by Meara Platt
“Yes, well…” Lord Chalmers cleared his throat.
Anabelle regarded him sympathetically. The poor man was obviously overwrought by her situation. She knew him to be soft spoken, but also knew that despite his gentle manner, he could be stern when necessary. He would stand up to the Dragon. He would order the arrogant duke off her. She waited with marked anticipation for his inevitable ultimatum.
Lord Chalmers turned a questioning eye toward her brother, then shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps we could all do with some refreshments. Come along, young man. I’m certain I smell freshly baked cakes. Perhaps Dolly has a freshly brewed pot of tea for us, as well.”
Anabelle couldn’t believe it. Her brother and her neighbor strolling off in search of tea and cakes, leaving her to the mercy of the Dragon of Draloch? What could they be thinking?
*
Damn. Saron gazed down at Anabelle. Amazing Anabelle, as she was known throughout the ton, might have had her head blown off had he given his coachman the signal. Fortunately for her, he had decided to trust Lord Chalmers’ opinion of her nature. Fortunately for him, Lord Chalmers’ assessment had proved correct. But it could easily have been otherwise and for what? This small parcel of land which had meant so little to her father that he’d wagered it in a game of cards and laughed in relief when he lost it to Saron? Hadn’t her father realized it meant everything to Anabelle?
Amazing Anabelle. What a strange appellation for a slip of a girl. He had thought her quite plain at first, dressed as she was in that formless black gown. Yet, when the wind had pressed the fabric of her gown against her skin, he’d noticed well-formed legs and a slender waist. And though her eyes, from what could be discerned above the scope of the rifle, had seemed an unimpressive brown, when she finally lowered her firearm and gave him an unimpeded view, he had been pleasantly surprised by their exotic upward slant. Her lashes, he now noticed, were thick, long and dark. All in all, reminiscent of the eyes of a fawn, a soft, gentle fawn.
He shook off the impossible notion immediately and began to peruse her hair, which seemed a safer subject. He was wrong, he realized as he suppressed the urge to run a possessive hand through her unruly mane. With growing annoyance at his own distraction, he forced his gaze to remain steady. He refused to let the girl affect him.
She needs to tame me, not stir the beast within me.
Though her hair was long and lush, he would not call it extraordinary. No indeed, many other young women were possessed of similarly beautiful manes. It meant nothing that at the moment, he could not recall a one with hair quite so splendid.
The only unusual trait about Anabelle’s hair, he decided, was its unusual color. One moment it appeared more gold than red, but a slight toss of her head and the red blazed through. Yet, it was not a brassy red, but rich and warm, with a touch of gold noticeable when the sunlight reflected off it. A very confusing mix of red and gold, he decided. He wondered how it would look by firelight.
He shook back to his senses, realizing he had not moved a muscle since Robert and Lord Chalmers had walked off. More than a little irritated with himself, he addressed Anabelle gruffly. “Do you think you can get up now?”
“As soon as you remove your crushing weight from my stomach.”
It was a feisty retort from a mere slip of a girl. He released her, though his hand had been lightly resting at her waist and nothing more. “Do it then.”
She glared at him as she rose, biting her lip in a failed attempt to hide her obvious discomfort. Her leg buckled the moment she put her weight on it, but he caught her in his arms and drew her against him to prevent her fall. The girl was in pain, having taken the brunt of her brother’s dramatic entrance, but was too proud to admit it.
She shoved out of his light grasp and took another unsteady step, defiance gleaming in her eyes.
“You’ve proved your point. I’m not about to let you take another tumble.” He swept her into his arms, intent on carrying her into the house. She ought to have thanked him for his consideration instead of glowering at him.
“Put me down, you oaf,” she said between clenched teeth. “I’m fine, I tell you.”
“Be quiet, and the name is Saron.”
“I will not be quiet.” She was light to carry and would have been no burden had she stayed still in his arms. As it was, she kicked and squirmed and tried to do him bodily damage. “Put me down at once!”
Bloody nuisance. Couldn’t she see that he was doing her a favor by helping her into the house? “I do not take orders from noisy, little chits.”
“From what I’ve heard, you don’t take orders from anyone at all.”
“That’s correct. You would be wise to remember it.”
“Well, I don’t take orders either,” she said, sticking her chin into the air. “You would be wise to remember that. I’m not one of your delicate London flowers who’ll wilt at the first sign of distress.”
No indeed, she was a vibrant rose with very sharp thorns, he thought, suppressing the urge to grin. How had he ever thought her meek? “I’ll allow your insolence this one time. I know my presence has upset you.”
“My insolence? And what would you call your stealing my estate?”
His menacing growl silenced her next protest.
Thankful for the temporary respite, he shifted her more comfortably in his arms. An unexpectedly lush softness pressed against his chest and stopped him dead in his tracks.
By the Stone of Draloch. Her gown indeed hid much from view. Anabelle, he realized with a start, had a decidedly ample bosom.
He remained frozen in place, willing his body not to respond.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “Are you afraid to step into the house?”
“Not in the least. Your doorway is…most attractive. It caught my interest.” What else could he say? He couldn’t reveal he had just experienced a swell of desire so powerful that it had rendered him motionless.
He refused to believe it himself.
Her eyes brightened. “Yes, it is quite intriguing. The dragon crest above the door dates back to the time of the Norman conquest. I thought–”
He interrupted her, knowing it would give further offense, but he needed to get her out of his arms as soon as possible. She obviously admired the history of the place, and while he was eager to learn more about how that particular crest came into Harleigh hands, he could not do so now, for his body was about to betray him. “We shall discuss it later, when I am not so weighed down.”
“Weighed down?”
“You weigh me down.” He leaned forward as though to drop her, then laughed when she gasped and gripped his shoulders. But as her body pressed against his once more and he felt the glorious softness of her body, he knew he’d made a tactical mistake. The girl’s touch set him on fire. How long before she realized her allure and attempted to use it to her advantage?
She pursed her lips and scowled. “Put me down. ’Tis you who insists on carrying me though I’m quite capable of walking on my own. If you grow weary, you have only yourself to blame. Perhaps a nap will restore your strength. I hear napping is quite fashionable among you more elderly men of Society.”
“Perhaps you would care to join me,” he said huskily.
She opened her mouth to throw another barb his way, then snapped it shut as the import of his words struck her. Saron noticed the heightened color in her cheeks. “Contemplating my offer?”
She turned away in disdain, sticking her dainty nose into the air.
“Pity. I was certain you’d accept,” he taunted, at the same time disgusted with himself for addressing her in so ungentlemanly a fashion. What was it about Anabelle that so confounded him?
She tossed him a cynical look. “Taking to bed with the Dragon, no matter how handsome his assumed form, is something I shall never do.”
We’ll see about that.
Chapter Two
Why has the Stone of Draloch brought me here?
Saron entered t
he house and paused a moment to peruse the small but gracious entry hall. Though paneled in dark oak, it appeared quite cheery. He couldn’t imagine why. Off to his right, through open double doors, he spied the parlor also paneled in dark oak, the decor a strange mix of masculine leather and feminine floral prints that blended seamlessly.
He entered.
The room was quite large and had many windows. Sunlight streamed in despite the dark green velvet drapes hanging partially closed.
All in all, it was a very pleasant room.
“You may set me down there,” Anabelle said, pointing to a large, tufted sofa in the center of the room, its chintz fabric patterned after a spring garden.
Women and their frippery, he thought, putting her down more brusquely than intended. She inhaled sharply and turned away. When she turned back a moment later, he noticed a tear glistening in the corner of her eye and cursed himself for unthinkingly adding to her injury. Despite her outward bravado, Anabelle was a delicate creature.
“I’m sorry, little one.” He brushed an errant lock off her cheek with his fingers, noting the softness of her curls. “You seemed so indignant in my arms, I thought you had recovered from your injury.”
“I have,” she retorted, though her manner indicated otherwise. “Pray, do not concern yourself.”
He continued to study her, knowing by the slight downward turn of her eyes that she was in pain, yet determined to hide it. “Here, let me put this pillow at your back. How’s that? Any better?”
She squirmed and stared down at her feet in order to avoid his gaze, then finally nodded. As she did so, her hair spilled over her shoulders in becoming waves.
Indoors, her hair appeared more red than gold. Not the harsh color of a carrot, but the pretty red of a roan filly. It fell to her waist in an unruly manner. At the moment, she was apparently too distracted to realize her hair was a marvelously unfashionable mess.
He watched her lips pucker in a moue of annoyance as her discomfort passed. Pretty pink lips, he thought, finding the full lower lip particularly appealing. Her chin had an attractive dimple in the middle that he hadn’t noticed earlier, but then it had been hidden by that infernal firearm twice her size.
His eye strayed to the shapeless bosom of her gown and with some impatience, he wondered whether he had imagined her ample softness against his chest as he’d carried her into the house. It didn’t matter, he thought, reluctant to admit that Anabelle had distracted him yet again. She didn’t merit this much attention.
He stepped abruptly away from her, for he had toyed with her long enough. His sole purpose in coming to Harleigh Hall today was to take control of the estate and all it encompassed. He strode across the parlor, stopping beside the fireplace. A comfortable fire burned in the hearth.
Damn. Why did everything here seem so cozy and comfortable when that crest above the entry had clearly marked Harleigh Hall as a dragon’s lair? His lair? He stared into the flames a while before glancing back at Anabelle, uncertain whether it was an omen of the salvation he desperately sought or a warning that the Dragon Lords were watching her.
The sight of her, sitting with her hands primly folded across her lap and looking very much the proud yet vulnerable princess, disturbed him. Coming here had been a mistake. Yet he’d had no choice, having come not only at Lord Markby’s insistence, but at the insistent call of the Stone of Draloch. Why had that great monolith that stood in the heart of the Fae realm led him here? There was no point in avoiding the purpose of his trip. “Anabelle, you must listen to what I have to say. I have important news to relate.”
“A settlement?” she asked hopefully. “I’ll gladly hear you out, but do you intend to shout at me from across the room?”
Much of her earlier anger now gone, she managed a smile, and he was surprised at its effect on him. A pretty smile, and he lost his train of thought. He couldn’t remember a woman ever affecting him that way. “Well then,” she continued when he remained silent, “I suppose I shall join you by the fire.”
She rose with barely a wince, walked across the room with surprising grace, and stopped beside him. Saron stared down at the determined sprite who barely reached his shoulders, who had to tilt her head back in order to look him in the eye. His size did not discourage her from assuming a defiant pose. “Anabelle–”
She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “It is you who ought to be listening to me. I have been more than reasonable in my offers of settlement.”
Yes, she had. But that hadn’t mattered to him, for what had driven him to this end had nothing to do with reason. “You mistake my purpose, little one. I’m not here to negotiate.”
Her pretty smile slipped. “Then why did you come? To intensify the battle? If so, your trip has been wasted. I shall never surrender.”
“The battle is over. Lord Markby has ruled in my favor.”
Anabelle was surprised by the chilling tone of his voice. “No… it isn’t possible.” But as he withdrew the decision from his breast pocket, she slumped her shoulders. “It isn’t fair, you know.”
“Life is never fair.”
“What cause have you to speak so resentfully? You have wealth, power, and position in Society. And now,” she said, acknowledging the paper in his hand, “you have Harleigh. You have everything, and yet you speak as though none of it has any value.” She supposed he would dispose of Harleigh as casually as he had gained it.
She noticed a subtle change come over him, his eyes seeming to change color as she studied him. Where they had once been the Draloch dragon’s silvery blue, in an instant they had darkened to stormy gray, as if to forewarn of an unleashing tempest. Just as suddenly, the tempest passed. “You’re right, little one. I have no cause to complain.”
Yet, something gnawed at her insides. She couldn’t call it pity, for Saron Blakefield was too strong and confident ever to be pitied. Pity was reserved for meek and suffering souls. He certainly wasn’t meek, but she couldn’t get over the sense that he might be suffering.
She dismissed the nonsensical thought as quickly as it had cropped into her mind. She was the one who’d suffered, not he.
“Well, we may as well get on with it.” She took the paper from him. “Too bad we don’t have the same customs as the ancient Romans. Or was it the Greeks?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did they not kill the messenger bearing bad tidings?”
He did not seem amused. “Killing me will not gain you back Harleigh. It is now a part of my estate.”
She groaned. It had been a stupid jest on her part and of course he had taken it as an actual threat. “Yes, y-yes, I realize that,” she stammered. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It was an ill attempt at humor.”
Concentrating on the paper containing Lord Markby’s decision, she proceeded to read the short judicial opinion. Somehow, she had thought his decision would have been a twenty-page tome, full of agonizing rationalizations and musings designed to reach a fair and just conclusion. Instead, set before her were two simple paragraphs, the first awarding Harleigh Hall to Saron, and the second…impossible!
“Has the whole world gone mad?” Anabelle jumped to her feet and tried to run from the room, but Saron easily held her back. Usually quick on her feet, right now they felt as heavy as quarry stones.
“Anabelle, stop.”
Though he did not seem to be holding her very tightly, she found it impossible to escape his grasp. She tried to think clearly, but this was all too much for her. She wanted to run to the ends of the earth, wanted to run away from this stranger who had somehow managed to take possession of her and everything she loved. She pounded vainly upon his chest, doing more damage to her fists than to him. He didn’t try to stop her, but neither did he release her. “Let me go! You must let me go!”
“There’s no place for you to run, little one.”
Her eyes glistened as she struggled to hold back her tears. She would never let this fiend see her cry. Besides, she was too angry to cry. She h
ad hoped pummeling his chest would relieve her anger, but it didn’t. It only worsened the ache in her heart. “Come now, Your Grace. There must be someplace I can go to escape your control. Or have you managed to gain control of the entire world?”
He let out a short, harsh laugh. “I fear I’d be a failure at world domination. I can hardly control you.”
She brushed her hand across her cheek to wipe a tear that had somehow escaped the boundary of her eyes. “But thanks to Lord Markby’s decision, you do control me and my brother. It is beyond belief. Beyond bearing.”
He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. She refused it. The only thing she wanted from the Dragon of Draloch was the return of her precious estate. Of course, she wanted to be free of him as well. Very well, she wanted two things. Was it too much to ask?
He was not amused. “Lord Markby has named me guardian over Robert and his earldom until he turns twenty-one. After that, your brother shall be free to run things as he sees fit.”
“But he has named you guardian over me as well!”
“Only until you marry, Anabelle. Then you shall be your husband’s responsibility.”
“I’m capable of managing my own life. I’m not an eleven-year-old child. I fear nothing and no one. Not even you.”
Cupping her chin in one hand, he forced her gaze to his. “You are a mere twenty years old and sorely in need of a strong man’s protection. My protection.”
“What rot!”
To prove his point, he brought his handkerchief to her face to dry her tears, those traitorous tears that were now spilling down her cheeks. “Your father did you no favor by indulging your every whim.”
“And what of you, Dragon? You’re hardly a noble father figure. Indeed, I expect you would be a miserable excuse for a father. Why should I accept your protection?”