by Meara Platt
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” said one of the lads who had assisted him earlier. “I knocked, but you didn’t hear me. May I enter?”
“Yes. What is it?” He sat up in his bed, the towel still securely wrapped about his waist.
“Masterson asked me to let you know that the doctor is on his way. He’d like to know if you require anything further.”
“Ah, my phantom butler. Kind of him to worry after me. No, I have everything I need for the moment. Thank you.”
Apparently not expecting politeness from him, the strapping youth blushed and sputtered a moment before mumbling, “You’re welcome, Your Grace.”
Alone once more, Saron eased back down upon the bed with an “ah” and closed his eyes. Out of habit, he slept on his back, for it was easier to hide his scars that way. There were a few on his chest, but they were thin and not so easily noticed. He must have fallen into a deeper sleep than intended, because the next thing he knew, Anabelle was beside him, gently shaking him awake. He scowled at her. “What are you doing in here?”
“Dr. Glencoe is here,” she said softly.
Apparently, his state of undress did not faze her. The sight of her, all pink-cheeked and hair unbound, had his heart doing somersaults within his chest. Her fiery hair, still damp from its recent washing, cascaded down her back in glorious waves. A few dry tendrils curled delicately about her heart-shaped face.
He swallowed a groan before turning his attention to the gentleman who now stood behind her. He noted the doctor’s gray hair, intelligent blue eyes, and serious demeanor.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said, removing needle, thread, scalpel, and other small instruments from his black leather bag. He also removed a bottle Saron recognized as excellent Scotch whiskey.
“Share a glass with me when this nasty business is over,” Saron invited with a grin. He wondered how much of it would be wasted on cleansing his wound.
The doctor chuckled. “Certainly, Your Grace. ’Tis a shame to waste good spirits on a leg when ’tis so much smoother sliding down the gullet.”
Saron decided he liked the man.
“I’ll have you set right in no time,” the doctor assured. “Now, turn slightly toward me so that I may see your injury.”
Anabelle had already seen more of him than was proper. He frowned. Had she seen his scars? She’d felt them while he’d kissed her. Lord, that had been a dangerous mistake. But to turn toward the doctor would allow her to actually see the puckered welts along his scarred back. “Anabelle, leave the room.”
She returned his frown. “But–”
“Now.”
“But–”
“Out!”
“Very well,” she said with an indignant huff and turned to Dr. Glencoe. “Examine him thoroughly, for he’ll lie to you about his condition. And you,” she said, turning back to spear him with a glower, “had better allow the good doctor to do his job. Not that I care, but if anything or anyone is to be the death of you, I’d like it to be me.”
*
Several hours later, Anabelle settled herself on a stool beside Saron’s bed, curious and more than a little concerned about how he fared. He slept soundly, she noted, watching the steady rise and fall of his broad chest anchored to solidly muscled shoulders as he lay flat on his back. A light sheet covered his large body, outlining his firm waist and nicely formed long legs.
He slept too soundly.
Suddenly worried, Anabelle placed a hand over his heart and felt its strong beat. Good, no sign of distress. Satisfied he was out of danger, she lightly ran her fingers through the dark curls sprinkled across the breadth of his chest and was disappointed when he failed to respond either to her touch or the whisper of his name.
“Saron,” she whispered again.
No response.
Apparently, traveling through the night, being poked, sliced, carved, and finally sewn back together by the doctor, had gotten the better of this stubborn man. Of course, the dose of laudanum he’d been forced to swallow—a dose large enough to fell a horse—had also taken effect.
On Dr. Glencoe’s instruction, she was to administer another dose before bedtime. She hoped Saron would cooperate, but couldn’t be sure. He was a difficult man and hid so much, including the fact that he’d been struck by a poisoned arrow.
She hadn’t realized the nature of his injury until the doctor had shown her the fragment of crude arrowhead he’d dislodged from within the hard muscle of Saron’s leg. “I’ve never seen this metal, possibly a mix of iron and gold,” he’d mused. “But it couldn’t be, for it’s far too precious. Probably a cheap substance made to look like gold.”
Dr. Glencoe then packed his medical bag and started for the door, only to hesitate and turn back to her. “You shouldn’t stay, m’lady. He wouldn’t want it. Let Dolly tend to him.”
“I’ll only be a moment,” she’d said, feeling the tug of her heart and knowing she couldn’t leave Saron in this condition. She’d seen the ugly slit in his reddened thigh and hadn’t cringed. Well, only a little. Digging out the metal fragment from Saron’s gaping wound must have hurt terribly, yet he hadn’t cried out. Not once. How could any man endure such pain?
She continued to stare at the wound and chided herself for feeling the slightest sympathy for the Dragon of Draloch. Why should she, when he hadn’t the decency to explain how or why he’d been assaulted?
Having worked herself into a state, she was about to leave him as the doctor had suggested when Saron groaned and suddenly shifted onto his side. “Merciful heaven!” She covered her mouth and took a moment to steady the violent pounding of her heart.
It was one thing to feel the scars beneath his shirt, but quite another to see those raw marks of evil on horrifying display. These were repeated beatings, the skin so brutally flayed that it had not properly grown back. “Who would do such a thing to you?”
Her hand trembled as she touched the mottled expanse of his back. She was careful to keep her touch light, as soft as a caress, but an odd thing happened when she trailed a finger along each pale scar. Little blue veins, as delicate as the silken threads of a spider’s web, appeared along his back at each point she touched. The webs died out quickly, like little blue shooting stars within his body, leaving behind only the crisscross of faded red welts.
Anabelle closed her eyes and allowed the heart-wrenching vision to sear into her memory. So many slashes and whiplashes, how they must have hurt him!
“Ye shouldn’t be in here, little lamb.” Dolly quietly entered the room to join her beside Saron’s bed. “He won’t be pleased to know ye’ve seen him in this vulnerable condition.”
Anabelle drew a ragged breath. “Have you ever seen anything so awful, Dolly? A memento of his childhood, I think. What manner of beast would do this to a young boy?”
“Can’t say as I know. But ye mustn’t dwell on his wounds or they’ll darken yer dreams.”
Anabelle placed her hand to his forehead to wipe away beads of perspiration formed on his brow. She frowned. He felt warm. Too warm. Possibly developing a fever. She would look in on him again within the hour. “He appears dangerous even in sleep,” she said, smoothing back a stray lock of his black hair and delighting in the way it curled like silk about her fingers. “Like a fearsome, sleeping dragon.”
He let out a snore.
She gasped and drew back, she and Dolly momentarily frightened. They exchanged startled glances, then laughed softly at their response.
“Och, ye’d better leave him now, my lamb. I’ll tend to the brazen man m’self, what with him lying there in his naked glory. ’Tis obscene for a good girl like ye to be viewing as much of him as ye already have.”
“His body is quite magnificent, isn’t it?” she said with a sigh.
“Is that how I raised ye, naughty girl?” With that, Dolly began to cluck and tsk. “Get on with ye, missie, and ready yerself for his aunt’s arrival. And don’t ye dare peek under that sheet of his before ye go!”
<
br /> She didn’t dare reveal that Dolly’s warning had come too late.
She’d already peeked.
More than once.
Oh, definitely more than once!
Chapter Eight
Anabelle walked down the hall toward her bedchamber, lost in thought. Her hands shook as she turned the knob, the realization that Saron was very much human surprisingly unsettling her. He could be bested, this man all of London Society had wagered would crush her.
The possibility should have heartened her, and perhaps it did to some small extent. But in truth, she found little satisfaction in any victory, no matter how small. How could she, now that she understood the extent of his suffering?
Those scars explained so much about him, why he wanted Harleigh and refused to return it to her. He must have sensed from the first that this estate, this heaven on earth overflowing with love and laughter, would provide the solace he’d long sought.
She did not begrudge his need, only that he refused to recognize her own need for Harleigh and share it with her. Because of his stubbornness, he intended to take her to London and marry her off to some foppish lord.
She would never allow that to happen.
She’d sooner marry Saron and settle their interminable dispute.
The thought startled her, but it wasn’t ridiculous. Marriage to that devil could be tolerable if they reached agreement on the marital terms. Couldn’t it?
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself as his wife, forced to accept his touch, his kisses. Well, she’d experienced his kisses and found them to her liking. And his touch did wonderful things to her insides. Just thinking of his large, surprisingly gentle hands running up and down her body set her heart leaping.
Marriage required more than soft caresses or the occasional heated embrace. As her husband, he would have the right to couple with her. Would she like it? She only knew that her ewes never minded the ram’s attentions and were always eager to mate.
She frowned, refusing to consider that she was no better than her ewes.
Perhaps an arrangement could be worked out, Saron leaving her at Harleigh to run the small estate as he’d done this past month, and he free to do whatever he wished, with whomever he wished, wherever he wished. Just not here.
She sank onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. What must she do next? He intended to buy her new clothes and put her on display for his Society friends. She had to stop him, for her mind was now made up. She had no intention of accommodating him or allowing him to find her a husband.
A knock at her door brought her back to the present. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady.”
She sat up as her shy maid, a sweet, red haired girl taken in by Dolly several years ago, entered. “Yes, Bessie.”
“A messenger just brought word that His Grace’s aunt won’t be arriving until tomorrow,” she said, a ruby blush creeping up her cheeks. Anabelle knew that like Saron, the girl had experienced a hard life before coming to Harleigh. However, time and a new sweetheart named Archie had healed her wounds.
Anabelle could not imagine Saron ever having a sweetheart, ever courting a dainty young thing or allowing anyone close enough to heal his wounds. She doubted he would allow her into that closed off heart of his, but how else would she convince him to marry her?
“Lady Blakefield met friends in Kendal,” Bessie continued, “and decided to remain the extra day figuring His Grace wouldn’t mind. She also sent along His Grace’s trunk. A lucky thing, seeing as how he has no clothes.”
“Thank you, Bessie. I’ll let him know his belongings have arrived the moment he awakens.”
“Is there anything you might be needin’, Lady Anabelle? Ye worked hard throughout the night and spent much of the day carin’ for the Master. Ye have yet to think of yerself.”
“I’ll rest a bit right now. I’m fine, thank you.” She dismissed Bessie, promising to ring for her if something came to mind. But after tossing and turning for quite some time, her thoughts constantly returning to Saron, she decided to occupy her time with something more productive than sleep.
Saron disliked the morose-looking black gowns presently making up her wardrobe, and in truth, she had begun to tire of them as well. Surrounded by signs and colors of new life, she found it very hard to think of darkness and gloom. Spring flowers now bloomed in the Harleigh gardens, their blossoms a vivid array of pinks, blues, and yellows. Wheat had taken root in the fields and the once barren trees now sprouted green leaves. Pink-nosed lambs frisked in the nearby meadows. Spring was a time for new life, a time to embark on her new life, whatever the risk might be.
Deciding to take an inventory of her wardrobe, Anabelle fumbled through her armoire and withdrew several colorful frocks not worn since her father’s death. She briefly wondered whether any still fit, but was not about to try them on. Better save the chore for another day. Besides, she needed help to don the fashionable gowns and had no wish for company right now.
Also, though she had no quarrel with Saron’s aunt, she preferred to meet Lady Penelope Blakefield first. There was no point in making sudden changes before then. Would Lady Penelope be as gruff and unreasonable as her nephew? Or prove a formidable ally?
She’d learn the answer tomorrow.
After organizing her gowns, the finer silks first, followed by velvets, merino wools, chambray gingham, muslin, and cottons, then further organizing by color, she returned her gowns to the wardrobe, hanging them in proper order. She then moved to her dressing table and inspected herself in the mirror which stood just over the table.
“Quite ghastly, Anabelle,” she chided, noting the tired look in her eyes and the puffy circles of purplish-blue that had formed beneath each eye. She reached for her brush, deciding to pin up her hair and put some semblance of order into the unruly mane now that it was dry from its recent washing. She styled it as best she could, pleased she’d managed almost as well as her maid.
As dusk descended, she left her room and walked down the hall to look in on Saron. The mindless task of sorting her clothes had allowed her time to think of her future. Unlike the mighty Dragon of Draloch, she had no desire to spend the rest of her days alone, shutting out all the good for fear of letting in the bad.
However, to enjoy the good, she had to address the bad. She paused beside his door and knocked quietly, cautiously entering when she heard no answer. Believing him to be asleep, she tiptoed into the room and over to his bed.
She was surprised to find it empty.
“Join me, Anabelle,” Saron said, startling her.
She turned from his empty bed and gazed across the chamber in time to see him rise from one of the tufted leather chairs beside the stone fireplace which had been acquired generations earlier by one of the former earls of Harleigh, probably looted from an old French monastery.
“Come, I won’t bite,” he teased when she did not immediately step forward.
The few hours of sleep had done him much good, she noted. His hair, once again washed and obviously still damp, curled attractively at his nape. By firelight, the damp tendrils gleamed black as coal. He was dressed simply, in black breeches and a white lawn shirt, the clothing emphasizing his broad shoulders and handsomely muscled frame. She was glad he hadn’t bothered to don a cravat, vest or jacket, preferring to see him more casually dressed, more human and approachable.
“I expected you to sleep through the night,” she said, crossing the room and pausing at his side. Though of average height, she felt small standing next to him. “How do you feel?”
He cast her a lopsided smile. “Like someone stuck a hot poker into my thigh and twisted it with a vengeance.”
“The pain will pass quickly now that Dr. Glencoe has tended to it. He has a steady hand and a nimble touch. Unfortunately, the fragment was buried deep within the muscle.”
“I should have realized a small piece of the arrow remained in my leg. It hurt like blazes, but I assumed it was…never mind. It’s out now. That’s what matt
ers.”
She reached up and placed a hand to his forehead, breathing a sigh of relief when she found his skin cool to the touch. “We feared you would develop a fever. You were warm to the touch when I checked on you earlier, but seem much better now.”
He drew her hand away and offered her a seat in the chair beside him. “I awoke in a sweat,” he admitted, sinking into the chair he’d earlier occupied, “so I ordered another bath before putting on these clean clothes. Since my trunk is here, I assume my aunt has arrived. Is she resting?”
“Lady Penelope sent word she’d be delayed until tomorrow. Nothing serious,” she hastily added, noting his frown. “She came upon friends in Kendal and decided to remain the extra day. Fortunately, she had the foresight to send your bags ahead or I would have been forced to lend you one of my black gowns.”
He laughed with a lighthearted pleasure she hadn’t believed him capable of until this very moment. “I’ll make sure to thank her most fervently when she arrives. Have you supped yet?” he asked suddenly.
“No, I thought I’d tend to you–”
“Before thinking of yourself? Have you had anything to eat all day?”
“A little.” She avoided his gaze, finding it easier to deal with his anger than his unexpected concern.
“Very little, I surmise.” He reached for the bellpull and gave it a tug. “Join me for supper and a game of chess afterward. You do play, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
That settled what she was to do with the remainder of her evening. In truth, she looked forward to the prospect, eager as she was to learn more about how he’d obtained his injuries, the new and the old. His invitation saved her the bother of coming up with excuses to spend time with him. “Have you taken more laudanum?”