smiled cheerfully at him when he sauntered over and borrowed a swig from the tankard after she had set it down. Then he went about his business.
Emily sampled the pickled cabbage, coaxing it onto her fork with the hunk of dark bread. "Well, you must admit, it's a little strange, an earl working as a bodyguard," she pressed him.
He eyed her warily, tossing his waistcoat over the chair. But he remained as silent as the tomb.
"Why do you care so much what happens to that old man?" she inquired.
"I told you. He saved my life."
"And you saved his, which means the debt is paid. So, why don't you tell me why you're here?"
"Mind your own business, Emily." He turned away, lifting his shirt off over his head.
Lifting the fork to her mouth, she went motionless at the sight of his muscled male beauty. His supple flesh glowed with warm vitality in the candlelight.
Emily lowered the fork again in a daze. Egads. She had not seen Drake without his shirt on since he'd been a skinny ten-year-old splashing about in the swimming hole.
Good Lord, he was all man now, tall and sinewy, though scarred here and there, to her dismay. Yet somehow the evidence of these old, healed injuries only emphasized the fierce power of his magnificent body, the unstoppable quality of the man.
It was useless. She could not stop staring, captivated by the sleek curve of his shoulder, the rugged bulk of his arm, the chiseled splendor of his abdomen.
He glanced over at her with a rather sardonic look as he poured some water from the pitcher into the white washbowl. "You all right?"
"Um--ahem, yes--of course," she forced out with an awkward little cough and a sudden scarlet blush. Nodding nervously, she forced herself to turn away, chagrined.
Thankfully, Drake opted to ignore her. He leaned down to splash his face. She studied him again while he was distracted, marveling that he had muscles where she didn't even know muscles could be.
By the time she heard his low sigh of weary relaxation a moment later, she had managed to regroup. She smiled faintly and, still blushing, went to hand him the towel.
He accepted it with a low, male grunt of thanks.
Now I understand how you drove all those London women mad, she thought, gazing at him as he straightened up again, drying his face and throat.
She could not tear her eyes from him, watching with a queer, ticklish pleasure in the pit of her stomach.
She thought again of his kiss that afternoon in the forest, and her rapt gaze followed Drake's hand as he ran the towel down his chest to catch a stray drip of water.
But then, as he turned toward her, she saw the marking on his chest, and her blood ran cold.
By the lantern's light, the small, round brand burned onto his powerful chest marred his Adonis-like perfection. She sensed his posture stiffen the second her gaze homed in on it, but truly, she could not believe her eyes.
Her stare flew up to his in bewilderment.
His face had become a mask of cold, hard challenge; he stared back as though daring her to question him.
Emily was too shocked to say a word.
The mark on his body matched the torch engraved on the arch outside the castle gates. The torch of the so-called Illuminated Ones. He had told her about it long ago. The Prometheans seared their true believers with what they called the Initiate's Brand.
Well, it seemed she had her answer. She could not seem to catch her breath.
He turned away while she stood there reeling.
Heart pounding, she dropped her gaze, trying to absorb what she had seen.
He pulled a dark, knitted sweater on over his head.
"Drake," she forced out at last.
"Just eat your supper," he advised her in a cool tone.
Then he grasped the single chair in the room and carried it out onto the balcony. After placing it outside, he took the extra blanket and one of the pillows from the bed.
Emily stood by, barely knowing what to say. Shaken, she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, feeling as stunned as though someone had clubbed her on
Emily sampled the pickled cabbage, coaxing it onto her fork with the hunk of dark bread. "Well, you must admit, it's a little strange, an earl working as a bodyguard," she pressed him.
He eyed her warily, tossing his waistcoat over the chair. But he remained as silent as the tomb.
"Why do you care so much what happens to that old man?" she inquired.
"I told you. He saved my life."
"And you saved his, which means the debt is paid. So, why don't you tell me why you're here?"
"Mind your own business, Emily." He turned away, lifting his shirt off over his head.
Lifting the fork to her mouth, she went motionless at the sight of his muscled male beauty. His supple flesh glowed with warm vitality in the candlelight.
Emily lowered the fork again in a daze. Egads. She had not seen Drake without his shirt on since he'd been a skinny ten-year-old splashing about in the swimming hole.
Good Lord, he was all man now, tall and sinewy, though scarred here and there, to her dismay. Yet somehow the evidence of these old, healed injuries only emphasized the fierce power of his magnificent body, the unstoppable quality of the man.
It was useless. She could not stop staring, captivated by the sleek curve of his shoulder, the rugged bulk of his arm, the chiseled splendor of his abdomen.
He glanced over at her with a rather sardonic look as he poured some water from the pitcher into the white washbowl. "You all right?"
"Um--ahem, yes--of course," she forced out with an awkward little cough and a sudden scarlet blush. Nodding nervously, she forced herself to turn away, chagrined.
Thankfully, Drake opted to ignore her. He leaned down to splash his face. She studied him again while he was distracted, marveling that he had muscles where she didn't even know muscles could be.
By the time she heard his low sigh of weary relaxation a moment later, she had managed to regroup. She smiled faintly and, still blushing, went to hand him the towel.
He accepted it with a low, male grunt of thanks.
Now I understand how you drove all those London women mad, she thought, gazing at him as he straightened up again, drying his face and throat.
She could not tear her eyes from him, watching with a queer, ticklish pleasure in the pit of her stomach.
She thought again of his kiss that afternoon in the forest, and her rapt gaze followed Drake's hand as he ran the towel down his chest to catch a stray drip of water.
But then, as he turned toward her, she saw the marking on his chest, and her blood ran cold.
By the lantern's light, the small, round brand burned onto his powerful chest marred his Adonis-like perfection. She sensed his posture stiffen the second her gaze homed in on it, but truly, she could not believe her eyes.
Her stare flew up to his in bewilderment.
His face had become a mask of cold, hard challenge; he stared back as though daring her to question him.
Emily was too shocked to say a word.
The mark on his body matched the torch engraved on the arch outside the castle gates. The torch of the so-called Illuminated Ones. He had told her about it long ago. The Prometheans seared their true believers with what they called the Initiate's Brand.
Well, it seemed she had her answer. She could not seem to catch her breath.
He turned away while she stood there reeling.
Heart pounding, she dropped her gaze, trying to absorb what she had seen.
He pulled a dark, knitted sweater on over his head.
"Drake," she forced out at last.
"Just eat your supper," he advised her in a cool tone.
Then he grasped the single chair in the room and carried it out onto the balcony. After placing it outside, he took the extra blanket and one of the pillows from the bed.
Emily stood by, barely knowing what to say. Shaken, she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, feeling as stunned as though someone had clubbed her on
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