at his jest, then Glasse proposed a toast to the new head of the Promethean Council. James accepted their homage with a modest nod.
Drake, meanwhile, had tensed, a sickening knot in his stomach and only one thought on his mind.
Thank God he'd had the foresight to create the impression from the start that the untouched Emily was nothing but his own little whore.
Chapter 4
A fter cleaning herself up, as James Falkirk had haughtily suggested, from her weeks of hiking through the Alps, Emily washed her clothes in the washbasin, made herself busy oiling her boots, sharpening her knife, checking the string on her bow, and then, when there was nothing left to do, pacing back and forth across Drake's room, beginning to feel rather like a caged animal.
None of this was supposed to happen. Drake was supposed to have come to his senses and fled this place with her. Instead, she was stuck here with him, and she still wasn't even sure if he was mad or sane.
His words from earlier today still chilled her. Life is pain. That did not bode well at all!
If he was here on a suicide mission, then she had to stop him. But how? He wouldn't even tell her whose side he was on.
She was beginning to feel very fortunate that she'd had the foresight to write to Lord Rotherstone after tracking Drake northward from the Bavarian capital of Munich and before returning to try to rescue him.
She had agonized over whether to take the risk, but now was very glad she had sent off that courier from the quaint German city though it had cost her the rest of her money.
There were no guarantees her message would actually make it to Drake's old friend and fellow agent back in London, nor could she say how long it might take to reach the marquess.
Nor could she predict the Order's reaction with any certainty once they received the news.
Her choice to give Drake's former colleagues this information could cost her dearly if things continued going as wrong as they had earlier in the day.
After all, Drake was now officially considered an agent who had gone rogue.
His brother warriors had instructions to shoot him on sight before he revealed Order secrets to the Prometheans.
But Emily had to believe that loyalty would at least compel them to give Drake a chance to explain himself before they sought to put him down like a rabid wolf.
After all, they had been friends since they were boys.
Back in England, she had seen firsthand how much Max, Lord Rotherstone, had cared for his damaged friend, and how like a brother he had tried to help Drake regain his memory.
Whatever commands they had received from their superiors, Emily did not believe his brother warriors could bring themselves to pull the trigger on one of their own. Surely his friends could not give up on him any more than she could. And when Drake told them he had come for revenge, they would understand.
Maybe they would even arrive in time to help.
Now, however, she was beginning to have doubts.
If Drake was here for revenge on these fiends, then why wouldn't he just admit it?
Didn't he trust her to keep his secrets?
Or was she merely deceiving herself, refusing to face what was right in front of her--that Drake had indeed forsaken all sanity to embrace their twisted creed? Was he good or evil? Had he become a true Promethean?
Emily needed answers, the sooner the better.
So, naturally . . . she searched his chamber while he was gone, hunting for any clues that might reveal his true motives.
She went through his belongings, opening the same drawers from which she had borrowed one of his shirts, sifting through his clothes and shoes, his extensive collection of weapons and his personal arsenal of ammunition, looking for anything he might have hidden in the room that could give her a clue to what was going on in his head.
But the canny ex-Order agent had covered his tracks too well, leaving her no way either to confirm or deny her fears. She read every page of his barely legible notes in the
Drake, meanwhile, had tensed, a sickening knot in his stomach and only one thought on his mind.
Thank God he'd had the foresight to create the impression from the start that the untouched Emily was nothing but his own little whore.
Chapter 4
A fter cleaning herself up, as James Falkirk had haughtily suggested, from her weeks of hiking through the Alps, Emily washed her clothes in the washbasin, made herself busy oiling her boots, sharpening her knife, checking the string on her bow, and then, when there was nothing left to do, pacing back and forth across Drake's room, beginning to feel rather like a caged animal.
None of this was supposed to happen. Drake was supposed to have come to his senses and fled this place with her. Instead, she was stuck here with him, and she still wasn't even sure if he was mad or sane.
His words from earlier today still chilled her. Life is pain. That did not bode well at all!
If he was here on a suicide mission, then she had to stop him. But how? He wouldn't even tell her whose side he was on.
She was beginning to feel very fortunate that she'd had the foresight to write to Lord Rotherstone after tracking Drake northward from the Bavarian capital of Munich and before returning to try to rescue him.
She had agonized over whether to take the risk, but now was very glad she had sent off that courier from the quaint German city though it had cost her the rest of her money.
There were no guarantees her message would actually make it to Drake's old friend and fellow agent back in London, nor could she say how long it might take to reach the marquess.
Nor could she predict the Order's reaction with any certainty once they received the news.
Her choice to give Drake's former colleagues this information could cost her dearly if things continued going as wrong as they had earlier in the day.
After all, Drake was now officially considered an agent who had gone rogue.
His brother warriors had instructions to shoot him on sight before he revealed Order secrets to the Prometheans.
But Emily had to believe that loyalty would at least compel them to give Drake a chance to explain himself before they sought to put him down like a rabid wolf.
After all, they had been friends since they were boys.
Back in England, she had seen firsthand how much Max, Lord Rotherstone, had cared for his damaged friend, and how like a brother he had tried to help Drake regain his memory.
Whatever commands they had received from their superiors, Emily did not believe his brother warriors could bring themselves to pull the trigger on one of their own. Surely his friends could not give up on him any more than she could. And when Drake told them he had come for revenge, they would understand.
Maybe they would even arrive in time to help.
Now, however, she was beginning to have doubts.
If Drake was here for revenge on these fiends, then why wouldn't he just admit it?
Didn't he trust her to keep his secrets?
Or was she merely deceiving herself, refusing to face what was right in front of her--that Drake had indeed forsaken all sanity to embrace their twisted creed? Was he good or evil? Had he become a true Promethean?
Emily needed answers, the sooner the better.
So, naturally . . . she searched his chamber while he was gone, hunting for any clues that might reveal his true motives.
She went through his belongings, opening the same drawers from which she had borrowed one of his shirts, sifting through his clothes and shoes, his extensive collection of weapons and his personal arsenal of ammunition, looking for anything he might have hidden in the room that could give her a clue to what was going on in his head.
But the canny ex-Order agent had covered his tracks too well, leaving her no way either to confirm or deny her fears. She read every page of his barely legible notes in the
Similar Books
