Garden of Light (Dark Gardens Series Book 2)

by Meara Platt

  Among the Fae, the great circle of land surrounding Borrowdale was simply known as the Woodlands, but the humans referred to this natural stretch of green rolling hills and crystal blue lakes as the Lake District. This amused the Lake faeries to no end, for all Fae knew that their high king was the Woodlands king, and if humans had any sense, they would have called this land the Woodlands District.

  Humans were not very clever, Cadeyrn and his council had long ago decided. However, the Stone of Draloch foretold that one of them, a mighty female with boundless power, would save the Fae. His council wanted to believe it was Melody because of her claim that she could fight dragons.

  Cadeyrn wasn’t convinced. He’d seen Melody up close, and though he had yet to run his hands up and down her body as she had done with his, he knew she was soft and gently curved in all the right places … but to fight dragons, one needed muscle.

  Cadeyrn waited beside the vicarage kitchen window hoping for another chance to see her. Not even he, High King of the Fae, could gain entrance to a human residence unless invited in by one who resided there. Melody had just finished baking her pie and withdrawn it from the oven. Cadeyrn knew she would now place it on the window ledge to cool.

  He saw his chance and greeted her when she opened the window to set it down.

  “What are you doing here, Cadeyrn?” she asked, apparently not expecting him. He paused, forced to remain outside until Melody spoke the necessary words. An invitation did not seem likely at the moment, for she was frowning at him. “I thought I sent you on your way.”

  He leaned forward, inhaling the delightful scent of warm apple and cinnamon. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t,” she grumbled. “You surprised me, that’s all. Get away from that pie. Why are you still here?”

  “This is where I must be.”

  “At the vicarage? Why? You had better not be thinking to steal my pie! I made it special for this evening. Vicar Axwell has an important guest joining us for supper. I’ve just put the stew on to simmer and—”

  He sniffed the air. “Stew smells good, too.”

  She picked up a long-handled wooden spoon and rapped it lightly across his knuckles. “Don’t you dare! You’re not to touch the stew either. Will you give me your word?”

  He stared at his hand and nodded.

  “Good. Now go away and leave me to the rest of my work.”

  He’d felt a tingle in his hand when she’d tapped the spoon across his knuckles. A most curious sensation. “What else must you do?”

  “Most of the preparation, for my mother hasn’t been feeling quite herself lately, and I’d like her to rest when she returns. She’ll wish to help, so you see why I must set the table and finish cooking before then. After that, I’ll set out my gown for this evening. Oh, dear! I’ve forgotten to sew the hems on my mother’s new gowns. I don’t know where my head’s been lately.”

  He smiled, wishing he could reach out to lightly brush back her hair. “It’s right there,” he teased, “and seems firmly fastened to your lovely neck.”

  “What?”

  He sighed. “A rather weak jest on my part. You said that you didn’t know where—”

  “Oh, I see.” She ran a hand across the damp nape of her neck.

  Little beads of water had formed in the soft hollow where her throat met her chest, no doubt a reaction to the heat emanating from the oven. Such heat never bothered the Fae, but humans seemed to wilt under the force of it. Cadeyrn resisted the urge to trail his fingers along her warm, moist skin.

  “As I was saying, I’ll have to hem Mother’s gowns before I tend to myself.” She nibbled her lip and frowned again. “She plans to wear one of them this evening.”

  “Which one? The blue silk or the yellow?”

  “How did you know which gowns—”

  “She set both out across your bed. Never mind. I’ve just hemmed both.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Stop it, Cadeyrn … or whatever your name really is.”

  “King Cadeyrn, but you ought to refer to me as Your Majesty or simply Sire, if you prefer. Either will do, but you may not call me simply Cadeyrn. My council will be extremely put out if you do. They’re on edge at the moment and will not take the royal insult lightly.”

  “On edge?”

  “Aye, because of the dragons.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “The same dragons you wanted me to fight.”

  “I want to fight them,” he corrected. “Hence my name, Cadeyrn. It means battle king. That’s how I’ve been raised and that’s how I live. I merely wish you to teach me how to defeat these creatures. This isn’t your battle. It’s mine. I would not like to see you hurt.”

  “I’m greatly relieved,” she said, her voice sounding particularly dry.

  She appeared to doubt him, a response he was not at all used to encountering. When he spoke, all paid heed. Even England’s prince regent. “My counselors have told me that I must decide.”

  “Decide?”

  “A few moments ago, you asked why I was still here. I told you this is where I must be, but you did not appear satisfied by the answer. I’m trying to explain why I must remain here until I—”

  “Enough.” She held up a hand. “The reason you’re still here doesn’t matter. The point is, you can’t stay. And you can’t touch any of the food I’ve prepared.” She glanced toward the kitchen door, which was merely shut and not latched. “You had better not come in.”

  “I cannot, unless I am invited by you. No Fae or demon may do so without consent of those in residence.” He crossed his arms over his chest in expectation. “Well? I’m waiting.”

  Her hands flew heavenward. “I’m not going to invite you in, and I know all about the local lore, and how you Fae,” she said with a dismissive wave, “are also demons. Supposedly good demons, if such a thing exists, which I doubt since I find your jests most irritating. So don’t bother to ask me again. Stay out! And stay out of my mother’s clothes! Mine too, for that matter.”

  “Ah, yours. You left some of them hanging on the clothesline in plain sight of—”

  “My unmentionables!” She dropped the spoon she had been holding, disconcerted when it struck the window ledge and clattered to the floor.

  Cadeyrn studied her nicely shaped derriere as she hurriedly bent to pick it up.

  How could he not?

  “If I so much as catch you looking at my things, you’ll feel the sting of this spoon against the back of your head,” she warned, whirling to face him. “And if I so much as catch you stepping into this house … Cadeyrn? Where are you? Don’t you disappear while I’m talking to you!”

  In the next moment, she closed her eyes and groaned. “Melody, you’re a ninny. He didn’t vanish before your very eyes. He ran as fast as his long legs would carry him. You were too busy shouting at him to notice.”

  Cadeyrn listened as she began to mutter to herself again. The girl had an amazing ability to hold conversations with herself. She believed he had gone away, but he hadn’t. He’d simply changed into a raven and perched on a tree beside the kitchen. Since Melody had the power to see him, and the sight of him in his true Fae form obviously overset her at present, he decided it was wiser to assume this disguise until she calmed down.

  Humans confounded him, but he knew enough about Melody to sense she didn’t like him. Of course, he wasn’t sure what the word like meant. A human had tried to explain it to him once. It was similar to love, but only less so. To like someone meant you would do nice things for them. To love someone meant you would die for them.

  He wondered whether Melody would die for him.

  She would have to if she was destined to be his queen.

  It was foretold in the Prophecy.

  *

  Melody hurried upstairs to her bedchamber, where she found her mother’s satin gowns laid out on her bed exactly as Cadeyrn had described. She inspected the hem of each and found they were neatly sewn, the stitches aligned in perfect ro
ws. She sighed, knowing she hadn’t done it. Nor had her mother, for she and the vicar weren’t home yet.

  Even if Vicar Axwell had been home, he never would have sewn those hems. The man was a thinker, not a doer, and considered even the smallest task beneath him.

  In truth, Melody had never considered the vicar much of a thinker either. He was a petty man who wasn’t as good or smart as he pretended to be, but her mother was content with him and seemed happy in the recent marriage.

  Melody had no wish to spoil her mother’s happiness.

  “The hems,” she muttered, bringing herself back to the matter at hand. Had Cadeyrn been prowling up here? It didn’t make sense. What thief would pause to hem his victim’s clothing? Her mother must have sewn them and merely neglected to tell her. But why would she then mention it to Cadeyrn and not her own daughter?

  Perhaps her mother had met him on her way into town and, realizing the oversight, asked him to relay the message. “Very well, Cadeyrn,” she muttered, forgiving his odd, jesting manner and wishing he would simply relate the plain facts when speaking to her. “You’re not quite the blackguard I supposed. I was wrong to accuse you.”

  She jumped as a raven tapped at her window with its sharp beak.

  Melody meant to ignore the bird, but there was something compelling in its manner. She crossed to the window and peered through the panes, unable to take her eyes off the creature as it left its perch and soared majestically into the heavens, its wings outspread. It circled overhead like a great, dark emperor of the sky, swooping once … twice, and finally floating back onto its perch, now finished with its exhibition.

  “Is that supposed to impress me? Fine, consider me impressed. Now go away and leave me to dress for this evening.”

  Melody turned from the window and poured fresh water from the ewer she kept on a stand near her bed into its accompanying washbasin. Then she unlaced the ties of her serviceable day gown and slipped it off, placing it on the door of her armoire. Humming softly to herself, she withdrew the dove-gray satin her mother had suggested she wear tonight and carried it to her bed, carefully setting it down beside her mother’s gowns.

  Thin rays of sunlight shimmered across the elegant fabrics so that the blue appeared a crystal pool of pure, mountain water, the yellow a brilliant burst of sunshine, and the pale gray a silvery cloud of ice. Beautiful, delicate … almost ethereal.

  At sundown, the flowers in the bluebell garden put on a similar display, Melody had noticed. She knew it was merely the effect of the fading sun glistening on the evening dew and illuminating the flower petals so that they sparkled like gemstones … blue diamonds for the bluebells, emeralds for the green grass, amethyst and topaz for the honeysuckle, and ruby for the roses. Still, the effect was magical, turning simple beds of flowers into an enchanted garden.

  She sighed, knowing it wasn’t like her to allow her mind to wander as it had today. Right now, she had to think of this evening’s party. As she began to fuss about her bedchamber, the afternoon sun broke out from a tuft of soft clouds, its vibrant glare quickly heating the room and leaving it oppressively hot. She opened her window to allow in the cool afternoon breeze and noticed the raven was still on its nearby perch.

  Silent.

  Watching her.

  It seemed to be following her every movement and taking immense pleasure in … was it staring at her breasts?

  She folded her arms across her chest, suddenly feeling quite exposed, though she had on her camisole. “Stupid bird,” she muttered, tossing it a frown.

  It responded with an indignant ruffle of its feathers.

  The raven’s feathers were the same majestic black as Cadeyrn’s hair, but she thought no more of it. Indeed, she refused to think of Cadeyrn. Didn’t wish to think of him at all. At best, he was a scoundrel who enjoyed teasing innocent girls and telling them unbelievable tales of dragons and faerie kingdoms.

  The bird hopped closer.

  Melody slammed her window shut and drew the curtains. “Take that, you Peeping Tom!”

  Ignoring its loud squawks, she removed her camisole and ran a moist cloth languidly over her body. The cool water felt good against her skin, but she had no time to stretch out the pleasure for there was too much to do before their guest arrived.

  She quickly brushed her hair and fashioned the thick curls into a stylish chignon. Sparing a glance in the mirror, she smiled her approval, and then put on the gray satin, certainly the finest gown she had ever owned. It was a recent gift from her mother and the vicar. His generosity had surprised her, for he was tight with his purse and never parted with a shilling unless he expected to gain something in return.

  She’d accepted the gift as a gesture of kindness and almost felt sorry for the vicar. He disliked living in this rustic simplicity. Though assigned here only a few months ago, he was eager to obtain a new living somewhere closer to London before the year was out.

  “A pity,” Melody muttered, for she’d fallen in love with St. Lodore’s from the moment she had arrived here to join her mother and the vicar a mere week ago. Strange how quickly this place had worked itself into her heart.

  The vicar’s carriage rattled into the courtyard, shaking Melody out of her momentary reverie. The front door opened and Melody heard the rustle of her mother’s petticoat and the harried sound of her voice as she rushed in. “Melody. Melody, dearest! I’m so sorry. We were detained in town. I do hope you’ve readied the house for our guest!”

  She heard labored footsteps on the stairs and then scurrying as those steps faded down the hall. A moment later, there was a sharp rap at her door. “Melody,” the vicar said, startling her, “your mother’s feeling a little dizzy. Nothing to be concerned about. She’s taking a moment to rest before Lord Babcock arrives. He’ll be here shortly. She needs her gowns. Hurry, child! Must you always be so slow?”

  She stifled the urge to strike him over the head with the densest object close at hand. Instead, she unlatched her door and handed him the hemmed gowns.

  He promptly inspected them, nodding in rare approval. “They’re nicely sewn.”

  Not by me, but why mention it? “I’ll help Mother to dress as soon as I check on the stew.”

  “Don’t forget to set the table. And for pity’s sake, don’t leave the wash hanging outdoors for our guest to see.”

  “Of course. I’ll attend to it at once.” But as she tried to walk past him, the vicar remained in the doorway, effectively blocking her escape.

  “There’s a little water on your cheek,” he said, eyeing her a little too avidly for her liking. “Here, let me wipe it away.”

  “I’ll do it.” She stepped back and pretended to study herself in the mirror. She disliked being alone with him, which wasn’t really fair because he’d always behaved the gentleman around her. It wasn’t his fault that she found his manner oily.

  He took a step closer.

  A violent tap, tap, tapping at her window reminded Melody of the raven perched outside. She darted to the window and drew aside the curtains, startled as the raven flapped its powerful wings and lunged against the panes as though intent on breaking the sturdy glass.

  The vicar shrank back, his eyes widening as he stared at the enraged bird. In the next moment, he retreated to his room, dragging her mother’s beautiful gowns along the floor in his haste.

  The raven calmed as soon as the vicar disappeared from sight.

  “You don’t like him either,” Melody said with a mirthful shake of her head. “I know you can’t understand a word I’m saying, but you’ve just rescued me from a most unpleasant encounter. I think you’ve earned yourself a slice of freshly baked bread. I’ll have it for you by the kitchen. Wait for me there.”

  Melody hurried downstairs to cut a piece of bread for the bird, intending to spread the crumbs about for it outside. To her surprise, she found it waiting by the kitchen door as though it had understood her instructions. She put the bread in her palm and held it out. “Enjoy, my good fellow. You’ve e
arned it.”

  The bird flew off toward the church belfry, the reward secured in its beak.

  Melody returned to her duties, setting the dining table and giving the stew a final stir. She picked up a basket, intending to fold and place the clothes now drying on the line in it. Then she recalled she had left her shawl on a church pew when polishing the altar this morning. Drat. I’ll need it tonight.

  She hurried out of the vicarage, dropped the basket by the clothesline, and briskly walked to the church to retrieve the shawl.

  St. Lodore’s Church stood beside the vicarage, separated from it by a moss-covered stone wall. The house of worship itself was small but stately, built of ancient stone that had withstood eight hundred years of weather and the occasional war. The doors were plain but massive, and made of iron and wood that had held up remarkably well over the centuries. The pews were of oak, and the stained glass windows were so beautiful Melody was sure they had been crafted in heaven.

  She entered the church and immediately recognized the large figure of a man seated near the altar. “Cadeyrn,” she said gently, noting his head was bowed and wishing not to startle him. “It’ll be dark soon. You ought to return home.”

  He gazed at her, seemingly indifferent to her approach.

  “Did I interrupt you in prayer? I’m sorry.”

  “I wasn’t praying.” He slid over and motioned for her to join him on the pew, which she did without hesitation.

  “You seem burdened,” she remarked, wondering why she felt so comfortable beside this man, for she’d only met him today and knew nothing about him. “I snapped at you earlier. I’m rather ashamed of myself. I had no right to speak to you so rudely. Are you hungry? Would you care for a bowl of stew? I made plenty.”

  He shook his head. “No, thank you. Your shawl is behind the altar. That’s what you came in here for, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And I’ll help you take down the wash before your guest arrives. It’s going to rain soon and should be brought in anyway.”

  “Cadeyrn, stop doing that.”