by Olivia Drake
“I despised the name at first,” he said, “but in time I came to embrace it. I used it to finagle my way into a group of dissolute young bucks at Eton. I fleeced them at cards, won enough to open my own club, and called it Demon’s Den.” He grinned at her. “And of course, my scandalous reputation as the Demon Prince has also made me quite popular with women.”
Ellie gave him a severe look. “Most gentlemen try to live up to their principles. You, I think, have tried to live down to yours.”
He laughed. “So now you will be the strict governess again. Perhaps you will punish me for my sins, hmm?”
His hands delved beneath the covers to play with her breasts. They were soft and abundant, and the tips puckered to his touch. The warm silk of her skin made him keen to have her again.
She melted against him, her fingertips trailing down his chest. “Punish? Oh, no, my prince. I was thinking more in terms of a reward. You see, I have become as sinful as you are.”
At the impish sparkle in her eyes, Damien felt his potency return in a mad rush of heat. He untangled her from the quilt and then reclined against the pillows, bringing her down to sprawl on top of him, his very own goddess of love. Her hair spilled around them in a fiery curtain. She smiled in delight at the new position and suggestively swiveled her hips.
They began to kiss and caress at a leisurely pace, taking pleasure in each other, murmuring and sighing. Time ceased to exist. Damien could not remember when he had enjoyed himself more—perhaps never. Again, he felt possessed by an irresistible affection for her, the desire to make her happy. When at last he pressed deeply into her body, he derived a fierce satisfaction from her cries of bliss before allowing his own completion.
In the aftermath, he blew out the lamp and then settled back down in the bed. Ellie lay hugging a pillow, already half asleep. He drew the covers over them, tucked her into the cradle of his body, and dropped a light kiss into the fragrant tangle of her hair.
His arms enfolding her, he gazed into the semidarkness that was lit only by the glowing remains of the fire. A mental restlessness kept him from joining her in slumber. With any other woman, he would be making his departure. He never actually slept with his partner once his physical needs had been slaked. But with Ellie, he wanted to stay. He didn’t want to let her go.
It wasn’t like him to be so irrational. They had only this one night, after all. She had been very explicit about that. And no matter how much he might crave it, he could not bring himself to dishonor her by offering the position of his mistress. He had already abducted her, ruined her reputation, and claimed her innocence.
He couldn’t rob her of her ambitions, too.
Ellie had a plan for her life, an admirable determination to live alone and work on her storybooks. He had no right to interfere with that. Nor would he. Once they returned to London, this obsession for her surely would vanish.
He concentrated on that thought. It had to be merely their enforced isolation here at the castle that had fostered his attachment to her. Once he resumed his business dealings and the routine of his daily life, he would forget about Ellie Stratham. She would join the legions of other women that he’d enjoyed and then barred from his private life.
Satisfied by the logical conclusion, he closed his eyes and succumbed to a postcoital lethargy. For tonight, there could be no harm in indulging his wish to remain with her. But he must be away before first light. Finn would have Damien’s head on a pike if he was unwise enough to be caught in Ellie’s bed.
Thankfully, he had an internal clock that never failed to awaken him at dawn. His last thought before drifting into slumber was a hazy resolve to bestir himself early enough to make love to her one last time.
Chapter 19
A thumping sound summoned Ellie from the depths of a deep sleep. Every part of her resisted swimming to the surface of awareness. She felt too contented in mind and body, too happy in her dreams. Then the noise intruded again, and in her groggy state, she identified it as an insistent rapping.
She opened her eyes to the watery sunlight streaming through the high, narrow windows of her bedchamber. At the same instant, she realized that her back rested in the heated cradle of a man’s body. His heavy arm lay draped over her waist. Damien.
All at once, the events of the previous evening flooded her mind, the hours of sensual enjoyment, the heady rapture of release. They had made love twice, then again sometime during the dark of night. She had asked him to stay just until dawn. But he hadn’t departed, he had fallen asleep in her bed. And now …
A realization struck away the last cobwebs of sleep. Dear God, someone was at the door. They were about to be discovered!
She rolled over, intending to shake him awake, only to find Damien already blinking drowsily at her, his black hair in attractive disarray. His green-gray eyes widened on her, then cut over to the brightly lit windows. He thrust himself up on one elbow as the knocking rattled the door again, louder this time.
“What the devil—” He sprang out of bed and snatched up his breeches, hopping on one leg and then the other as he yanked on the garment.
Ellie frantically searched the tangle of covers for her missing chemise. He had stripped it from her in the midst of their lovemaking. Where had it fallen?
Spying a white heap on the carpet beside the bed, she caught it up in her hand just as the door was flung open and Mrs. MacNab came marching into the bedchamber.
The maidservant’s eyes goggled. She let out a screech. “Ahhh! ’Tis just as Finn feared, ye was in milady’s bed! Oh, laird! How could ye treat her so ill?”
Mortified, Ellie clutched the chemise to her bare bosom and tried to cover her nakedness. Despite the chill in the air, her face felt blazing hot. She wanted to dive beneath the covers and not come out again until next week. No, next year.
Damien had his breeches only half buttoned. “Devil take it, woman, turn around! Better yet, step outside for a moment.”
Mrs. MacNab remained standing in the doorway, glowering, her hands parked on her ample hips. “Mind yer tongue, young man. ’Tis ye who’s at fault here! Dinna ye have no shame?”
Ellie drew a shaky breath. No matter how embarrassed she was, she couldn’t let the servant go on thinking that Damien was responsible. Not when it had been Ellie who had coerced him into sharing her bed. “Mrs. MacNab, it isn’t quite as it seems. You see—”
“It is precisely as it seems,” Damien cut in, his voice cold and hard as he yanked on his black boots. “Last night, I seduced Miss Stratham. I took advantage of her innocence. It was not the act of a gentleman, and I am entirely to blame.”
He flicked a stern glance at Ellie as if warning her to be silent. Or perhaps he’d realized that making love to her had been a mistake to be repented in the harsh light of day. That second thought made her heart wither. Did he regret it? She remembered how he had resisted her at first. For God’s sake! I can’t do this, not to you of all women.
After the tragedy of his first marriage, he had not wanted to entangle himself with a virginal lady. Yet Ellie had enticed him, tempted him, convinced him. And now he appeared to be having second thoughts about their intimacy. Except for that one stony glance, he took no notice of her at all. He merely donned his shirt and turned to gather up the rest of his garments where they lay in a trail over the floor.
“’Tis best ye make haste, laird,” Mrs. MacNab said stiffly. “Finn sent me t’ tell ye there’s a rowboat a-comin’ an’ ye’re soon t’ have guests.”
Damien turned sharply on his heel. “What? Who?”
“Dinna ask me.” She shook her stubby finger at him. “’Tis ye who should’ve been keepin’ watch, instead o’ plantin’ yer seed in virtuous young ladies.”
During their short exchange, Ellie managed to surreptitiously pull the chemise over her head to cover her nakedness. A rowboat! Someone was heading to the island. Who? Had Walt brought the stolen key, after all? Did he intend to ransom her?
The thought shook her to th
e core. She had been so certain that her cousin would never leave the pleasures of London on her behalf …
Then a worse fear struck her. Perhaps the Earl of Pennington had come, too. Perhaps he had coerced the story from Walt and now intended to rescue his niece from the clutches of a notorious scoundrel.
Her stomach churned. If indeed it was Uncle Basil, he would be in a rage to avenge the family honor. He might very well have brought an officer of the law with him.
The more she considered it, the more plausible that possibility seemed. Damien would be arrested on the spot.
She opened her mouth to warn him, but he was already pulling on his coat and striding toward the door. As he brushed past Mrs. MacNab, he snapped, “Keep Miss Stratham here. I’ll send for her if necessary.”
Blast his orders! Ellie had no intention of being confined to the tower room. Not when he could be walking into a trap.
She scrambled out of bed and grabbed her petticoat from the floor. The fire on the hearth had long since died, and her teeth chattered from both the cold air and an attack of nerves. She had to get down to the beach as swiftly as possible in order to avert a disaster.
Damien mustn’t be thrown behind bars—even if he had committed the crime of abducting her. It wasn’t just because she now knew him to be a worthy man who’d only wanted the return of that stolen key. Nor was it because they’d shared a wonderful night together, one that she would remember for the rest of her life, one that had left her body pleasantly tender in places from their unaccustomed activities.
She swallowed a lump in her throat. No, he mustn’t be imprisoned because he was vital to her own independence. Damien had agreed to give her the cottage in the country where she could be alone to work on her storybook. He also would provide her with a small stipend to tide her over until she could sell her book to a publisher.
It was a dream come true.
But how could she explain all that to her uncle—and to Walt? They would say only that Damien had dishonored her. They would seek his punishment.
Her trembling fingers made a tangle of the ties of her petticoat. She would not permit her family to interfere in her plans for her life. If Walt or the earl made a misguided attempt to avenge the stain on the family honor, then she would lose everything. Damien could hardly fulfill his promise to her if he was confined to a dank cell.
Locked in prison—perhaps for the rest of his life.
Her vision blurred suddenly. Now she couldn’t see the ties at all. Tears burned down her cheeks—tears of frustration, surely, because she had never been a weepy watering pot of a female. And she certainly would never cry over a man.
She felt herself drawn into a pillowy embrace. Mrs. MacNab patted Ellie on the back, comforting her like a child. “Poor wee lamb. The laird charmed ye, did he? Never ye mind, he’ll do right by ye in the end. Finn’ll see to that. Now, come, dry yer eyes an’ ready yerself.”
Ellie didn’t bother to correct the woman’s misapprehension about Damien’s guilt. There would be time for that later. It was far more important to gird herself to do battle with Walt or her uncle—or both.
In short order, she had washed and dressed. While Mrs. MacNab buttoned the back of the jade-green gown, Ellie quickly tamed her wild curls into a severe knot and secured it with pins. Then she snatched up her cloak and went dashing from the bedchamber, ignoring the maid’s caution to wait for the laird’s summons.
Ellie made haste down the winding stairs and through the short passage. Emerging from the stone arch of the doorway, she found the courtyard of the castle empty. The tall square keep appeared forbidding even in the brightness of sunshine. The snow was melting, causing mud puddles everywhere, and the icicles on the walls dripped water.
It was a thoroughly depressing scene after the wondrous fairy-tale whiteness of the blizzard when she had wrenched her ankle and Damien had carried her up to her bedchamber. Only a slight twinge remained, a pain that was far overshadowed by the ache in her heart.
If truth be told, she didn’t want her stay here at the castle to come to an end. Ellie wanted it to be yesterday when she’d been full of dreamy hope. In her naïveté, she had never imagined that in the morning Damien would revert to being a hostile stranger. Had her demand for intimacy ruined their friendship?
How foolish. They had agreed to share one night together. There could be no enduring ties between them. They were destined to part once they returned to London. Or perhaps sooner if her uncle or Walt had their way.
To her surprise, the iron gate of the portcullis had been drawn up. How much time had passed since Damien had left? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Was it long enough for the newcomers to have arrived?
There was only one way to find out.
Ellie hurriedly picked a path through the slush, lifting her skirts to keep her hem dry. Upon reaching the gate, she proceeded through the opening to the outside of the castle. She paused there to shade her eyes against the morning sunshine. Her gaze followed the rutted path that meandered through the rocky landscape and down to the shore.
There was the gigantic boulder where she had encountered Damien after escaping on her first night at the castle. He had frightened her half to death by appearing from out of nowhere. When she had lashed out at him in a rage, he had trapped her in between himself and the granite …
He was at the water’s edge now, a tall figure in his black greatcoat, his hair ruffled by the brisk breeze. He and Finn were dragging the bow of a large rowboat partway onto the beach. There were three people in the boat. One was the oarsman, who hopped out, splashing through the water to help land the vessel.
Then Damien reached into the boat to assist one of the two passengers in disembarking. She was a slender woman in bonnet and gown, and he lifted her onto the shore. The other passenger managed on his own, a stoop-shouldered man clad in a dark coat and hat.
Ellie blinked in astonishment. Neither of them was Walt nor her uncle. All of her worries had been for naught.
But who on earth were these people? Locals from the mainland? Neighbors who had come to call? She could think of no other explanation for their presence on the island.
Now that the storm had cleared, she could see in the distance the dark line of a landmass across the choppy sea. A cluster of buildings formed a small town or village. There must be a dock, too, for she spied the white sails of several ships.
How unusual that these neighbors would make a journey across the water when Damien had not been expecting them.
Intensely curious, Ellie decided to wait at the castle entry. There was no point in muddying her half-boots on a trek down to the beach. The newcomers stood talking to Damien for a few moments. Then the small party started up the path. Damien led the way with the woman, who had tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
She appeared to be a lady. And she was no rustic frump, either. Her royal-blue mantle with its white fur collar would have been stylish even on the streets of Mayfair. The wide brim of an elegant bonnet shaded her face from view.
Damien’s frowning attention was on the woman, and they appeared to be deep in conversation. Ellie noted the stiffness to his bearing. One thing was certain, he didn’t seem terribly happy to be entertaining unexpected guests. Perhaps because he had wanted to depart for London this morning.
Belatedly, she wondered if she ought to have stayed out of sight. How would he explain the presence of a young, unmarried woman at the castle with only two old servants as chaperones? The situation would be awkward, indeed.
But it was too late to retreat. The small party was almost to the gate, and they had spied her. The woman turned her head from saying something to Damien and looked straight at Ellie.
Her feet grew roots into the muddy ground. Ellie couldn’t have moved in that moment if her life had depended upon it. Her mind struggled to deny the reality of who she was seeing. She knew those patrician features inside the brim of that blue bonnet, the large violet eyes in a face of exquisite, timeless beauty.
“Lady Milford! Whatever are you doing here?”
On that blurted comment, Ellie remembered her manners and dipped a curtsy, heedless of the puddles that soaked her hem. She arose to find herself being kissed on the cheek in a waft of rose perfume.
“My dear Miss Stratham, how very good it is to see you again.” Lady Milford spoke as if they were in a London ballroom instead of a castle on a remote island off the Scottish coast. “May I say, you’re looking quite well in light of your ordeal. I understand from Mr. Burke that you’ve been trapped here by a terrible storm these past few days.”
“Miss Stratham slipped on the ice and twisted her ankle two days ago,” Damien said before Ellie could reply. “She was supposed to remain in her chamber with her foot propped up.”
He aimed a glower at Ellie, and while she understood the necessity of concealing their passionate affair, she nevertheless felt goaded by the coldness of his manner. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m much recovered today. I retired early yesterday evening and enjoyed a most excellent and restorative night’s sleep.”
For the barest moment, his green-gray eyes revealed a heated intensity. As if he, too, was remembering exactly how they had spent the previous night—the kissing and caressing, the intimate touches, the wild pleasure of coupling their bodies.
Then Ellie noticed Lady Milford was observing both of them with keen interest. Stepping forward, she looped her arm through Ellie’s. “I believe that you’ll be interested to learn what has happened in London since your disappearance. Is there somewhere that we all might talk?”
* * *
They proceeded to the great hall inside the keep. Damien escorted Lady Milford to the best chair, a heavy wooden piece with a tall back and wide arms. Then he threw a few more logs on the dying fire. He had already dispatched Finn to the kitchen to fetch a tray of refreshments.
Ellie glanced curiously at the stoop-shouldered man who had settled himself on a stool in the shadows. He held his hat in his gnarled hands, and his pale scalp shone through the feathery white hairs on his head. His dark garb was plain and sober rather than fashionable. She wondered who he was. No one had bothered to introduce her, and she surmised that he must be an inconsequential gentleman who had come along as Lady Milford’s escort.