by Meara Platt
“I prefer more delicate colors,” Lady Sissingham intoned but not unkindly, “rose, palest blue, and lemon yellow are quite flattering to the youthful feminine form. The darker shades are more suitable for we older women, don’t you think?”
She turned to Saron for his answer.
“I believe I speak for every man at this table when I say you ladies are stunning no matter which color you choose to wear.”
“Oh, la!” Lady Sissingham responded with a titter, soon joined by a riot of giggles from her daughters.
“I’m sure you’re the smartest man I’ve ever met,” Marian cooed, twirling her golden curls and batting her pale eyelashes at him.
“And the bravest, too,” Catherine added with a shake of her darker, blonde curls. “Will you be returning to London soon?”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, we shall go, too! I do so wish to attend the balls. I hear the theater is quite outrageous. Papa won’t allow us to attend.”
“I wish to ride on Rotten Row,” Marian said, “and Papa has promised to buy me a new riding habit of blue velvet to match the color of my eyes.”
“I’m to be fitted for an entire new wardrobe,” Catherine added, not to be outdone.
“The duke seems quite taken with my daughters,” Lady Sissingham whispered into Anabelle’s ear once the ladies had retired to the drawing room. “Do you think he might offer for one of them?”
She knew Saron would sooner jab his eyes out with hot pokers. “He isn’t the marrying sort.”
“Nonsense. He’s rich, titled, and breathing.”
“Yes, but…” Her protest died for two reasons. First, Lady Sissingham wasn’t listening, having hurried over to Catherine to encourage her to sing for them, a poor decision considering her dubious singing talent. Second, she realized that Saron would make a wonderful husband, if only he’d allow himself to love.
He had agreed to marry her.
Would he change his mind?
No, he’d never go back on his word, for it was no easy matter to break a betrothal. But he would do it if he thought he was protecting her.
Catherine lifted a book of English ballads off the pianoforte, making a show of sifting through tunes as the rest of the men sauntered into the drawing room after finishing their Spanish port and cigars.
“Hell’s bells,” Saron whispered, noticing Anabelle standing alone and coming to her side. “We’re in for it now, little one.”
“I’m afraid so.” Anabelle squelched the bubble of laughter threatening to burst from her lips.
“Do let me in on the jest,” Marian pleaded, joining her at Saron’s side.
“Oh, we were simply discussing my plant experiments.” She tried to keep her manner light and unaffected though her senses, stirred by the male scent of Saron, a woodsy pine and mountain breezes mingled with traces of smoke and dessert wine, were wildly out of kilter.
“Goodness, Anabelle. No gentlemen wishes to speak of agriculture with a lady.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because it is a very tiresome topic,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Men wish to be flattered, told they’re charming, not lectured about farming. Isn’t it so, Your Grace?”
He winked at Anabelle before turning back to Marian. “Your sister’s recital is about to begin.” Offering his arm to the girl, Saron escorted her to the divan situated in the center of the room and assumed the seat beside her.
Which earned him a beaming smile from Lady Sissingham.
Anabelle frowned.
Not that she resented his attendance on Marian. She didn’t. Not at all.
Not the least little bit.
Lord Chalmers nudged her elbow. “Come along, Anabelle. You can’t escape the entertainment. Unfortunately, none of us can.”
Catherine had a thin, reedy voice, but that didn’t stop her from singing at the top of her lungs or singing to Saron. How odd, Anabelle thought. A few days ago, she would have enjoyed watching him suffer at the hands of these irritating girls, and would have plotted ways to heighten his torture. But no more.
She actually felt sorry for him.
“The party was a great success,” Penelope announced at the end of the evening as they stood on the front steps of the house waving farewell to their guests. “But I’m glad to see them go. Lady Sissingham is quite…er, forceful in her manner and the girls do titter a lot. They appeared fascinated by Saron, quite enamored of him, but most women are.”
Anabelle leaned against one of the stone columns at the entryway, debating whether or not to confide in Penelope about what the Stone of Draloch had told her. Save Lord Bloodaxe. That command had brought such pain to Saron, one so raw and personal. And what of Bloodaxe’s visit to her? Don’t save me, he’d insisted. “Speaking of your nephew, where has he disappeared to?”
“I believe he retired to his chamber, some business requiring his attention before he turned in for the evening.”
She sighed, realizing she had best not disturb him. “I see.”
Penelope took her hand as they walked back into the house. “I do enjoy the country air, so fresh and invigorating. Seems I’ve just arrived here, hardly had time to settle in, and now we’re preparing to leave. But I think London will be good for you, good for bringing you and Saron closer.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “Good night, Penelope.”
Penelope bussed her cheek. “You’re a good fit, the pair of you. But I’ll say no more for now. Sweet dreams, child. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Anabelle watched her slowly climb the stairs and waited for her to disappear from view before turning to complete the last of her chores. She made certain the uneaten food had been properly stowed by the servants, the fires doused in the hearths, and the windows and doors secured.
She checked each room of the house and finally stopped by the library to pick out a book before retiring to bed, a little disappointed she and Saron would not speak this evening. She entered and stopped short. “Oh, you’re here.”
Saron glanced up from the document he’d been reading which appeared important. “So I am. I expected you to be asleep by now.”
And she thought he had retired to his bedchamber to work. “I was just going up.”
He set aside the business papers and rose from his chair as she approached. “About what happened earlier today,” she said, stopping at his side.
He let out a breath. “Ah, your narrow escape from death.”
“I need to speak to you about it.”
He tucked a finger under her chin and gently turned her face upward. “There’s good color in your cheeks. You seem recovered. Are you not?”
“I’m fully recovered. But are you?”
He dropped his hand to his side. “I don’t know. You were in danger.”
“From Marian and Catherine,” she reminded. “I saw a look in your eyes after you saved me, a sorrow so intense. I know that marrying me is a difficult step for you. But it’s the right one. You gave me your word. Please don’t break it.”
“Anabelle, I have work to do.”
She noticed the stubborn set to his jaw, his darting glances toward the door. “It can wait a moment.” She left his side to shut the door and ensure them privacy to continue the conversation.
“Anabelle, this is neither the time–”
“Nor the place for this discussion?”
“Something like that.”
She returned to his side. “Please hear me out before you dismiss what I have to say. You once accused me of being a twenty-year-old child and you were right. Until this very moment, I’ve thought only of myself. My loss, my grief. My goals and desires.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
She laughed ruefully. “My father begged me to leave this place when my mother died. He couldn’t bear to live among the memories, but I never gave a moment’s thought to his pain. He wanted us to return to London. I refused to go.”
“You couldn’t have understood.”
“I should have, just as I should have understood why you needed this place and not resented you for it. But I was so angry with you at the time.”
He furrowed his brow. “Are you no longer angry with me?”
“I find you infuriating, arrogant, stubborn. At the same time, I want to throw my arms around you and kiss away your hurt. I know we shall never have an ordinary life together, but we could have a wonderful marriage. I love you. I shall always love you. I don’t know how to say this without swelling your head even further. You think our being apart will save me, but it won’t. It will destroy me. My heart is yours, Saron. Now and forever.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “That bullet grazed your arm today. Necros might have killed you last week. The Stone of Draloch is lying to you. Bloodaxe killed my son. Why the stone says otherwise is a mystery. I’m your guardian, obligated to protect you. The closer I get to you, the more out of control and helpless I feel.”
She thought of his years of torment as a boy under brutal enslavement by the Dragon Lords. That feeling of helplessness roused his every dark memory and nightmarish fear. “There’s more between us than guardian and ward,” she said, her limbs and insides quivering like jelly. “Being your dragon mate must mean something. Allow our hearts to bond. It doesn’t need to happen overnight, but I’m asking you to give us a chance. Whatever the challenges, we’ll overcome them together.”
She’d seen his scars.
She’d seen him shift into a dragon.
She’d felt the heat of his kisses.
She’d touched the Stone of Draloch and it had spoken to her.
He frowned. “Will you feel that way when you’re captured by the Dragon Lords?”
“If I’m ever captured.” What was she to do about Lord Bloodaxe? Despite what Saron claimed, he had saved her that day when they’d found the dead lamb. What did it signify? And what did his latest visit signify? “Saron, I saw Lord Bloodaxe again. He agrees that the Stone of Draloch is lying to you…to us. He doesn’t want us to rescue him. What are we to do?”
“Nothing. Go to bed, Anabelle.” He shook his head with obvious impatience and started for the door to usher her out, but she stopped him.
“Let’s work it through together.” She reached up on tiptoes and kissed him lightly on his cheek. “I love you.”
He dipped his head and pressed his mouth softly upon hers. “I wish you didn’t.”
*
Saron never drank to excess, preferring to maintain control. But not tonight, he decided, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and twisting off the cork. Tonight he meant to drown his sorrows, drink himself into oblivion. He wanted to forget the summer day so many years ago, forget about his own cursed childhood, but mostly he wanted to forget Anabelle.
She had broken through his defenses.
Don’t fall in love with her.
Fearing it was too late, and determined to restore the battered walls surrounding his heart, he climbed the stairs, bottle in hand, entered his room, and locked the door. He meant to drink himself into a stupor, and yet he didn’t want to forget Anabelle’s tenderness or how good it felt to share parts of his life with her.
“I can’t let you in,” he muttered, taking several long, desperate gulps from the bottle. The smooth liquid warmed his ragged throat, but did nothing to cool his desire for the girl. He wanted her, not just physically, but in an all-consuming sense.
What the hell did that mean?
He took another lusty swallow.
Her knowing about Gideon’s death, caring about the boy, had made things better for him, not worse. Indeed, it made no sense.
Nor did what he found himself doing next make sense.
Unlocking his door, he started for Anabelle’s chamber, without a clue what he meant to do when he got there.
“Saron?” She stood amid the hallway shadows putting out the wall sconces as she did every night before retiring, her soft curves and feminine form outlined in the dim light. She noted his expression and the bottle in his hand. Instead of taking a step toward her room, she stood in wait for him to approach.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, reaching her side and trying to restrain the turmoil he’d taken no pains to hide.
“I know.” She didn’t struggle or try to run when he put a hand on her arm. “But I hurt you, didn’t I? I ripped open old wounds, made you remember what was best forgotten and buried in the past.”
“I’ll never forget Gideon.”
“He must have been a wonderful boy, and I have no doubt you were a wonderful father to him. I’m glad you and he had the chance to be together. But I added to your worries tonight. I don’t know why Lord Bloodaxe is calling out to me. I don’t know why the Stone of Draloch is lying to us…or if it is telling us the truth, but you and Bloodaxe are too stubborn to acknowledge it. All I know is that I love you and want to be with you for always.”
He started to protest, but she stopped him.
“Marian’s shot would have killed me if you hadn’t run into my laboratory and pulled me down in time. No demons involved. Not a Dragon Lord in sight. You can’t protect me from my fate. But you can love me in the time we’re meant to be together. I so desperately want you to love me.”
He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. A gruff kiss, not at all tender, for he wasn’t feeling like much of a gentleman at the moment. She tasted sweet, felt soft and so welcoming. He ran his hands along her body, drew her up against him and felt the heave of her breasts as they molded to his hard chest.
“Saron,” she whispered, a tender ache in her voice as she slid her hands up his chest to circle them about his neck.
He felt himself about to lose control. Then he did lose control, his hands sliding down her slender neck to cup one of her creamy breasts and tease its soft tip so that it was now swollen and hard against his fingers. She wasn’t afraid of him and responded with innocent yearning. He had to stop before he took more than her gentle kisses.
Lord, he hungered for her.
He was drunk and on fire, wanting to possess her. All of her. Needing to be inside her.
He released her abruptly and took a step back, his breaths quick and unsteady. “I don’t regret saving you or telling you about Gideon. In the event I don’t say this when I’m sober, thank you for caring about him. I almost wish you had the power to save me.” Without waiting for her response, Saron turned and disappeared into his room.
Anabelle barely heard the click of his lock above the mad beating of her heart. “That’s what you do,” she said in whisper, “lock everyone out.” But he’d let her in just now, if only for a moment, then pulled away to leave her alone with the hot, pulsing sensations he so easily stirred within her.
Shaking her head, she returned to her quarters and undressed for bed before turning to her reflection in the mirror as it caught her eye. She approached, dressed only in a gossamer camisole, the rose circles of her breasts and dark patch of hair at her nether region dimly outlined beneath the fabric.
Still watching herself in the mirror, she shook out her hair and absently watched the strands cascade over her shoulders and down her back. The red strands glistened by candlelight. What did Saron see when he looked at her? She ran her hands along her body, along each womanly curve, for the first time feeling incomplete. She wanted Saron’s arms about her, wanted so much more, but knew he had no more to give tonight.
She’d backed him against the wall, trapped him like a hunter traps a wounded animal when all she’d meant to do was love him.
Love him?
“But that’s the problem,” she spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Will my love destroy him?”
Chapter Thirteen
“Good morning. I trust you had a pleasant ride,” Anabelle said, entering the breakfast room several days later and noting Saron’s casual attire. He had yet to change out of riding clothes, tan breeches, white shirt, brown leather vest, and sturdy brown riding boots.
He glanced up and
met her tentative smile.
Her simplest smile brought sunshine into the room, even when it rained, as it had on and off these past few days since their discussion of Gideon and the kisses they’d shared. Those kisses had jolted him, left him stunned and aching, as though he’d tumbled off a galloping horse. The two-day hangover he’d endured afterward, brought on by imbibing too much whiskey and a desperate desire to forget the girl, had only made matters worse. She’d remained vivid in his mind even as he’d retched those smooth, expensive blends into his chamber pot.
She wasn’t to blame for Gideon’s loss or for his deuced hangover. In truth, sharing his secret sorrows with this caring creature had brought a temporary serenity to his heart. He might have realized it sooner had he remembered he still had a heart.
But to give what remained of his heart over to her so wholly and completely? To allow others to know how greatly he treasured her above all things? He’d never allow himself to be left so vulnerable. “Good morning, Anabelle.”
She poured herself a cup of tea at the sideboard and came to sit beside him at the table. “You’ve kept to yourself these past two days.”
“I’ve had much on my mind.”
“Me. And how to be rid of me.” She smiled wryly. “I know your only concern is to protect me, but put those thoughts out of your head. Teach me how to protect myself, instead. That advice I’ll gladly accept from you.”
He wanted to laugh aloud at the ridiculous notion and also wanted to kiss her soundly for her strength of heart. This was so like her, to fight for what she believed in. He loved that about her, but it was also his greatest fear, that she would fight for him and be killed for it. “And what am I to teach you? How to fly? Breathe fire through your nostrils? Turn yourself into a hideous, bloated beast that feels nothing but the need to dominate and destroy?”
“You could teach me how to throw a knife or shoot an arrow. I’m already a fairly good shot, but guns wouldn’t be my weapons of choice since they take far too much time to reload.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “You’re no match for the Dragon Lords.”
She cast him a stubborn scowl. “No one believed Queen Melody was a match for them either.”