by Meara Platt
“I’ve been shot at by the Sissingham sisters and had my bones crushed by some nasty dragons,” she said during one of their brief exchanges when he tried to coddle her. She was trying to convince him that she was as battle-hardened as any soldier, but he wouldn’t hear of it. No soldier had curves as perfect hers or hands as soft as hers. Nor did any of them ever smell as sweet as lavender. “And I will never believe that I would have been safe had I stayed home and behaved as a dull, dutiful wife. Did you find out about the pact?”
“No.” He wasn’t pleased that she’d remembered that conversation with Mordain and Bloodaxe.
“Are you going to find out about it?” She leaned forward, obviously not about to drop the topic of conversation.
“Lie back and rest. You still have a nasty gash at your side that isn’t fully healed.”
“Don’t forget my dislocated shoulder.”
“That too.”
“But I still want to know about the pact,” she insisted. “What sort of deal did Bloodaxe strike with Brihann? Perhaps it was that he would never attempt to abduct you again once you’d escaped. Or that he’d never harm you.”
“I’m not discussing this now. I mean it, Anabelle.” He allowed no further protest, once more ordering her to rest but promising to explore this and the fact that Mordain had also claimed Brihann was responsible for Gideon’s death.
Was it true?
Could he trust Mordain? Or the Stone of Draloch? He had yet to return to the Fae hall where the monolith had stood for a seeming eternity.
He slept on and off in a chair beside Anabelle’s bed, a very light and uncomfortable sleep, but enough to keep him going. By dawn, his back ached and a glance in the mirror revealed he looked like hell, but those small discomforts were nothing to what Anabelle had endured.
Penelope returned in the early morning followed by a maid carrying a tray of dry toast and a light broth. “How is Anabelle faring this morning?”
“She’s stable, but still having a difficult time of it.”
“It is to be expected.” She crossed the room and stopped by his side. “You look dreadful. Did you rest at all?”
“A little.”
“I’ll tend to her while you refresh yourself.”
He knew she was right, for he was spent and in dire need of a solid hour’s rest and a hot bath.
He gazed down at Anabelle, noting that her eyes were closed and her long, dark lashes rested upon ashen cheeks. She looked paler than she had only moments ago and that worried him. She’d appeared to be in improving health last night.
“How long has she been asleep?” Penelope whispered.
“Several hours. Though it is a fitful sleep. She’s still in a lot of pain.” He continued to look down upon his wife’s sleeping form, yearning to lie beside her, take her in his arms and feel her body against his. But he couldn’t now. The slightest wrong twist or turn of his big body might reinjure the wounds that were now healing.
He could have summoned a Fae healer and been done with that danger, at least. Anabelle had refused. Not that she was afraid of such faerie magic. He suspected that she’d refused in order to keep him close to her side. Otherwise, he would have descended into the Underworld and hunted down every last Dragon Lord, for he’d been enraged by her injuries and meant to hurt them as they’d hurt her…only tenfold.
She’d babbled on and off these past few days about forgiveness.
Hah!
He would never forgive, nor would he ever forget what he’d endured in the Underworld and what they’d done to Gideon.
Saron’s attention fixed on Anabelle when she moaned. “Anabelle,” he said in a whisper, lightly brushing back the red and gold waves of hair that spilled over her lightly heaving breasts. Now swept back, her creamy back and delicate shoulders were exposed. Her back tapered to a trim waist beneath the bed sheets, which molded to her curves. His gaze drifted to her wound, which had been stitched, covered with a salve of Fenugreek, and left uncovered to promote faster healing, as the doctor had explained.
“She’s an extraordinarily pretty thing,” Penelope remarked. “Even in sleep, there is a vitality to her.”
He agreed.
“Saron, what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“You ought to make things right with Anabelle. You know what I’m talking about.”
He said nothing, preferring silence to revealing his true thoughts. He’d turned into a great killing beast, euphoria surging through his blood when up against all five dragons. It was as though the Devil had reached into his body with cold, painful claws and ripped the heart out of his chest, leaving bitterness and rage in its place. He’d hated everyone and everything in that moment.
Then Anabelle had raised the puny dagger he’d given her and valiantly defeated the High King. Little David against the giant Goliath.
But he was still in torment, still cold and angry.
But he set aside that anger for the moment. Anabelle did not look well. “Penelope, I think she’s taken a turn for the worse.”
*
Anabelle began to shiver in the night. She moved her arm to draw the covers up to her neck and cried out at the sharp, searing pain.
A soothing hand brushed against her hair. “Are you still cold, little one?”
“Saron?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
She wondered where here was. She would have remembered being swept into his arms and carried off to his room. She glanced about the darkened room and felt that it was very familiar. Harleigh. How had they come here? Dragons. Battle. She recognized her old bedroom. Yes, that’s where they were, and she was lying in her bed.
She glanced down and saw that she was partially out of her nightgown. No wonder she was cold. Her heart beat a little faster as a sudden thought struck her. Had Saron just made love to her? If so, she’d slept right through it!
She groaned in disappointment.
Of all the cursed luck.
She closed her eyes and tried to recall the magic moment. Every time she coupled with him felt magical, but there would not have been such joining tonight. She was in such pain. Her ribs. Her shoulder. Even her unbroken bones ached. “Saron, why aren’t I getting better?”
“I don’t know. These past few nights have been difficult for you. Let me summon a Fae healer.”
“No, not yet.”
She could almost hear him gnashing his teeth in frustration. “Why not?”
“You’re still too angry. I can sense it”
“Not at you,” he said in strangled voice. “Never at you. But who is to keep the Dragon Lords from breaking through their portals again if I’m not there to beat them back?”
“The Fae will do it as they’ve done for thousands of years.”
“This is my battle, not theirs.”
Her heart sank, for she’d noticed a disturbing change in Saron that she couldn’t quite understand. He was caring and attentive toward her and outwardly polite to everyone else, but his rage was increasing instead of abating. That dragon battle had taken much out of him. Not physically, for he was still as strong and proud as ever. The change was an insidious disease that was spreading deep inside of him. How could she help him when she was struggling to recover herself?
Perhaps there was a connection between the difficulties each of them was having. She couldn’t heal while he was quietly getting sicker. “My nightgown is all twisted.”
“The doctor insisted the gash be left exposed to air. He claimed it would heal faster.”
“It hurts.”
Saron knelt close. “You had some laudanum only two hours ago. I dare not give you more.”
“Is that why I feel such cold? It is a deep, penetrating chill.” There was a fire blazing in the hearth and Saron, she noticed, appeared to be uncomfortably hot. Beads of perspiration had formed across his brow. She realized that he had removed his jacket, vest, and cravat, and now knelt beside her with his sleeves rolled up and the top bu
ttons of his shirt undone.
She continued to shiver.
“I’ll add another blanket.” He left her side to fetch one.
Her teeth were chattering and body shivering by the time he returned.
“I can’t seem to stop the cold from penetrating.”
He reached for her wool robe that she’d earlier removed and tossed to the foot of her bed. “Sit up, Anabelle. Careful. Here, let me help you.”
She tried to rise, then sank back with a groan. “I can’t. It hurts to move.”
“Try to slip your good arm through the sleeve.” He brought the robe to her side and very gently tried to ease it over her shoulder.
“Please, stop,” she said urgently. “This isn’t working. I’m going to be ill.”
She felt the color drain from her face, and could tell by the worried look on Saron’s face that she was as white as her sheet. Others might blame in on the effect of the laudanum. She knew it was Saron doing this to her. How could she explain it to him? “I can’t stand this feeling. My hands and feet have turned to ice.”
“This damn medicine. It’s too much, but you need it to ease your pain.” He hesitated but a moment before settling beside her on the bed and very carefully taking her into his arms, explaining something about long English winters and the months he’d spent in hiding after his escape from the Underworld. He’d huddled with sheep to keep alive. She liked the part about huddling with him. Perhaps this is what they’d needed all along, to touch. To wrap themselves against each other instead of keeping their distance for fear of breaking her delicate bones.
“Dolly will have at me with her rolling pin,” he muttered, “but she’s not here and my body heat will warm you. I promise to do nothing more than hold you.”
“Nothing?” She made a little sound of disgust. “I’m not sure I care for that.”
He gazed at her in surprise, then grinned. “I’ll seduce you when you’re feeling better.”
“Promise?”
He stroked her hair tenderly. “Just get better, little one.”
Anabelle burrowed against his chest, wishing she better understood the nature of the changes in him. For now, she accepted the embracing warmth of his arms. “Had I known of your cure for the shivers, I would have complained of them much sooner.”
*
Saron spent the night in torment, settling into an awkward and terribly uncomfortable half-sitting position, but he didn’t mind so long as Anabelle was on the mend and out of pain. He kept one foot firmly planted on the floor while his other was slightly bent and dangling off the bed as though that alone would restrain his dragon lust. It didn’t. A sexual hunger stirred within him, heating his dragon blood and causing his body to throb with a deep, abiding ache.
A most improper ache.
But there was nothing new in that, for he hadn’t had a proper thought about Anabelle from the moment he’d set eyes on her.
She snuggled against him, sighing contentedly as he cradled her. “It should be ever like this,” she murmured, soaking in his warmth and strength.
She was a little disappointed when he did not agree.
By daybreak, to his profound relief, her chill had eased and fever broken. She’d given him a terrible scare these past few days, unable to hold down the mildest foods and her body temperature had alternated between violent sweats and intense cold. But today she seemed much better, her body warm but not overly so and her cheeks taking on a healthy, pink hue.
“Saron, are you free?” she asked, turning in his arms to gaze at him.
“No. You have me firmly in your clutches.” Her eyes were lucid and bright, no longer glazed with fever.
“I meant your soul. I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner, but my brain is so fuzzy I can’t think straight.”
His chest rose up and down as he let out a deep breath.
“I’m feeling much better now,” she insisted and proved it by consuming and holding down a bowl of broth and two scones over the course of the next hour. He settled her more comfortably against her pillows while he sank into his usual chair beside her, taking her hands into his and rubbing them lightly to warm her. “Does this mean you intend to leave now?”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “You know there’s much I’ve put off doing.”
“I know, my love.” She motioned him closer and reached up to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Remember me,” she whispered, “especially when the darkness takes hold of your soul. I’ve felt you struggling ever since the night of the battle. You enjoyed taking on all five dragons, but it filled you with a thirst for blood and vengeance that refuses to let go.”
After all those years of wishing his enemies a slow, painful death, of wishing to cast the killing blow and celebrate the execution, all he had thought of since Anabelle’s injury—worried about—was her survival.
Ultimately, the decision had been an easy one to make. He’d stayed by her side and held her in his arms, refusing to let her stop fighting, refusing to let her go until she was firmly on the mend.
He kissed her back, a hungry, possessive kiss pouring forth his passion, his need for her to remain in his life, his pride in having her as his dragon mate. “The darkness will always reside within me, but never conquer me. Not while you live, so you’d better not leave me for a good long while.”
But there was one more thing he had to do.
A need to correct an important past wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anabelle drew aside her bedroom curtain and gazed into the dark, wet night. The crack of lightning and roll of thunder had kept her up into the wee hours of the morning, though in truth, she had slept little since Saron’s departure, even when the weather had been quite mild.
No, she could not blame the weather for her restlessness, nor could she blame her dislocated shoulder or other wounds, for she had healed beautifully. Except for a small difficulty in raising her arm fully above her head, it pained her not at all now.
The reason for her restlessness, she grimly admitted, was Saron’s absence.
He had been gone well over three weeks and in all that time had sent no word to her or to his aunt. Penelope did not seem at all concerned, but she was used to Saron taking himself off for months on end without word.
Still, she could not help but worry.
He’d left with little more than a rushed farewell, as though eager to be away from Harleigh.
She leaned her head against the cold window pane and saw the storm vent its wrath on the Harleigh formal gardens. Petals ripped from spring blossoms and leaves whipped off ancient trees in a frenzied swirl, resembling ghosts dancing in a graveyard.
Where was Saron tonight?
In London? Or in the realm of the Fae? Or releasing his bloodlust in the Underworld?
“No, he promised,” she chided herself as another angry roll of thunder as deafening as a cannon’s roar shattered the night. Dragons fighting?
Turning from the window, she ignored the wind’s ominous moan and headed downstairs to warm some milk for herself, but paused upon hearing the whisper of male voices. “Masterson, is there a problem?”
“No, m’lady. It’s His Grace–”
“Has something happened to him?” She hurried down the last few steps and inhaled sharply as the man beside Masterson stepped out of the shadows and turned to face her. “Saron!” She threw her arms around him and instantly drew back laughing. He was soaked and now, so was she. “I didn’t hear you arrive. Welcome home.” He appeared chilled and a little haggard, but quite splendid. Always splendid.
Her heart began to leap excitedly as he shrugged out of his wet overcoat and handed it to Masterson before he took her into his arms for a restrained but heartfelt kiss. “Can you not sleep, little one? Is your wound still sore?”
“No, I’m all better. A thousand times better now that you’re home.”
She noticed a flicker of concern in his eyes as his gaze raked over her. “I’m soaked and in desperate need of sherry and a bl
azing fire.”
Masterson nodded. “I’ll waken one of the lads–”
Saron shook his head. “Don’t bother. I’ll light a fire myself in the library.”
“Then I’ll fetch you a glass of–”
“I’ll manage it myself, Masterson. I’d like a moment alone with my wife.” He dismissed the Harleigh butler, accepting a drying cloth to rinse the dampness from his hair and clothing, and then led her into the library. He fixed his gaze on Anabelle, a circumstance that would have given her much pleasure were he not frowning.
“What’s wrong?” she asked once they were alone and the door closed behind them.
He pursed his lips and deepened his frown. “I hadn’t meant to speak of this tonight. The hour is late–”
“I couldn’t sleep. Now I’m certain I shall never fall back to sleep.” She sat impatiently while he lit a warming fire. She’d waited a lifetime, or so it seemed, for his return and could wait a few moments longer to be taken into his arms, to be kissed.
Surely, he intended to kiss her wantonly and passionately.
No polite restraint this time.
She watched him pour a sherry and smiled in encouragement when he walked back to her side. She was seated in front of the hearth, eager to embrace the radiant heat of the flames. Now no longer chilled, she allowed her mind to wander, and it did, for wild thoughts suddenly abounded and grew wilder the longer he stood in silence beside her. He’d been gone so much longer than expected. Had something dire happened? What had he been doing?
“You look beautiful,” Saron said, kneeling beside her and slowly running a towel over his sleek body, across rippling muscles.
Goodness.
Of course, goodness had nothing to do with her thoughts at the moment. She held her breath while he combed his fingers through his gloriously dark mane, smoothing back attractively damp curls.
She blinked and swallowed hard. Truly, he was handsome and impossible to resist. He unfastened the top button of his shirt and rolled his sleeves over his forearms. The casual effect made him look even more magnificent.