Garden of Dragons (Dark Gardens Series Book 3)

by Meara Platt

  He should have turned and walked away, definitely intended to. Instead, he found himself fighting the urge to take her into his arms. “You must move on, Anabelle.” He began to gently spout the advice his aunt had given him a few hours ago…advice he had no intention of following for himself. “My influence will buy you the time needed to make amends for the slight given two years ago. After that, you’ll be accepted whether or not I’m around to protect you.”

  “You speak as though you won’t be around forever.”

  “I won’t. Though you think me the Draloch dragon. I assure you, I am merely mortal.”

  “Odd, I somehow believed you were invincible.”

  “I’d think my leg injury would prove otherwise.”

  She studied his face, his proud features. “Perhaps it’s your eyes, so like the eyes of the dragon on your family crest. They make you seem eternal. Don’t you find it strange that they’re of the same, striking silvery blue as the dragon’s?”

  “No. Three earlier Dukes of Draloch had eyes of the same color.” He made no mention of the other creatures he resembled, the Dragon Lords and Lord Bloodaxe, in particular. Anabelle had made no mention of him. Had she forgotten he existed?

  “Did they have your dark hair and good looks?” she asked, then let out a whisper-soft sigh at her slip. “There’s no denying you’re handsome.”

  He gazed at her grimly, wishing circumstances weren’t what they were, wishing he hadn’t been raised as an animal or experienced shattering loss. “I suppose you liked my kisses because I possess Harleigh.”

  She stiffened, then drew away. “You would be fool enough to think that.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any,” he said, though he knew she’d genuinely enjoyed being in his arms, delighted in the touch and taste of his lips as much as he’d delighted in hers. And she believed him a hero for saving her precious Penelope.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “Everyone believes me weak and foolhardy. Most of Society is convinced you will destroy me, strangers have even wagered on when and how it will happen. But it needn’t happen at all. Let me stay here. Stay here with me and be happy. I’ll watch over you. I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever again.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “What are you thinking, Anabelle? How can a delicate sprite like you protect me?”

  “I don’t quite know,” she admitted, “but I would try if you’d let me.”

  “You have a simple way of touching my cold heart, little one.” He took a step and carefully tested his injured leg to see if it would hold his weight. “Find me a walking stick. I’ll use it for support until the twinge recedes.”

  She shook her head in resignation. “Lean on me. I’ll help you to your chamber. I’ll have Masterson draw you a hot bath. The heat should soothe the taut muscle of your leg.”

  “You treat me as tenderly as you treat your precious cattle.”

  “Though you surely don’t deserve it. But I have no heart for prolonging hostilities today, not after you saved my little Saron.”

  “Who?”

  “Penelope’s calf,” she said with a sudden impish smirk. “I’ve decided to name him after you.”

  He groaned. “Leave it to you to concoct this bit of female frippery.”

  “Just wait until next year.”

  “Shall we have little Sarons quacking, bleating, and mooing about the place?”

  “Oh, no. Every new lamb, calf, and duckling shall be named after me. You’ll be hounded by little Anabelles who shall confound you at every turn.”

  In truth, he thought the notion quite wonderful.

  *

  Anabelle’s breath quickened and her skin began to tingle as Saron drew closer as though to steal another kiss. It could hardly be called stealing if she gave it willingly, could it? She closed her eyes in anticipation of the embrace and unexpectedly felt his arm pressing down on her shoulder as he struggled to take a step, then another. Gloomily, she realized he had no intention of kissing her.

  “Damnation,” he grumbled, placing his arm over her shoulder in acceptance of her offer to assist him into the house. He resented needing her help and made little effort to hide it. She didn’t care. She liked having his arms about her, liked hearing the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, though she wished it would beat a little faster, any hint that he might be pleasantly affected by her nearness.

  “Why are we moving so slowly, Anabelle?”

  “You’re very big and I have trouble getting a comfortable hold on you.”

  “I believe you are enjoying my misery far too much.” He arched one eyebrow, casting her a skeptical look that should have chastened her, but only made her think he was excessively handsome even when hiding his pain.

  He was a man who suppressed all feeling, who concealed pain and quelled joy, she was coming to realize. He must have become accustomed to suffering in childhood, and she did believe he had suffered terribly.

  She resolved to tread lightly with him, for a thoughtless word on her part might bring forth recollections of torments that were better left forgotten. Her own parents had fought on occasion, but the fights had never descended into malice, making it easier for them to make up soon afterward. She would never intentionally treat Saron cruelly simply because she disagreed with him. Good heavens! They were destined to quibble constantly. Life would become unbearable if their disagreements were laced with venom.

  “Are you feeling any better?” she asked.

  “I will dance a jig as soon as I am left alone in my room.”

  “Most likely, you will collapse onto your bed in pain.”

  “I suppose you’d like that.”

  “No,” she whispered as they neared the house. “I’d just like the return of Harleigh.”

  Stepping through the doorway of the kitchen, Anabelle glanced once more at Saron’s leg. There was a small, dark stain on the light fabric of his trousers that she was certain had not been there earlier. She gasped. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Does it matter? I promise not to shed blood all over your carpets.”

  “They’re your carpets for the moment,” she shot back.

  “Ah, a concession from Amazing Anabelle.”

  “I don’t care if you bleed a bloody river through this house, but if you are seriously wounded, please give me fair warning. Unlike you, I have no taste for death, inexplicably, not even yours.” The combination of weariness, frustration, and inability to ignore suffering in others set her off. She buried her face in his chest, hugged him tightly, and burst into tears.

  And she considers me an enemy, he thought. How would she respond to a friend?

  Chapter Seven

  “Put a hand on me and that’s the last you’ll ever see of it,” Saron muttered, appalled to be openly arguing with members of his staff as they stood in the Harleigh kitchen and fussed about him like bees to a flower.

  He wasn’t a damn flower.

  They only meant to help, he knew. But Anabelle had already touched him more than he could handle and he wished to be left alone to get his traitorous body back under control. “I can make my own way upstairs.”

  Dolly and the other members of the staff looked to Anabelle. Her gaze warned they had better do as he commanded. “But have your boys carry up a tub for His Grace,” she said with a nod to Dolly. “He’s in need of a bath. So am I, but take care of him first.”

  “As ye command, missie.” Dolly eyed Saron warily, her gaze steady as she slapped the rolling pin she was holding against the palm of her hand. “I’ll bring up some refreshments for both of ye. Seems ye’ve had a hard night.”

  Anabelle cast her housekeeper a glowing smile. “It was the longest night of my life, but we saved Penelope and her calf. His Grace helped.”

  Dolly arched an eyebrow. “Of course, he did.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  Anabelle grabbed a pitcher of water off the sturdy table and started out of the kitchen. “Come, I’ll show you to your quarters
.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Saron followed her out. He tried to hide his limp, but the pain of his injury became apparent as they made their way up the stairs. “You’re the stubbornest man I’ve ever met. Why won’t you let me help you?”

  Because he’d kiss her again if she got too close.

  They’d just reached the door to his quarters when Anabelle’s brother came bounding out of his room. “Your Grace!” His eyes widened and young voice cracked. “What has Anabelle done to you now? I warned her not to try any of her tricks.”

  “I had nothing to do with his condition,” Anabelle said, scooting around him to playfully ruffle her brother’s hair. “I offered to lend assistance but he declined. Foolishly, I might add, for he’s seriously wounded.”

  “Gad! You’re bleeding!”

  Saron frowned. They were all making too much of it. “It isn’t that bad.”

  Robert turned back to Anabelle. “Why did he decline your help? Doesn’t he know you have a healing way with animals?”

  “For pity’s sake, boy. I will not be discussed as though I were not present. And I am not some barnyard animal to be fussed over by your sister.” He made the mistake of glancing at Anabelle and found her gazing back at him with her incredible, doe eyes. Whatever control he thought he’d regained immediately slipped away.

  Growling, he returned his attention to Robert.

  The boy shook his head sadly. “Once Anabelle makes up her mind to fuss over you, there’s nothing to be done about it. You may as well resign yourself to her flitting and fluttering, for resistance is useless. She’ll knock you upside down, lay you flat on your back, and have her way with you, like it or not.”

  “Have her way with me?” Now that would be a sight. Saron smiled wryly. “Er, I would not phrase it in quite those terms, but I’m discovering her obstinacy firsthand. She has the entire staff in an uproar over this simple annoyance with my leg. Even Dolly has gone in search of a priest to administer my Last Rites.”

  Robert wrinkled his nose. “Girls don’t know any better, I suppose.”

  “Dolly has sent one of the footmen to fetch the doctor, not the local minister. At least, not yet. Have you had your breakfast?” Anabelle was apparently determined to move her brother along now that he had seen fit to take sides against her.

  “No.” He patted his stomach as it growled.

  “Then run along and get some food into you. A growing boy needs nourishment.”

  He waited for Saron to dismiss him. “Thank you, sir,” he said at Saron’s nod. “I’m famished.”

  Saron was vastly relieved to find that there remained one person in this household who showed deference to his rank. He watched the lad race down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, except for the final four, which he took in a flying leap, landing solidly on his feet with a little shout of triumph. Saron knew the moment Robert had reached the dining room for there was a crash and clatter of chafing dishes as the boy, in his apparent haste to fill his plate, tossed the lids of the heirloom silver serving dishes to the wind.

  Anabelle grimaced. “I’ll have my brother take his meals in his room until your aunt becomes accustomed to him.”

  “An excellent idea.” He saw that she still held the pitcher of water, so he removed it from her hands. “Hurry along and ready yourself. I want you well rested and presentable when my aunt arrives.”

  “But you need help and–”

  “Stop flitting about me, Anabelle. I can manage on my own. I always have and always will.” There was an exceptionally hard edge to his tone, by purposeful design, which seemed to stop her protest cold.

  “As you wish,” she grumbled, marching down the hall and disappearing into her own room with a hard slam of her door.

  “Meddlesome chit.” He had been right to rebuff her offer of assistance. He’d always made his way on his own and wasn’t about to let Anabelle and her tender ministrations change that. Besides, he couldn’t allow her to put her hands on him again. His body was still on fire everywhere she’d touched him earlier and he didn’t trust himself to keep his hands off her once they were alone in his bedchamber.

  The ache burning in his injured leg was nothing to the way he ached whenever he looked at her. Lust, of course. Nothing more serious than a desire to explore the body hidden beneath those dark, shapeless gowns she always wore. He dismissed further thought of Anabelle, realizing that having chased everyone away, something he’d done most of his life, he was now left standing alone, the pitcher filled with water in his hand.

  He had to get himself into his room without spilling any of that water. He made it through the door, closed it, and crossed the room to the night table. Easy enough, he thought, almost at the table and pleased he had maintained the upper hand, even on so small a matter. He felt quite pleased until another spasm struck, the sharp jolt causing his leg to buckle and water to spill all over his shirt and breeches.

  Quite a pathetic state for England’s most feared demon hunter.

  *

  One hour later, Saron eased himself out of the tub which had been set before the fireplace in the spacious master bedchamber. Fortunately, a soak in the hot water had done much to cleanse the wound and relieve his soreness, but he had more to do and none of it would be pleasant. Moving with purpose, he picked up a towel, dried himself off, and began to walk about the room gingerly to gather his knife and the small pouch of ashes from Dragon’s Hearth that he always carried with him.

  He had only himself to blame for badly exerting the tender leg muscle by riding through the night and further straining it while delivering Penelope’s calf. He had done everything but rest the leg, as his doctor, Alfred Crowel, one of the most respected medical experts in London, had instructed. As well, Crowel was the only doctor in England who knew anything about demon poisons and how to remove them from one’s body. Most were deadly to the common man, but Saron wasn’t like other men. His years in the Underworld had changed him into…he wasn’t certain what he would call himself, not quite man. Not quite demon. Yet another reason never to allow Anabelle to get too close to him.

  He returned his attention to his injured leg, using his knife to slit the neat stitches Crowel had sewn a few days ago. Then, steadying himself in a chair beside the hearth, he sliced deeper into his wound, and ignoring the lightning bolts of pain that shot up his thigh, pressed hard to force out the poisonous green ooze that had infected it. He had to remove all of the taint. Every last drop.

  He did so as efficiently as he could manage, sopping it up with his towel, the green of the ooze blending with the crimson of his blood until finally, only crimson seeped onto the towel, a sign he’d successfully removed all poison from his body. It came at a cost. He was weak and shaking, hot one moment and chilled to the bone the next, and his leg was still on fire and throbbing.

  Finally, he tossed the soiled towel into the fire blazing in the hearth and then grabbed two clean ones from the pile set out for him beside the tub. He wrapped one towel around his waist, applied the other firmly against his still bleeding leg, then opened the pouch and shook the ash over the fire to dispel the stench of demon that now permeated from the burning towel as well as his well-appointed room.

  Though all Fae and Underworld demons knew of Dragon’s Hearth and the powers of its ash, few men did. The ash had the ability to cure or kill. In Anabelle’s hands, it would cure, for that’s what Anabelle was, purity and goodness. He had used it innocently enough just now to remove the stench of demon, but in his hands, used against another, it would kill. He wasn’t like Anabelle. He wasn’t good or pure.

  He checked once again for lingering traces of demon poison and ash, then limped across the room to a mahogany writing table nestled in one corner. As soon as the local doctor arrived, he would have the stitches repaired and that would be the end of it. Until then, he was hungry and the pitcher of cider and basket of freshly baked bread and biscuits sitting on the table were most appealing. Dolly had brought them up at the same ti
me as the footmen had brought in his tub.

  He poured himself a cup of cider and breathed in the delightful aroma of hot biscuits rising from the basket. Suddenly, he wasn’t just hungry. He felt ravenous.

  “Good,” he grunted, devouring one, quickly followed by two others. He now understood why the Harleigh housekeeper held such sway. She controlled the household through their stomachs. The cider was particularly refreshing, as well.

  When finished, Saron crossed to the large, four-poster bed commanding the center of the room and lay down upon its white coverlet. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of lavender and fresh country air, luxuriated in the crisp, clean sheets caressing his bare flesh.

  A most comfortable bed, he mused with a yawn. Anabelle would fit nicely beside him, her body warm and curled like a kitten against his hard muscles.

  Dangerous dream.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking of her.

  The tension drained from him.

  He allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes, perhaps a short rest since he’d been up all night and there was little else he could do in his present unclothed state. The servants had taken his boots to be polished and removed all of his garments to dry them and brush out the stains. In his haste to reach Harleigh, he had neglected to bring a change of clothes.

  No matter.

  The room was warm, his belly full, and he was tired. Nor did he mind that his fashionable wardrobe was miles away, neatly packed in a trunk atop his aunt’s carriage.

  Uncharacteristically careless of him.

  Yet, he hadn’t expected to assist in a barnyard birth.

  Anabelle has done this to me.

  “Codswallop,” he chided himself with a laugh. He’d truly fallen to great depths to blame a tender-hearted girl for his lack of foresight. Neither could he blame her for necessitating this trip to Harleigh, since she had made it quite plain that his presence here was not required.

  He had only himself to blame for the discomposed state of his mind and his longing to return to this upside-down manor. That he longed for Anabelle was no surprise. But he truly longed for Harleigh as well and couldn’t understand why. The house was small and the servants snippy. Robert was a whirlwind, and Anabelle predictable only in her unpredictability. Being around her was like walking through the moors. One moment exhilarated, and the next, up to your neck in a quagmire and sinking fast.