Garden of Dragons (Dark Gardens Series Book 3)

by Meara Platt

  She knew his staff would tend to it immediately. They appeared quite efficient in every regard. No doubt Saron had ordered them to wait until she had given her approval.

  “Penelope’s room is across the hall from yours. I thought you’d wish to know.”

  “I’ll look in on her when she wakes from her nap.” She waited for him to show her the duke’s quarters, but he made no attempt to do so, instead stating the tour was at an end. The oversight, if it was one, was of no moment.

  She would take a peek tomorrow, when no one was looking. She was curious to catch a better glimpse of the private man and his personal surroundings. Did he sleep in a bed? Or was his room a hot, clammy cave filled with the bones of those he’d eaten strewn upon the floor? She shook out of the ridiculous notion. If the rest of his home was any indication, he slept in an elegant bed that she would be invited to share within a matter of days.

  They returned downstairs to find a lavish array of fruit and cakes set out for them on a wrought iron table in the rear garden. The table and four matching chairs stood beneath a rose bower, though the roses were not yet in bloom. The medieval roses would be within a few weeks, Anabelle knew, her gaze wandering to the buds and noting the hint of pink blossoms amid dark green leaves.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace.” A servant brought out a pot of tea and a pitcher of lemonade that glistened in the waning sunlight.

  Anabelle smiled at the gray-haired man. “I’d love a lemonade.”

  He poured her a glass, then attended to Saron, who opted for tea before dismissing him. “Thank you, Bryson. That will be all.”

  “Your Grace,” he said with a bow of his head and unmistakable curiosity in his eyes.

  Once more alone, they sat in pleasant silence until Saron finally spoke up. “I have much business to attend to these next few days before the wedding and will have little time to spend with you.”

  She tried to mask her disappointment. “Oh.”

  “I hope you and Penelope will use the time productively. Visit the shops, select your new wardrobe. You’ll need new gowns as soon as possible with the Season in full swing.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. Most women would have leaped at the opportunity to be so indulged, but she cared little. The modistes, mantua-makers, and milliners held no appeal. “When are we to be married?”

  He sighed. “End of the week, unless you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I haven’t.” She reached out and set her hand over his. “I never will.”

  “We’ll have no visitors today,” he continued, overlooking her comment. “It’s far too late for that, but we’ll be inundated with calling cards by this time tomorrow. By next week, you’ll be expected to make your first round of calls as my duchess. Penelope will help you obtain your new calling cards.”

  She toyed with her glass, dreading what the next few days would bring. Dreading all but the day they’d marry. She was eager for that.

  “You won’t be snubbed, Anabelle,” he said, misunderstanding her concerns. “No one will dare give offense while you are under my protection. My cousin, the Earl of Eastbourne, and his new bride, Julia, are in town and eager to make your acquaintance. In time, everyone will greet you with open arms.”

  “Do you think so?” She believed he was right as to his first comment, but as to the last, she might be politely received, but never fully accepted. She was partly to blame for that, being a country girl at heart and having no love for the pretensions of Society.

  “They’ll be civil to you or answer to me.” There was a chill to his manner that served as reminder he was not a man to cross. “Once the Patronesses at Almack’s are subdued, the rest of the sheep will follow.”

  “You seem to share my disdain of Society. Why bother with any of it?”

  The question surprised him. “Because I am a duke and you will soon be my duchess. If you do not care for the duties that come with the title, it isn’t too late to beg off. You know my feelings on the matter.” He frowned. “What you’ve learned should have frightened the wits out of you. I dragged you into another world. Showed you the hidden part of me.”

  “The demon part,” she said softly. “I’ve thought of that, truly I have. But even when you shifted into that great monster, I could still see you in there. Your eyes never changed.”

  He did not seem pleased. “So what? That signifies nothing.”

  “It signifies everything. You may have physically changed…shape-shifted, I believe you called it. But the essence of who you are, your heart and soul did not.”

  “I have a demon’s heart. A demon’s soul.”

  “Demons don’t have souls, you’ve told me that. But you still do. I think you’re desperate to hold onto it. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To help you save it.”

  “You’re here because Lord Markby forced you into my care.”

  “I’m here because you wanted me to be here. Why don’t you simply admit the truth, if not to me then to yourself? And since we’re speaking honestly to each other, I’ll tell you how I truly feel. The prospect of spending my life with you doesn’t frighten me, Saron. I meant what I said about marrying you.”

  Though he’d warned her that he did not have the capacity to love, Anabelle knew it wasn’t true. “Whatever you are, you’re no beast. And if you insist on believing that you are one, then you are the noblest beast I know. For all your faults, and you have many–”

  “I grow giddy with such compliments,” he said, his manner painfully sober. “In truth, you and I do get along, Anabelle. But you know that I cannot offer what you need.”

  “I know of no such thing. You chose me as your dragon mate. You’ve promised to be faithful, to protect and honor me for the rest of my life. A dragon chooses one mate, that’s what you told me. Only one. You wouldn’t have selected me if you didn’t care for me. I think you love me…or could love me if you’d allow yourself. And what of your need for love and family? Does it count for nothing?”

  “Beasts are better off alone.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, little one. Don’t make me show you more and prove it.”

  She swallowed hard. “There’s more?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  *

  Later that evening, Saron dressed for a private dinner with the Prince Regent, the surprising summons had arrived two hours ago and left him uneasy ever since. It was a dinner summons, surely nothing more, he mused. But if that were the case, why not command him to attend with Anabelle?

  The prince had been as eager to watch him break her will as was the rest of the ton. The notion filled him with disgust. Knowing Anabelle as he did now, liking her as he did now, filled him with regret for what he’d done to the girl. She was not a game sport for the bored nobility. But he was in no position to cast blame, for he’d been the one to put Anabelle in this predicament. He’d goaded her for his own amusement, encouraged the wagers still being placed throughout the London clubs, and forced her from the home she loved.

  All that would end with their wedding, he hoped.

  He had to stop thinking of her, for the beast within was already aroused and counting the hours till he had the right to carry her to his bed and claim her for his own. Perhaps their first joining would be in her bed. It didn’t matter. Once married, her fate would be sealed.

  He continued to allow his thoughts to wander as his valet tied the perfect knot in his silk cravat and fitted him with appropriate hat, cane, and gloves in hand. His stomach was also in knots. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t merely that Prinny had summoned him. His thoughts kept returning to Anabelle. Lord, she preyed on his mind!

  The girl fit him like a soft hand in a perfectly sized glove. He had expected her to fit in at Harleigh because the estate had belonged to her family for generations and she had done much to shape its beauty. But to have her look so right, feel so right in his own domain, in his own townhouse…well, he hadn’t quite prepared himself for th
e impact.

  “Your Grace?”

  He turned his attention back to his valet. “Yes.”

  “Shall I see about your carriage?”

  “Thank you, Brooks. Please do so. I’ll be down in a moment.” First, he wished to look in on Anabelle. She and Penelope had decided to share a quiet supper in Penelope’s quarters since he was to be occupied with the prince.

  He made his way down the hall and knocked lightly at Penelope’s door, which stood ajar. He heard laughter and then the command to enter. “Ah, nephew. You look splendid.”

  He gave a quick bow. “I may be quite late in returning tonight, but I have a capable staff to see to all your needs. You have only to ask.” He directed the instruction toward Anabelle, knowing his aunt was already familiar with his household staff from prior visits, and also wanting Anabelle to understand that this was as much her home as it was his.

  Lord, she suited perfectly, he thought in dismay, taking in the cozy scene. The two ladies were seated beside the fireplace, his aunt in her bedclothes and Anabelle in a casual gown of forest green. Anabelle had let down her long hair, loosely tying it back in a ribbon.

  It took great strength of will to force his gaze from her beautifully lustrous curls.

  “Do knock at my door when you return,” Penelope said, knowing the situation well enough to understand that the royal command, issued so soon upon his arrival boded ill. “I wish to know what His Royal Highness has up his sleeve.”

  “I’m sure it is nothing,” Saron lied.

  *

  Anabelle woke in the middle of the night to the sound of a door slam and wondered whether anyone else had heard it. Probably not the servants, she realized, because their quarters were in the attic, which ran above the opposite wing of the house. She doubted the dull sound would have traveled that far. Penelope had taken a sleeping draught so she wasn’t likely to stir until late morning.

  Hesitating but a moment, she slipped out of bed, donned her robe and slippers, and started out of her room. But something felt off. The room was unusually cold. She stopped at her door and gasped as an intense chill ran up her spine the moment she put her hand on the knob.

  A little voice in her head cried out “danger” but she dismissed the notion as merely foolish. The sound she’d heard was Saron returning from his visit with the Prince Regent, a visit that had not gone well, if the slamming door was any indication.

  Dismissing the unexpected gusts of cold air—such big houses were often drafty—she nevertheless retrieved the fire iron standing by the hearth, and with weapon firmly in hand, crept downstairs. Her ears perked upon hearing someone shuffling about in Saron’s library.

  Saron, of course.

  No intruder would be so reckless as to make so much noise.

  She walked quietly into the library. “How was your evening?” She’d hardly got the words out before they caught in her throat. In the center of the library’s magnificent Oriental carpet was the lifeless body of a lamb, its entrails spilled. The poor thing was lying in a pool of its own blood, the dark liquid mingling with the deep burgundy threads of the patterned carpet. A fire blazed in the hearth, illuminating the lamb and revealing that it had been mauled in the same manner as the two she’d earlier discovered at Harleigh.

  No! It can’t be!

  She tried to back out of the library, but her legs suddenly refused to move.

  She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips.

  What was happening to her?

  She struggled to catch her breath as panic and the strangling scent of honey and foul-scented ash overcame her. Despite the lateness of the hour, she knew she had to ring for the staff at once, but as she turned to tug on the bellpull, she saw a man standing in the shadows beside the drapes.

  At first, she mistook him for Saron, for he was of similar height and build. As he slowly emerged into the light, she saw that his black hair was longer and wilder, that his blue eyes were colder and seemingly devoid of life. Bloodaxe. He was dressed as she’d seen him in the garden at Harleigh, for he wore dark leather breeches and a dark leather vest over his muscled, bare chest. He carried an ancient-looking axe in a scabbard strapped to his belt.

  She tried once more to scream, but the sound caught in her throat.

  She tried again to run, but her legs betrayed her.

  Had he somehow taken control of her body?

  He took a step toward her.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded in a rasp, finally regaining a scrap of her voice. “Who invited you in?” Saron had told her that demons could only be invited in by those who resided in a home, but Saron lived here alone and she knew he would not have invited in this Dragon Lord.

  She raised the fire iron and held it in a tight, protective grip, glad she’d thought to bring it down with her.

  “Give me your weapon.” He took another step toward her. As he did so, the entire room filled with the acrid scent of burnt wood and a heavy, almost too sweet, odor of honey. “You mustn’t fear me, but I want your weapon.”

  She refused.

  “I’ll have it from you.” To prove his point, he raised his hand, and though they still stood across the room from each other, the fire iron began to vibrate, slowly at first, then with growing intensity so that she required both hands to hold on to it.

  She knew that lifeless objects could not possibly come to life, yet here she was struggling to keep it from flying out of her grasp.

  Lord Bloodaxe laughed, and in the next moment, the iron grew dangerously hot. She dropped it at once and it fell upon the carpet with a thud.

  Where were the servants?

  “They won’t come. They can’t hear you. No one can,” he said, somehow reading her thoughts. He slowly withdrew a dagger from the sheath at his belt and took another step toward her, seeming in no hurry to accomplish whatever villainous purpose he had in mind.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Give him a message,” he responded, taking yet another step toward her.

  As he drew closer, she noticed the intricate pattern on the dagger’s hilt, a black dragon with sapphires for eyes. Anabelle, now thoroughly in panic, scanned the library for another weapon. She had to defend herself against the man who Saron believed had killed Gideon. Her heart now pounded in a low, thunderous beat and her legs were no longer able to hold her up.

  “I didn’t kill the boy.” His face was so close, she felt his icy breath against her ear. “I tried to save him. Tell him that.”

  “That is what the Stone of Draloch told me, but Saron won’t believe it. The arrow was yours. What can I say to him to make him believe you?”

  “The Stone of Draloch spoke to you?” Bloodaxe began to circle her with the slow, languid determination of a predator that had trapped its helpless prey and was now about to bite its jaws into its neck for the kill.

  She nodded cautiously.

  He leaned close and sniffed her, his movements tense and muscles coiled. He was a dangerous dragon and not a playful dog merely sniffing for a bone. “Why would I kill my own blood kin?”

  “Your blood kin?” She refused to show fear, though he likely caught the scent of it upon her skin. “Only you can tell me the monstrous reason.”

  She tried once more to back away, but he halted her with the simple wave of his hand. Silken threads magically appeared about her ankles and wrists, digging into her skin as they tightly wound around her limbs and held her immobile. “Who are you to Gideon? What is your connection to Saron?”

  Bloodaxe let out a soft, menacing laugh. “Hasn’t he told you?”

  “No. He hasn’t seen fit to tell me any of it. So why don’t you do so now?”

  “You’re brave for a human. You stand proudly defiant although I know you fear me.” He placed his fingers on her throat and began to lightly squeeze.

  “Stop. Please. You’re hurting me,” she managed, her voice rasping as she tried to free herself from his grasp.

  He ignored her struggles, i
n truth, hardly seemed aware that she was struggling. He took another deep breath to inhale her scent. “His mark isn’t on you yet.”

  Just as suddenly, he removed his hand and stepped back.

  He sounded disappointed.

  “I’m no man’s chattel,” she insisted, her voice still hoarse and grainy. Now that he no longer held her by the throat, she tried again to break free of her silken bonds. They were mere threads and should have broken easily, for they were no thicker than the delicate strings of a spider’s web. They glistened like starlight against her wrists, oddly beautiful even as they held her in captivity.

  Bloodaxe ran the cold edge of his dagger against her cheek. “Try though Saron might, he’ll never seal every portal against me. He can’t defeat me. I can kill him whenever I wish.”

  “Then why haven’t you?”

  “It amuses me to keep him alive.”

  She tried to match his stony countenance. “It will amuse him to tear you limb from limb if you dare harm me.”

  He glanced at the dead lamb and laughed. “Afraid you’re about to suffer the same fate? I won’t kill you. I need you to deliver that message to him. I didn’t kill Gideon. But I will kill Saron if he tries to save me.”

  His cold eyes continued to bore into her. “When is he due back?”

  “Not for hours yet.”

  He took one of her fingers in his hand and appeared ready to prick her flesh with the sharp point of his dagger. She understood his purpose. He meant to plant a soul trapper inside of her. Dear heaven. What if Saron didn’t return home in time? She tried to remain outwardly calm and not betray the panic in her heart. “I won’t be alive to deliver your message if you cut me with that sharp blade.”

  “I’ll spare you this time.” His grin was menacing. “But you will not be so fortunate next time.”

  She tried maintain her calm expression, but a sigh escaped her lips and her shoulders sagged in relief.

  Something also stirred in Bloodaxe, this Dragon Lord who supposedly had lost the ability to feel, but the answer eluded her even as he continued to stare at her. His grin faded. “The great battle will soon be upon us. Tell Saron there is a traitor among the royal inner circle who will lead him into a trap if he isn’t careful.”