Garden of Destiny (Dark Gardens Book 4)

by Meara Platt

  Chapter One

  St. Lodore’s Vicarage

  Borrowdale, England

  May 1817

  “Sir! Are you injured?” Melody Hargreaves asked, falling to her knees beside the unresponsive stranger who lay face down in her bluebell garden. How had he ended up there? St. Lodore’s vicarage was a walk from Borrowdale and involved a short climb up a mountain path—difficult for a hiker and almost impossible for a drunkard weaving his way home after a night’s binge at a local tavern.

  He obviously wasn’t a hiker.

  Whoever he was, she wanted him out. He was ruining her lovely flowers.

  She shook him, cautiously at first and then raised his head slightly to feel his brow. It was cool to the touch. So were his hands, though the day was warm and the sun shone against a blue sky. A rare cloudless day like this always made Melody’s heart sing. Birds chirped in the surrounding willows and rabbits hopped in and out of the flower beds, completing what would have been an idyllic scene but for this stranger.

  A sudden thought struck her. Was he dead? She hadn’t really considered that he might be.

  Nor did he feel dead … not that Melody had ever seen or touched a dead man before, so she wouldn’t really know. There was an unmistakable vitality to this stranger. The way he now rested his head on his arms and the casual bend of his long legs made him appear to be merely sleeping.

  Or drunk, she decided with annoyance when he let out a snort.

  “Wake up!” Melody gave him a hearty push, intending to roll him out of the bluebells, but the grass had a slope to it and she’d pushed too hard. She scrambled to her feet and chased after him as he rolled toward the hot spring bubbling beside her garden. To her relief, she managed to grab hold of him before he fell into the water.

  “Oh, dear! Stay right there,” she muttered, easing him onto his back and beginning to worry that he had not yet moved a muscle … and he did have quite a lot of those. Kneeling beside him, she hesitated but a moment before grazing her fingers along his hand again, which no longer felt cold. Odd, he now felt invitingly warm, as though he was heating to her touch.

  She sighed and began to run her hands along his body. Not that she wanted to do it, but someone had to check him for cuts or broken bones.

  She found nothing more serious than a few bruises.

  Still worried, she poked him gently.

  His chest rose and fell slightly in response.

  “Your breathing is steady. Thank goodness. Now lie still while I dunk my handkerchief into the hot spring. Don’t be alarmed, I only mean to wipe the dirt off your face.” She dipped her handkerchief into the warm water, squeezed out the excess moisture, and carefully wiped the streaks of dirt off his cheeks and brow. “You look wretched. What happened to you? I don’t suppose you were attacked by a highwayman. You seem quite capable of defending yourself. Besides, no decent highwayman would waste his time out here. Behind the hedgerows on the road to Chester is where I’d hide if I were planning to rob a passerby.”

  She wiped dirt off his neck. “I suppose it was a tall tankard of ale that did you in … or several tall tankards. Were you drinking alone? Or with friends? Well, they aren’t very good friends if you ask me. Friends don’t abandon each other. I wouldn’t have abandoned you. Forgive me for chattering, but I’m relieved that you’re alive. I so rarely have a companion … not that you and I are friends or even acquaintances, but you’re easy to talk to, especially now that you’re … not dead.”

  The stranger opened his eyes.

  Melody shrieked and rocked backward on her heels, spared a tumble into the hot spring when he grabbed her firmly by the wrist and drew her back to his side. Flustered, she lost her balance and fell atop his hard chest. “You’re awake! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He sat up as she scrambled off him, tossing aside the wet handkerchief she’d dropped on his head when she’d fallen. His gaze locked onto hers. Melody’s breath caught in her throat, for his eyes were a vibrant blue, as cold and deep as crystal lake waters, a stunning blue that contrasted with the magnificent raven-black of his hair falling in perfect waves below his shoulders.

  He appeared only a few years older than her own twenty, but there was something in those blue depths that made him seem eternal. He had the look of a man who was used to being in command.

  What did he think of her?

  Not that it mattered.

  He was looking at her with a slight sign of confusion. “You’re not The Julia.”

  Who?

  She glanced down and noticed that he still had a light hold on her wrist.

  “I must know who you are and what you’re doing here,” he insisted.

  “I’m The Melody. Kindly let me go. You’re hurting me,” she said, though his grip was surprisingly gentle.

  “Forgive me.” He released her, but continued to gaze at her with a thoughtful but puzzled look. “The Melody? What’s that?”

  “It’s my name and I rather like it. Who’s The Julia you mentioned? Someone special to you?”

  He nodded. “I had hoped she would be my queen, that she would be The One. Without her, I cannot survive.”

  “What a lovely way to describe your sweetheart.” That he should have one came as little surprise to Melody considering his good looks. Yet, she felt an inexplicable disappointment.

  “What is the precise meaning of this word … sweetheart? I’ve heard others use it before,” he said in a perfectly refined English accent that proved he’d been speaking the language all his life. “Some men speak it softly to the woman they intend to marry, while others say it to any woman they think will lift their—”

  She frowned. “I don’t appreciate your jest at my expense.”

  “Jest? My mission is serious. I must find my queen.”

  “Well, if her name is The Julia you won’t find her here.” Melody groaned inwardly. The man was still drunk and rambling about a local girl who must have caught his fancy.

  “She must be here. She is The One. It is written in the Prophecy.”

  Melody decided to humor him until he was on his feet and safely on his way. “Ah, I see. If you’re looking for your queen, then you must be a king. A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty. King …”

  “Cadeyrn,” he said with regal authority, rising to his feet and once more taking her hand to bring her up beside him. “I am King of the Woodlands Faeries. A pleasure to meet you, The Melody.”

  “No, it’s just … Melody. Not The Melody. Simply Melody.”

  “Melody,” he repeated in a husky rumble that sent a tingle through her body that she chose to ignore. He was drunk, and drunken sots could not be trusted.

  “Well, I must be going now,” she said, tugging at her hand to free it from his grasp. Oh, he was a handsome sot to be sure. Although it was odd that his breath held no trace of spirits nor did his clothes reek of spilled ale. In truth, he smelled rather nice. Like honeysuckle. Perhaps he wasn’t drunk after all.

  Perhaps he was merely a rogue, or a London rakehell rusticating in the Lake District.

  A well-dressed rakehell, for he was clad in a shirt of finest lawn and buff-colored pants of purest wool tucked into black boots made of soft, expensive leather. However, it was the sapphire ring he wore on his left hand that marked him as a wealthy man. Not a king but perhaps a lord.

  He didn’t appear to be violent, but one could never be sure. “My family’s expecting me to cook supper. I should have started it an hour ago. I’m late. Quite late. We’re a large family, lots of big, hungry men,” she lied, for there was no one but her mother and stepfather, Borrowdale’s new vicar. “They’re much bigger than you, though you’re awfully big.”

  Melody was of average height, yet she barely reached to his chin. “And they like to fight, for any reason and no reason. They just like fighting. They’ll come looking for me if I don’t return home soon.”

  “Then I’ll not delay you.” He nodded and released her hand.

  She felt a stab of gui
lt when he graciously accepted the lie she’d just told. It wasn’t even a good lie. “Borrowdale is that way,” she said, pointing eastward. “Just follow the path through the woods and keep Friar’s Crag to your right, then turn left at the river, though it’s little more than a stream really. It’s a short walk from there into town.”

  “I know. I’ve lived here a long time.”

  “You have?”

  He folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow. “But you’re new to the area.”

  She nodded, now realizing he was in complete control of his senses and must have been having a little sport at her expense. King, indeed! It wasn’t very nice of him to scare her that way. She supposed it was some sort of odd welcome ritual concocted by the local gentry. “My stepfather, Thomas Axwell, is the new vicar. Have you met him?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been … away and just returned.”

  “He and my mother have been here for several months now. I arrived only a week ago and haven’t had the chance to meet the local parishioners. Otherwise, I might have recognized you and seen through your little game. Will you be joining us at services this Sunday?”

  “Perhaps.” He bent and scooped a handful of bluebells out of her garden. “You’d best be on your way. Here are your bluebells. You did come here to pick them, didn’t you?”

  She nodded.

  Had she told him? She didn’t recall mentioning it. “Farewell, Your Majesty. I hope you find your One.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Indeed, I must. The survival of my realm depends on it.”

  She smiled, willing to go along with his silly game for as long as he meant to keep it going. “Indeed, a weighty problem. Let me know if I can be of any help.”

  “I don’t see how you can be, unless you’re able to fight dragons.”

  She pretended to mull the notion. “Fire-breathing or just your ordinary sort of dragon?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, of course I can. Can’t you?”

  “Not nearly as well as I’d like,” he said, now eyeing her with admiration.

  Her body warmed and began to tingle, the feeling quite pleasant, which was ridiculous since she didn’t know this gentleman and their conversation was just about the oddest she’d ever had with anyone. “It isn’t hard to do.”

  “How is it that you battle them with ease? Will you teach me?”

  “I don’t think so. Why don’t you ask your precious One?”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I will when I find her. In the meanwhile, would you teach—”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t right now. I have other things to do.”

  “What can be more important than training a king to defeat dragons?”

  She tipped her head upward to meet his puzzled gaze. “Baking, for one. I’m making apple pie.”

  *

  Cadeyrn remained beside the bluebell garden’s hot spring, watching Melody as she walked away from him and disappeared into the vicarage. These humans were talkative creatures, to be sure. Melody in particular. He hadn’t understood most of what she’d said, especially that bit of nonsense about the hungry, fighting men in her family. These men didn’t exist, so why did she feel compelled to say they did? Perhaps to impress him. No matter, it wasn’t important.

  Of importance was Melody’s ability to fight dragons, for most humans couldn’t. That she could had to be significant. Also significant was her ability to see him. She’d noticed him at once as he rested in the bluebell garden after spending a difficult night fighting Lord Brihann’s demons. He had meant to recover from battle, not make contact with Melody. Yet there she was, chattering away in that soft, lilting voice of hers as though she encountered faerie kings every day. “Curious,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

  Also curious was her ability to touch him and feel no pain. To touch a faerie often meant death to a human, for faerie skin was icy to the human touch and had the power to freeze a human heart. Melody, however, had run her hands up and down his entire body without the slightest ill effect. That was … most confusing. Julia Marsden, the young woman who had lived at the vicarage before Melody, had almost died at his hand. It was his fault—he understood that now—but he’d been so certain at the time that she was destined to be his queen.

  He’d learned his lesson and would take greater care with Melody.

  Was she part Fae?

  He dismissed the possibility, for there was a warmth to Melody’s dark green eyes and a vibrancy to her brown hair that marked her as human. Her hair wasn’t a pure brown, but more of a chestnut color, an earthy, reddish brown that blazed under the sun’s glow. Fae hair was much finer, not as thick, and rarely curled at the ends as hers did.

  “Your Majesty, what’s your decision?” the eldest of his counselors asked, reminding him that all twelve had come running to his rescue, swords drawn, the moment the girl who called herself Melody had touched him. He’d held them back with a silent command, for she was no demon and certainly no danger to him.

  However, not all was as it should be. She’d seen him, but had not noticed the other Fae surrounding the two of them. What did that signify?

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet, Fiergrin. I need more time.”

  “We haven’t any time. Lord Brihann is on the march and his armies will be upon us by the rise of the next full moon. Until now, we’ve been fighting his advance guard, but they are mere scouts and spies. We’ll have no chance against his demon forces once they’re fully mustered, all Dragon Lords united under one banner, unless we find The One named in the Prophecy. Do you believe it is this girl, Melody? Is she your queen or not?”

  Cadeyrn turned to face his Fae council. Comprising the wisest among his subjects, these elders had served him faithfully over the centuries and now depended on him to save their Woodlands realm. The Garden faeries, Lake faeries, even the English prince regent had sent emissaries to him, pleading for his help, for they all believed the survival of their realms rested in his hands. “You demand an answer I cannot yet give.”

  “But the Prophecy—”

  “Fiergrin! It is but a riddle written in stone thousands of years ago. A useless riddle that won’t save us. Only we can save ourselves … and only if we learn the way of the humans.”

  “You dare refer to the sacred Stone of Draloch as useless!” Ygraine, eldest female on his council, stepped forward. By the nods of the others, Cadeyrn saw that she spoke for all of them. “The stone is the key to our salvation, the words written upon it our guiding light. Lord Brihann is desperate to stop us before we solve that useless riddle. He knows it will give us the power to destroy him.”

  “And if we don’t destroy him,” Fiergrin added, his tone somber, “we’ll be forced to join him, forced to lose our fragile souls to the darkness as he did long ago.”

  “I know. You needn’t remind me of the peril.”

  “Well?” Ygraine stepped close and put a hand on his shoulder, surprising Cadeyrn. How long had it been since any of the Fae had touched each other in that purposeless, human way? Ygraine must have reached back thousands of years for that long-ago memory. The girl called Melody had touched him as well, running her hands everywhere on his body … well, almost everywhere.

  Cadeyrn turned to stare at the vicarage. “Give me one more moon rise. Then you’ll have your answer.”

  END

  Get Garden of Light Now!

  SNEAK PEEK AT

  GARDEN OF DRAGONS

  Chapter One

  The Lake District

  March 1818

  A chill March wind blew in as Saron Blakefield, Duke of Draloch, peered out of the window of his carriage while it wound its way up the snowy drive to Harleigh Hall. A young woman stood alone, apparently in wait for him, atop the steps of the simple manor house, her red-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight and framing her face in a delicate halo. She appeared small and slender, not at all what he had been led to expect, but it was hard to judge her height from this distance and her
formless black gown hid more than it revealed.

  Ah, yes, he recalled. The girl was still in mourning for her father. That excused her poor choice of gown. However, he thought with no small disappointment, Lady Anabelle Harleigh was decidedly plain.

  He could not blame her for being so, and in the course of his months of legal battle with her, he had indulged in picturing her a fiery temptress, tall and strong, in the tradition of the Valkyrie, the sort of woman who could save a man’s damaged soul. He ought to have realized that no such woman could exist in the quiet English countryside.

  “What does she know about me?” Saron asked his companion, for he knew Lord Chalmers fairly well and thought him a good fellow. More important, Lord Chalmers knew Anabelle very well for they had been friends and neighbors for all of Anabelle’s twenty years.

  “I’ve told her nothing, Your Grace, as you instructed. However, it does not sit well with me that so much should be hidden from her. She ought to know what she is getting into before–”

  “Enough, Chalmers. I know what must be done.” All the more foolishly, he had been intrigued by Anabelle’s impassioned letters seeking the return of Harleigh Hall to the Harleigh family. Indeed, he had looked forward to her weekly correspondence and often read her delightfully forthright letters before opening more important mail. He had even enjoyed the legal battle Anabelle had initiated and readily admitted goading her into it.

  But the game now neared its conclusion, and he realized wearily it had all been for naught. The brave and beautiful woman of his dreams did not exist. Before him stood Anabelle, meek and ordinary.

  Disillusioned, Saron nevertheless continued to gaze at her. As if sensing his scrutiny, she stiffened her stance and for the first time, he noticed the hunting rifle at her side. He smiled imperceptibly before turning to Lord Chalmers once again. “Do you suppose she plans to shoot me?”

  “One never quite knows what Anabelle plans to do until she does it,” he said, letting loose a jovial chuckle. “A most impulsive creature, but kindhearted in the extreme. I doubt you will meet your untimely demise at her hands, Your Grace.”