shrug and glance helplessly at his wife. Mrs. MacNab scurried to the corner cabinet and rummaged around for a moment, then produced a small brown jar. “’Tis lucky ye are that Finn rubs this on his achin’ joints at times, else I wouldna have brung it here. Wot’s that?”
She gazed askance at the wooden pole in Damien’s hand. He had found half a broken pikestaff in the weaponry room and had spent the past hour sanding the rough end until it was smooth. “I thought Miss Stratham might use it as a cane until her ankle improves.”
Finn waggled a bushy gray eyebrow. “’Tis good o’ ye t’ think o’ the wee miss. Mayhap she’s lookin’ a mite prettier now, huh?”
The old coot had a glint in his blue eyes, reminding Damien of what he himself had said upon their arrival at the castle. He had been standing beside the canopied bed, gazing down at the tangled hair and freckled face of the woman he’d abducted, and feeling surprised that the beauteous Lady Beatrice Stratham appeared rather plain at close view. He had remarked to Finn, She did look much prettier from a distance.
Damien had no intention of admitting that his opinion of Ellie Stratham had undergone a drastic change since then. He had acquired a decided preference for wavy auburn hair and warm brown eyes. Not to mention, a shapely figure and a charming bosom. “I’m responsible for her well-being,” he said crisply. “Now, have you a rag that I might use?”
Mrs. MacNab obligingly provided a square of blue cotton cloth. “Dinna ye mind Finn. The auld fool likes t’ poke his nose where it don’t belong.” She aimed a warning look at her husband on her way back to the dry sink.
Damien dribbled oil onto the cloth and sat down at the table to polish the staff. “The wind is beginning to die down a bit,” he said, deliberately changing the topic. “Is there a chance we might depart on the morrow?”
“Could be aye, could be nay,” Finn ruminated as he slurped tea from his brown mug. “Gales in these parts can last fer a week.”
The old man had grown up on the Scottish coast, and he launched into a story about a legendary storm in his youth. Having successfully diverted him, Damien concentrated on rubbing the oil into the length of ash wood until it gleamed. He listened with only half an ear, offering a nod or a brief comment now and then. All the while, his mind was focused on the need to make atonement to Ellie.
The previous afternoon, she had summarily rejected his suggestion for her book. From the look of revulsion on her face, one would think he’d asked her to slaughter a litter of puppies. In retrospect, he couldn’t blame her for being appalled. Who was he to tell her to reorganize a project so near and dear to her heart when he’d seen only a glimpse of the manuscript?
Granted, he had meant to be helpful. The discovery of her whimsical artistic talent had astounded him, and being a businessman, he immediately had begun to consider how best she might profit from it. But now Damien regretted speaking out. By disregarding her sensibilities, he’d damaged the fledgling closeness between them.
He hoped it could be repaired.
No longer could he deny that he felt a strong connection to Ellie Stratham. There was something about her that drew him, something more than mere physical allure. He had noticed it the moment she’d opened her eyes that first day and fearlessly challenged him instead of weeping or quavering. The tug of attraction had gained strength with their every encounter, although he had resisted it, fought it, denied it. How disturbing it was to acknowledge that he craved both her companionship and her esteem.
Finn’s voice intruded. “Back in our courtin’ days, I made an oak chest fer the missus. Spent many a long hour carvin’ an’ polishin’ it.”
Damien shot a suspicious scowl at the bald-headed servant. Finn had to be making a sly parallel to Damien fashioning the walking stick for Ellie.
However, Finn’s attention was on his wife as she refilled his mug from the kettle. “’Twas a labor o’ love,” Mrs. MacNab said with a fond smile.
“Love, bah! I wanted under yer skirts, hinny. Still do.” He grabbed hold of her thick waist and pulled her down to plant a loud, smacking kiss on her lips.
“Daft auld goat!” She playfully slapped him with the edge of her apron. “’Twas love at first sight, as well ye ken.”
Watching them, Damien sensed a hollowness inside himself. He told himself it was nonsense; he didn’t believe in love at first sight. The glorious state that poets praised and women romanticized was merely the fire of physical passion. Perhaps sometimes it became a devoted friendship, as it had with the MacNabs. But the comfortable intimacy shared by his servants was foreign to his own
life. He had never known it, not even with Veronica.
Especially not with Veronica.
He hid a grimace by diligently rubbing at a rough spot in the wood. Their association had begun as a wager with his cronies to see if he could win the heart of the shy young lady who’d been forced to work as a companion to an old aunt. Her exquisite blond beauty had caused him to lose his head. Then later, there had been only quarrels and an oppressive sense of being trapped. Nevertheless, he could not regret his brief, tragic marriage.
Veronica had given him Lily.
He had amassed a fortune, he had built himself up from nothing, yet his daughter was undoubtedly his finest achievement. To protect her from gossip, he had kept Lily out of sight and away from society. Few even knew that she existed, only the MacNabs and a trusted staff of servants.
He had taken great pains to guard his privacy.
For Lily’s sake, he’d kept his life divided into strict compartments. He never entertained friends or acquaintances at home. Business matters were handled at his club, and the occasional sexual liaison was conducted in a separate house he kept for that purpose.
Since Veronica’s death, he’d never lacked for female company. There were always willing widows and improper ladies seeking the excitement of an affair with a notorious rogue. Yet he had never desired anything beyond a brief carnal indulgence.
Until Ellie Stratham.
Somehow, Ellie had stirred life into the dead realm of his emotions. She made him crave warmth and light after years of darkness. The novelty of it had thrust him into uncharted territory. He didn’t know quite what to make of it.
Perhaps what he felt was merely a natural attraction to forbidden fruit. He’d wronged Ellie in order to retrieve that damned key, and her situation would be infinitely worse if he were to seduce her. Pennington would throw her out of his house, and then what would happen to her?
Maybe it was already too late. Maybe Walt hadn’t bothered to concoct a story to cover his cousin’s disappearance. Maybe Ellie would return home only to be refused entry to her uncle’s house.
Brooding on the possibility, Damien corked the jar and handed it back to Mrs. MacNab. He ran his fingers over the cylindrical staff to make sure that all the oil had soaked into the wood and there was no trace of dampness left. Then he started toward the door.
Finn jumped up from the table and trotted after Damien, reaching out a gnarled hand for the walking stick. “Will ye be wantin’ me t’ take it up t’ the wee miss?”
Damien kept a firm grip on the polished wood. “No, I’ll do it.”
“Are ye certain ’tis wise?” Finn asked with a shrewd expression on his weathered face. Lowering his voice, he rasped, “Mind, ye dinna make the same mistake as ye did with Miss Lily’s mam.”
Damien felt a rush of guilt so thick he could scarcely draw air into his lungs. Did Finn really think he’d be so stupid? Through clenched teeth, he muttered, “When I want your advice, old man, I’ll ask for it.”
Turning on his heel, Damien strode out of the kitchen. His footsteps echoed loudly in the corridor. Going outside, he welcomed the blast of chilly air. And immediately he wished he had not spoken so sharply. Finn was like a father to him. But Finn ought to know that Damien had put the past behind him, that he would never again commit such a colossal error of judgment.
Besides, Ellie was not Veronica. No two women could be more different.
Carrying the staff, he stomped down the path he’d shoveled through the drifts of snow. Icy gusts buffeted him, though not quite as fiercely as the previous two days. Only a few stray flakes fell from the cloudy sky. Beyond the castle walls, the rhythmic crashing of the waves served as a reminder that the storm was not yet over.
It was still too rough to set out on the open sea, and for that, Damien was glad. Though he had promised to take Ellie back to London, he wanted to prolong their stay here at the castle for at least another day or two. Maybe then they could regain the camaraderie that had developed between them the previous afternoon.
Finn was wrong, there was little danger in a brief flirtation with Ellie. Damien was no longer the reckless young daredevil who had made no distinction between innocent girls and experienced women. Now he possessed the self-discipline to keep his base urges in check.
Leaning on the polished stick to test its strength, he tramped through the arched entry and the short passageway, and then started up the winding stairs of the tower. All the while, his mind dwelled on Ellie. Would she accept his peace offering? Or would she give him that scornful look and send him away?
He wouldn’t go. He’d use every ounce of his charm to win her over. And if that didn’t work, well, then he’d find another way.
Reaching the small landing at the top of the stairs, he saw that the door to her bedchamber stood partly open. That surprised him, for she surely knew better than to allow the warmth of the fire to escape. He rapped lightly on the wooden panel, but no sound emanated from within.
“Ellie?” he called.
Receiving no answer, he cautiously peered inside. God help him if he made matters worse between them by intruding on her privacy. But a swift glance around revealed that the circular chamber was deserted.
The bedcovers were rumpled as if she’d just arisen. The leather notebook lay abandoned by the mound of pillows. Flames danced on the hearth, so she must have been here quite recently.
Where could she have gone? Had she hobbled down the stairs on her injured ankle? Had he just missed her? Perhaps she’d headed to the keep in search of him. Maybe her pencil needed sharpening again, and she would scold him for not leaving the penknife.
He would scold her in return for not remaining in bed. Then he would carry her back up here, only this time he wouldn’t let go of her so quickly. This time, if he spied the same desire in her eyes that had been there the previous day, he might indulge her with a kiss.
The prospect stirred his blood. Yes, a soft and tender kiss, nothing lusty. Just a brush of the lips to heighten her interest in him …
Striding out of the bedchamber, he noticed the door at the other side of the staircase landing. He stopped dead. Ellie wouldn’t have ventured out onto the parapet, would she? Surely she had too much sense to do so when the weather was still blustery.
Struck by unease, Damien propped the staff against the wall and opened the door. He stepped out into the cold. Snow covered the battlements atop the castle wall. The pulsing roar of the sea and the wuthering of the wind blended in a cacophony of wild sound. Then he spied a small, green-caped figure halfway down the narrow walk.
Ellie.
She was standing on tiptoes, leaning over one of the embrasures in the wall. Her cloaked head was barely visible between the stone teeth.
His heart gave a mighty jolt. In a moment she’d tumble over the verge. She’d plunge to her death on the rocks far below. She’d lie sprawled down there, bloody and mangled …
A vivid scene flashed in his mind.
The white-clad figure teetered on the edge of the moonlit roof. She spread her arms wide, a winged angel against the starry blackness. He cried out her name in horror. In the next instant, she stepped off the brink and was falling … falling as he sprinted madly through the garden …
“Ellie, no!”
Damien surged down the parapet. His boots slid on the icy stones. The cold air burned his lungs. Not again. He’d never reach her in time. In another instant she’d be dead …
Ellie half turned at his approach. Her lips parted and her eyes widened quizzically in the pale oval of her face.
Damien yanked her away from danger and pulled her into the sheltering circle of his arms. His heart hammering, he buried his face in the tangle of her hair and breathed in her lilac scent. The feel of her warmth, her precious curves, unleashed a violent joy in him.
“Thank God, you’re alive!” he muttered. “Thank God, you’re safe!”
Without thought, he captured her mouth in a deep, drowning kiss. The need to revel
in her life supplanted all logic and reason. There was only the driving compulsion in him to infuse her with his own strength and protection. He couldn’t absorb enough of her to assuage the raw feelings inside him.
Ellie stood motionless, her hands resting on his shoulders, her face tilted up, his for the taking. All of a sudden, she uttered a small moan and lifted herself on tiptoe to return his kiss with matching fervor. Her arms slid around his neck, and her surrender magnified the wild elation that seared hot and hard through his body. For timeless moments, their mouths joined hungrily, taking sustenance from each other as if they were starving.
When it was no longer satisfying merely to kiss her, he parted her cloak to caress the ripe mounds of her bosom. Her skin felt like warm silk above the low-cut bodice. Exploring the valley between her breasts, he worked his fingers inside the tight corset until he found the sensitive nub. As he stroked her, a shudder ran through her body. She tucked her face into the crook of his shoulder, her breathing ragged against his throat.
A primitive desire throbbed in his blood. The desire to be one with her, to share the ultimate celebration of life, to hear her cry out his name in the throes of passion. Sliding his hands downward, he cupped her bottom and lifted her to him. He rubbed himself against her mound in a caress designed to give pleasure to both of them. Ellie gasped and for one fiery moment she melted in sweet surrender …
Abruptly she struck out hard with her fists, shoving him away. Damien staggered back a step, his feet sliding. As he reached out blindly to catch himself, his bare hand met cold stone. An icy blast of wind slapped him fully awake.
They were standing out on the parapet. The roar and crash of the surf came from below. A few snowflakes performed a frenzied dance in the air.
Ellie pressed her hands to her cheeks. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and coils of auburn hair blew around her head. She stared aghast at him as if he were an ogre from her storybook. “What are you doing?”
The shock of reality sobered Damien. What had he just done? He had lost control of himself. He had forgotten his vow to woo her gently, to make up for his blunder of the previous day. Pinned by her accusing stare, he could only rasp, “I’m sorry.”