Masked Promises (Unmasking Prometheus, #2)

by Bold, Diana

  “Why are you here?” she asked at last, proud of the coldness she’d managed to insert in her tone.

  He took a step back, his blue eyes registering a flash of pain. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  She shook her head, crossing her arms. “No, Luke, I’m sorry. I just can’t. Please, say what you have to say and then leave.”

  He frowned, but then a look of determination every bit as strong as his own crossed his face. “All right, if that’s how you want me to do it.”

  She nodded jerkily, even though her resolve was weakening. She loved him so much. Every time she looked at him, all she wanted was to be with him. No matter what the cost to her heart and soul. If he told her he loved her, if he asked her to come back with him, she didn’t know how she’d resist.

  Taking a deep breath, he lifted his gaze to hers. “I have done everything wrong, and I’ve come here today to try and make it right.”

  She lifted one brow suspiciously, afraid to speak.

  He cleared his throat. “I love you, Serenity. I have loved you since the very first time we met, at the ruins, when you offered me comfort. All my life, you’ve been the only one who ever allowed me to be weak, the only one who ever saw that I didn’t have all the answers. You’ve seen all my weaknesses, and you loved me anyway.”

  Her resolve was already crumbling. “You are the strongest man I know. I am so glad that you have allowed me to see parts of you that you don’t show anyone else.”

  A small smile curved his lips. “You say that like I had a choice. Like I could have kept from stripping myself bare for you.”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered brokenly, cursing herself for her lack of strength where he was concerned. “I want you to know that despite how things ended, it was never a question of me not loving you.”

  “Nothing has ended,” he said, his voice rising in frustration. “I know I’ve been an idiot, I know I handled everything wrong, but there is still hope for us. I refuse to believe that we can’t still find happiness.”

  “How?” she cried. “I can’t be your mistress, Luke!”

  He shook his head incredulously, his eyes full of shock. “Is that what you think? That I’ve come here to ask you to be my mistress?”

  “If that’s not it, then why? Why are you here?” she cried in frustration.

  “To ask you to marry me!” he yelled, a vein throbbing in his temple. “I love you, and I want you to marry me. I want to be with you every day for the rest of our lives.”

  She gasped and slowly opened the door. “Come in,” she whispered.

  He stepped forward, crowding her back into the foyer, pushing her with his body until her back hit the wall. Kicking the door shut with his foot, he gazed down at her. “Will you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?” he asked softly.

  She met his gaze, her heart thundering in her chest. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Thank God,” he whispered, bending his head and kissing her tenderly. “I was so afraid I’d lost you forever.” He kissed her again, deeper this time, making her toes curl with desire. “I couldn’t bear that,” he said when he came up for air. “You’re all I ever wanted.”

  “You’re all I ever wanted, too,” she whispered, a feeling of peace and contentment settling over her. She suddenly realized what he’d been trying to say the other day. They were together at last. Their son was safe. They could start over; they could have other children. “That and another child. I do want to have another baby with you, Luke. I want that more than anything. Can we get started right now?” she asked, lifting to kiss him again.

  The kiss went on so long she thought he’d definitely agreed to her plan, but then he suddenly wrenched away. “We can’t,” he said, shaking his head, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, angel, but we can’t. Not yet. Not until I give you my surprise. And then... well, not even after that, I’m afraid, or at least not in the front hall, because it’s going to change our lives forever.”

  She frowned, confused. “What are you saying? What surprise?”

  He gave her a sudden swift grin and turned to open the door once again. “I’m sorry, I got a little carried away, but this is a surprise that I know you’re going to want.” He leaned out the door. “You can come out now,” he cried toward the coach.

  A dark little head popped out, and then Gabriel was running toward them, his little face wreathed in smiles. She sank to her knees, holding out her arms, and he ran right into them, hugging her tightly.

  She glanced questioningly up at Luke, tears of joy filling her eyes, and he nodded. “He’s here to stay.”

  Gabriel drew back and gazed wonderingly into her eyes. “Father says that you are my mother,” he said, touching a lock of her hair with his little fingers. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, the tears falling in earnest. “Oh, yes, darling. You are my little boy, and I have missed you every day of your life.”

  “I missed you, too,” he said. “Don’t cry, Mother. He says we can be a family now. That we don’t ever have to be apart again.”

  She hugged him tightly. “That is all I’ve ever wanted, Gabriel.”

  Luke dropped to his knees beside them and drew them both in his arms. “I love you both so much,” he whispered. “Together, we can do anything.”

  You can contact Diana at Diana@dianabold.com

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  Other books by Diana Bold

  ONCE A PIRATE

  ONCE A GUNSLINGER

  ONCE A BANDIT

  ONCE AN OUTLAW

  MASKED INTENTIONS

  MASKED PROMISES

  A KNIGHT IN ATLANTIS

  GAMBLING ON THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER

  MARRYING THE AMERICAN HEIRESS

  FINDING THE BLACK ORCHID

  READ ON FOR A SNEAK peek at MASKED INTENTIONS

  Prologue – Masked Intentions

  (First book in Unmasking Prometheus Series)

  December 1879

  Adrian Strathmore sat upon the hard stone floor, his knees drawn to his thin chest. Lightning flashed through the tower windows of the oldest part of Earl Winters’ ancient manor house, illuminating the pale, terrified faces of his two brothers.

  He hated that they were here. Their mother had remarried nearly two years ago, but Morgan and Lucien had been away at school except for the holidays. Tonight was the first time their stepfather, Nigel Croft, Earl Winters, had tried to hurt Adrian when they’d been home. Lucien, who was only fifteen, but had become the Earl of Hawkesmere after their real father’s death, had tried to protect Adrian, only to be brutally debased and humiliated himself instead.

  Adrian wanted to hide himself away somewhere and weep with shame.

  “Are you all right, Luke?” Thirteen-year-old Morgan, Adrian’s twin, broke the silence, his voice tentative. “Do you need a doctor?”

  Lucien shook his head, obviously horrified at the thought of anyone else, even a doctor, knowing what his stepfather had done to him. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “In a few days, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “We should tell Mother,” Morgan persisted. “She won’t let this happen again. She’ll take us back to Hawkesmere. She’ll never let that bastard touch you again.”

  “She can’t leave,” Lucien said. “He’s her husband. And she’d never choose to believe us anyway. She’s in love with him.”

  Adrian remained silent, shrinking further into himself with each word Lucien said. He’d been badly burned in the fire that had taken their father’s life three years ago. Terrible scars covered the left side of his face, as well as his chest and left shoulder. For many months after the accident, he’d clung to the precipice between life and death. The experience h
ad changed him. He’d become a creature of shadows, observing but never participating. He hadn’t spoken a single word since his father’s death.

  When the twins had turned eleven and were old enough to go to boarding school with Lucien at Abingdon, Winters had gently reminded their mother that the school was reserved for Britain’s best and brightest. He’d assured her that Adrian, with his burns and silence, wouldn’t fit in. Their mother had agreed, and Adrian had been forced to remain in the nursery, with baby Allison, which was absolutely humiliating for a boy his age.

  Adrian’s silence had triggered their stepfather’s latest attack. Earl Winters made no secret of his hatred for his stepchildren, except when their mother was around, but he saved most of his anger for Adrian.

  Tonight he’d dragged all three boys, and his own son, seventeen-year-old Roger, to this tower in the oldest wing of his ancient house, where no one could hear their cries. Then he and Roger had set about breaking Adrian—demanding that he speak, calling him horrible names. When their nasty insults had failed to elicit a response, the earl had proceeded to beat him, as he so often did, while Roger looked on with barely disguised glee.

  Unable to bear it, Lucien had gathered his courage and dared to step between them, only to have the Earl turn that fury against him.

  “How can she love him?” Morgan asked, his voice laced with bitterness. “He’s nothing like father.”

  Adrian didn’t want to think about their father. Even after all this time, the pain of losing him was fresh. And he didn’t see the need to point out the obvious. Their mother was a weak-willed, foolish woman who needed a man—any man—in order to be happy.

  “Adrian,” Lucien whispered, his voice raw with suspicion. “What happened to me tonight—does he do that to you all the time?”

  Adrian squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then nodded and buried his ruined face in the crook of his arm. His slim body shook, buffeted by an icy wind drifting in through one of the windows. Another round of thunder split the air around them, as the storm continued to rage outside.

  Morgan made a wordless sound of denial and moved to Adrian’s side, wrapping him in a fierce embrace, murmuring to him in the strange, made-up language the two of them had spoken as toddlers. This comfort, after so many months of loneliness and despair, finally spurred Adrian to speak. He had to tell them. He couldn’t keep it all locked inside any longer.

  “There’s a Greek story I read once...” At the sound of Adrian’s rough, stuttering voice, Morgan pulled away. He and Lucien stared at their usually silent brother as though they’d seen a ghost.

  “About Prometheus,” Adrian continued. “Do you know it?”

  After a long moment of stunned surprise, Lucien gave a jerky nod. “Isn’t he the fellow who stole the fire from the gods?”

  Adrian lifted his head and wiped the tears from his cheeks with a shaking hand. “I was thinking more about how he was chained to a rock and got his liver eaten out every day by an eagle.”

  “Is that what it’s been like?” Morgan put his arm around Adrian’s thin shoulders again, his face filled with anguish. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “What good would that have done?” Adrian shrugged away, embarrassed and ashamed. “He’s just going to keep hurting us. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Alone, none of us can do anything,” Lucien said slowly. “But there are three of us. Together, we could do anything.”

  The twins listened attentively as Lucien outlined a plan that would free them from their stepfather’s tyranny, yet allow them to remain anonymous if things should go wrong. Together they would create a masked crusader, a powerful façade they could don at will.

  Quiet intensity vibrated in Adrian’s voice as he volunteered to contribute his rather stunning scientific knowledge to the endeavor. He spoke of designing weapons and other amazing gadgetry. The prospect of slaying his dragon had brought about a transformation. Gone was the frightened, silent little boy. His voice grew stronger with every word he spoke.

  Not to be outdone, Morgan found a piece of charcoal in the fireplace and sketched a remarkably detailed image of a masked man upon the crumbling wall.

  “What shall we call ourselves?” Lucien asked, the horror of the evening dissipating in the rush of excitement their planning had caused.

  Morgan and Adrian shared a look, and came to complete agreement.

  “Prometheus,” Adrian answered.

  And so Prometheus was born...

  Chapter One

  March 1896

  For the third time in as many weeks, Adrian Strathmore sat in the shadowy corner of his family’s private box at the St. James Theatre on Duke Street, gazing at the dazzling, raven-haired actress who took her bow on the stage below. Miss Vanessa Bourke had taken London by storm during the past few months, but Adrian doubted anyone had become quite as captivated by her as he.

  Since the first time he’d seen her play Celia in As You Like It, she’d become the object of both his admiration and desire. She acted the part with a noble purity of spirit that called to something deep inside him. She haunted his dreams and provided brief respite from the carefully laid plans of destruction that filled his days.

  Not that a woman like her could ever be his, of course. Even his family’s wealth and power were not enough to camouflage his many flaws, both the obvious physical scars and the ones deep inside him. Eyes tracked him in the dark; those who were far more interested in catching a glimpse of the Earl of Hawkesmere’s disfigured little brother than watching the play.

  He sank deeper into his seat, despising their curiosity, wishing for anonymity. All he’d ever truly wanted was to be able to walk through a crowd without anyone staring.

  In stark comparison, the rush lights lit Miss Bourke’s face with an ethereal glow, and her dark, gypsy eyes flashed with pleasure as another round of applause shook the building. She lived for this moment, relished the adoration of the crowd.

  Overwhelmed by loneliness, he brought a single yellow rose to his lips, then tossed it far below him, upon the stage at Miss Bourke’s feet.

  VANESSA BOURKE REACHED down and picked up the yellow rose, blinking against the glare of the rush lights as she searched the private box to stage right. There. In the corner. A flicker of movement. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see her latest admirer’s face.

  The box belonged to the Earl of Hawkesmere, but the theatre gossips said the man who occupied it tonight was the earl’s younger brother, a man who’d been horribly scarred by a fire when he was a child. She’d met the earl and a third brother—both of whom were charismatic and devastatingly handsome—and couldn’t help wondering about the one who’d been burned.

  As the curtain came down, Marcus Colby, the leading man, gave her a sardonic smile. “Another rose, darling? It appears your beauty has snared the beast.”

  “Jealousy doesn’t become you,” she retorted, hurrying toward her dressing room to remove her greasy makeup. Exhaustion pulled at her like a heavy weight, and she wanted nothing more than to return to her tiny apartment just a few blocks away and tumble into bed.

  “He seems quite taken with you,” Marcus continued, trailing behind her with languid grace. “They say he’s rich as Croesus, but quite mad.”

  Vanessa pulled open her dressing room door and gestured to the dozens of flower arrangements filling every available surface. “He’s hardly the only one to give me flowers.”

  Marcus gave the display a dismissive glance. “He’s the only aristocrat.”

  Vanessa glared at her friend. In a moment of wine and weakness, she’d told him of her goal to find a rich husband. He’d been playing matchmaker ever since.

  “He’s hardly in a position to be particular,” Marcus continued, lowering his voice. “With his money, you could have the security you want. You could leave all this and start a family, though it still makes no sense to me why you’d want to shackle yourself down that way.”

  The mention of a family sent the
usual pang of longing skittering through her veins. She’d grown up in abject poverty, and when her mother had died, she’d been sent to live with her father, a drunken struggling actor she’d never met. She’d spent the rest of her childhood dragged from theatre to theatre, constantly moving, going from feast to famine and back again. Much as she loved the stage, she’d long dreamt of a stable life, one that didn’t depend on the fickle love of the crowd. She was nearly twenty-five. Soon her beauty would fade, and she’d have a hard time finding roles. If she didn’t find a man she could raise a family with soon, she feared she never would.

  She strode to the mirror and began the arduous process of removing the makeup, hoping Marcus would take the hint and go away.

  Marcus’ elegant hand curled around her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I just hate to see you so depressed, darling.”

  “I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut against a sudden rush of tears. “I appreciate it, Marc. I really do. But no knight in shining armor is going to save me. I have to save myself.”

  He brushed a swift kiss to her temple. “Get some sleep. It’s a good thing the theatre’s dark tomorrow. You’re looking a bit peaked.”

  When she glared at him again, he laughed and threw his hands up in surrender. “Good night, ‘Nessa.”

  “Good night.” She gave him a grudging smile. For all his teasing, he really did have her best interests at heart.

  As soon as he left the room, she picked up the yellow rose she’d tossed aside and placed it carefully in a cut glass vase with the other two from her mysterious admirer.

  ADRIAN LEAPT FROM THE roof of Hawley’s Gentlemen’s Club, wincing as a hail of gunfire erupted from the street below. He landed hard on a sloping overhang of the building next door, scrambling to gain his footing without dropping the small boy in his arms.