Garden of Shadows (Dark Gardens Series Book 1)

by Meara Platt

  Garden of Shadows

  by

  Meara Platt

  Copyright © 2016 by Meara Platt

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Sneak Peek at Garden of Light

  Author’s Note

  Author Bio

  Special thanks to the members of Long Island Romance Writers for their inspiration, support, and lasting friendship.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, to my husband, Neal, for his continued support and patience. To my children, Adam and Gigi, for the pride they’ve always taken in me—feeling is mutual, kids. To my terrific sisters and sister-in-law: Nora, Jackie, and Michelle. To my wonderful mother-in-law, Mickie. Special thanks to Laurel Busch and Samantha Williams. My heartfelt appreciation to Kathryn Le Veque and her splendid Dragonblade team for giving the Dark Gardens series tender loving care and a perfect home.

  Chapter 1

  Douglas Hawke, sixth Earl of Eastbourne, reined his mount at the crest of a gently rolling hill to peer into the distance and survey the quiet village of Borrowdale. The tiny enclave of golden-thatched roofs and white stone walls blended serenely with the dark fells and high crags soaring above it, creating the illusion of a place lost in time, hidden from the outside world for the past six hundred years. “At last,” he said quietly to his companion, “we’ll steal the boy tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Homer Barrow, the Bow Street runner he’d retained to search for his lost nephew, cast him an uncertain glance. “Ain’t that a bit quick, m’lord?”

  “Miss Marsden had to know this day would come.” He frowned at Homer. “As did you when you accepted the assignment, Mr. Barrow. Having second thoughts?”

  Homer, reputed to be one of the finest runners in London, wiggled his bulbous red nose and grumbled. “No, but I gained her trust. We became friendly, she and I.”

  That Homer had developed a soft spot for the Marsden girl was of some concern to Douglas, but the old man wasn’t needed to complete the hardest and most unpleasant part of the task that Douglas knew could only fall to himself. “You’ve done your job and shall receive a hefty fee. You’ve earned it and I have no intention of cheating you out of it.”

  “Fat fee or no, I won’t let ye harm the girl.” Homer jerked the reins of his horse as he clenched a beefy fist. “I could never look Mrs. Barrow in the eye if I came home with blood on m’hands. So I’m warnin’ ye, m’lord. That knife of yers had better remain tucked in yer fancy black boot or–”

  “What? I might find it stuck between my ribs?”

  “Never, m’lord!” Homer said with a contrite shake of his head that caused his jowls to wobble. “I expect ye’re a reasonable man, but these delicate situations have a way of gettin’ out of hand right quick. I wouldn’t like to see anyone hurt.”

  Douglas furrowed his brow, but decided to say nothing more on the matter. His decision had been made and he fully intended to take the boy. He would fight anyone who attempted to stop him. Surely, Homer realized that. He studied the man, knowing he’d made the right choice despite this mild outburst.

  Homer showed all the physical signs of age for his hair was gray, his girth expansive, and his step slow and lumbering. But Douglas knew he had lost none of the sharp deductive abilities that made him the perfect man to find the elusive Julia Marsden… and, of course, his nephew.

  Over the course of their weeks together, he had grown accustomed to the Bow Street runner’s lack of diplomacy. In truth, Douglas preferred his bluntness to the feigned admiration so often encountered by one in his position. “Of course, I wish my nephew to be rescued unharmed. As for the Marsden girl, what happens to her shall depend entirely on her actions. Now,” Douglas said, signaling the end of their dispute, “tell me more about her.”

  Homer hesitated a moment before responding. “As I said in my report, she lives just outside of town, in the shadow of the mountain. Her father was vicar here until his death several years ago.”

  “And you’re certain she still resides at the vicarage?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Douglas shook his head. “A cozy arrangement with the new vicar, no doubt.”

  Homer’s jowls wobbled again as he shook his head and scowled. “She lives there alone with the boy. The vicarage is little more than a cottage standing beside the more imposing St. Lodore’s Church. We’ll reach it by following the river out of town, then up a steep, wooded path. The road is quite treacherous when wet, particularly at this time of year when the leaves change color and begin to fall. ’Tis easy to slip and break one’s neck.”

  Douglas laughingly groaned. “Mr. Barrow, you’re lecturing me again. Now, you’ve said in your report that she goes to market every Wednesday.”

  “Aye, m’lord. Around midday, punctual and precise. Rain or shine.”

  “Looks like rain today.” Douglas gazed into the distance, noting the menacing red storm clouds now towering above the imposing crags. The clouds were an odd, disquieting color, and he imagined they would be quite frightening as they swept into the valley on the quickening October wind. He drew his cloak about his shoulders, for the sun that was gleaming only moments ago suddenly disappeared behind one of those ominous swirls of red. “I’ve never seen such a sky.”

  “Aye, strange things go on in these parts,” Homer muttered, then appeared to shrug it off. “We’ll have a downpour within the hour, for sure. But never ye mind about ruining ’em fancy boots and fine clothes. If the skies open up, I’ll go to Julia and the boy on yer behalf while ye stay dry at the Ashness Inn. ’Tis an old place, been around since the days of Druids and pagan magic, but sturdy enough and the rooms are comfortable. I’ve secured the best they have, but in my name so as not to warn anyone of yer arrival.”

  “Julia, is it? You’ve become quite good friends, a fact you neglected to mention in your report.”

  Homer’s face reddened. “Ye paid me to find ’er for ye, m’lord, and I did. But she’s a decent sort, no matter what rot ye hear from thems that have never met ’er, and that’s just what I’ll say if I’m called to testify. No, Homer Barrow’s opinion cannot be swayed by coin and–”

  “Enough, Mr. Barrow.” Douglas groaned inwardly, surprised that the old man could be so easily swayed by a shy smile and a pretty face. He would not be so easily tricked by the scheming young woman.

  Eager to be on his way, Douglas spurred his mount down the hill and across a small meadow that ended at the bank of a gently rushing river. He paused beside the river’s edge to wait for his slower companion, biding his time by watching icy swirls form over rocks lodged in the water’s path.

  The swirls glistened like blue crystals, beautiful but cold… indeed, they almost seemed to be staring back at him, like a
pair of ice-blue eyes.

  He dismissed the notion. Were his heart not so cold, were the betrayals by his loved ones not so deep, Douglas might have appreciated the beauty of his surroundings. But he had been betrayed, the boy hidden from him all these years, and someone had to pay.

  He’d start with Julia Marsden.

  Chapter 2

  “Julia, is something wrong?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Gordimer,” Julia Marsden replied, ignoring the noisy caw of the raven circling overhead. She glanced at the darkening crimson sky and chided herself for staying too long in town. But to ignore Mr. Gordimer after he’d so kindly baked a batch of sweet buns for Charlie would have been rude. He’d also slipped a pair of fat rascals stuffed with currants – her favorite – into her basket.

  “I’ll see you next Wednesday. Thank you again, Mr. Gordimer.” She tossed the baker a warm smile.

  “My pleasure, lass. Give my regards to our bonnie Charlie and tell him that I’ve melted the sugar on the sweet buns just as King Cadeyrn likes.”

  “He’ll be pleased,” Julia said, struggling to maintain her smile. The inhabitants of Borrowdale delighted in Charlie’s tales of the Woodlands faerie king and his royal court who lived in splendor in these parts; dancing and singing throughout the day and especially into the night. Charlie claimed his faeries were harmless, unlike the Dragon Lords who supposedly lived beneath Friar’s Crag, the mountain that dominated their otherwise idyllic landscape.

  Lately, these fabled creatures were all the boy spoke about.

  “Now, ye’ve got that worried look again. Run along home, lass. Wouldn’t want ye caught in the rain.”

  “I’ll see you next week,” she said and hurried off.

  Julia spared but a passing glance at the Ashness Inn, its ancient white stone barely visible from behind the copse of trees along the road. The inn was older than the old stone vicarage that had been her home since before Charlie was born, the only home she or Charlie had ever known. “Good day, Julia,” the innkeeper said, startling her as he charged out of the copse onto the road.

  “Oh!” She let out a mirthful laugh. “Good day to you, Mr. Stevenson. I didn’t see you there.”

  “How’s Charlie?”

  “Very well… as well as can be expected.”

  “Good, good,” he said, appearing preoccupied. “Any word yet from the new vicar?”

  Julia shook her head. “Alas, no. But I’ve written him a welcome note and hope for a response soon.”

  The innkeeper grunted. “It’ll be good to hear those church bells ringing again. Well, I’ve got me a fancy party just arrived from London. Better get me some fresh supplies. And ye’d best get to the vicarage.” He glanced up at the sky and shivered. “Red again, as though the devil’s eyes are staring down at us. It’ll be a bad one tonight.”

  Julia walked briskly, following the river as it wound its way along the hillside path, always keeping her eye on the ominous crags looming in the distance, in particular the jagged peaks of Friar’s Crag. The raven had followed her from the village and was now circling those peaks in obvious agitation, swooping and soaring, its movements brisk and anxious, as though danger lurked close by.

  Friar’s Crag was cursed, so legend had it.

  Until recently, Julia had dismissed the legend. But lately, even the woodland animals seemed frightened of it and stayed away, all but the lone raven still soaring among its jutting rocks. She wondered whether it was the same bird who’d taken roost in the church bell tower this past month.

  As though sensing her gaze, the creature suddenly turned and swooped across the meadow toward her, its crystal blue eyes locking onto her and its talons extended as though she were its next prey. “Oh, my!”

  She darted into the thick woods, unable to catch her breath until she was safely hidden by the tall pines and maples. Only then did she chide herself for her fear of a silly bird. The notion that it would mistake her for prey was utterly ridiculous. “Have you found a squirrel?” she muttered as its dark shadow swooped over the treetops. “I hope it gets away.”

  The bird circled overhead a while longer until suddenly disappearing into one of those dark clouds. Just as suddenly, the cloud began to shift into the shape of a horseman riding an enormous, black stallion.

  In the next moment, Julia heard hoof beats and a stallion’s frightened neigh.

  A shiver shot up her spine.

  She put a hand over her wildly beating heart and laughed. These woods were safe. She’d traveled through them without incident for years. The raven was just a bird and the cloud was just a cloud, not some fearsome shadow rider.

  But the stallion’s cry had been real.

  The bird must have frightened it.

  Julia wrapped her cloak more securely about her shoulders and continued past rows of ferns and liverworts lining the familiar path, always keeping to her purpose and sparing only a glance at the icy pool of blue water, known as Derwentwater, glistening in the distance below.

  She continued to ignore the thud, thud, thud of hooves against the carpet of dead leaves, even as the sound grew louder and closer, until the beast let out another shriek. It was a strange, otherworldly noise seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere…from far away and right beside her.

  Julia ran the short distance home, bursting through the green gate and stopping for the briefest moment to secure the latch. She entered the vicarage just as the rain began to fall in earnest. “Charlie!” she called out breathlessly. “Where are you?”

  “Over here,” a cheerful voice responded from the nearby sitting room. “King Cadeyrn wants one of those sweet buns Mr. Gordimer tucked into your basket.”

  The boy’s glee and the comfort of familiar surroundings quickly calmed Julia’s skittish senses. Silently chiding herself once more, Julia set down her bundles on the sitting room table and joined Charlie by his favorite spot beside the window. “I’ll share a sweet bun with you if you’ve been good.”

  “I don’t want it, the king does. I know Mr. Gordimer tucked extras in your basket along with your fat rascals.” Charlie cast her a genuinely warm grin before returning his gaze to the window that dominated the cozy room and looked out onto their flower garden. For some inexplicable reason – perhaps an underground spring or some other quirk of nature – the garden held an abundance of flowers, particularly bluebells, all year long. King Cadeyrn and his faerie court lived among the bluebells, so Charlie claimed.

  “How did you know what was in my basket, my little love?”

  “King Cadeyrn told me. Julia, isn’t the garden beautiful today?”

  “Indeed, it is.” She realized the boy must have smelled the treats as she entered the house. There was no magic to the explanation, just logic, although the bluebell garden did seem magical in its beauty at times.

  “A miracle,” her father had called the brilliant display of flowers that never seemed to die. But he’d been the vicar here and was expected to believe in such things. Julia considered the garden’s amazing transformation a coincidence, a natural result of an emerging underground hot spring. She bent down to kiss Charlie’s cheek and ruffle his copper mop of hair. “Your hair’s damp. Did you just bathe? And you’re dressed in your Sunday best. Are you expecting someone special?”

  The boy cast her another grin, his freckled nose wrinkling and dark green eyes gleaming with youthful secrets. “Did Mr. Gordimer melt the sugar onto the tops just like King Cadeyrn likes?”

  Julia pursed her lips. “Charlie… oh, never mind.” She supposed the faerie king was as harmless as dotty Aunt Dimity’s collection of dolls. Those dolls, her aunt once claimed shortly before her death, had served as her closest friends in her waning years.

  “Well? Did he, Julia?”

  “What?”

  “Did he melt the sugar onto the tops of the sweet buns?”

  “Of course. Now, don’t grab the basket or you’ll spill an entire week’s supply of food. Be patient. I’ll be right back.”

  She
went into the kitchen, put away her purchases, then set the sweet buns on a plate and poured two glasses of lemonade. She carried them back into the sitting room and set them on the window ledge.

  “Where’s Mrs. Nesbitt?” she asked, moving behind Charlie to wheel his chair closer to the treats.

  “She saw you by the river as you turned up the path and decided to leave before the storm broke.”

  Julia frowned. She didn’t like Charlie to be left alone, even for the shortest time. However, complaining about it would do little good. Mrs. Nesbitt was an older woman and, though she lived close by, getting back and forth on Wednesday afternoons was not easy for her. Indeed, it was getting more and more difficult, as Mr. Nesbitt never failed to mention whenever their paths crossed.

  Just last week he’d told her that he and the “missus” would soon visit their daughter in London and wouldn’t be back until next spring. What would she do until then? Julia wondered. She’d have to find someone responsible to watch over Charlie.

  The boy didn’t seem a bit worried as he took a large bite of the warm bun, followed by a great gulp of lemonade. He refused to consider himself a cripple and was never afraid of being alone. She, on the other hand, lived in constant fear because of his condition. The boy’s heart was too weak to allow him to take more than five or six steps across a room without collapsing from the exertion.

  “Who was the gentleman with you, Julia? Why didn’t he come in?”

  Julia choked on her lemonade. “What gentleman?”

  “The one who followed you up the path.”

  “There was someone,” she said in a whisper, glancing toward the door. “Did you see him?”

  “No, King Cadeyrn told me about him. He said it would be all right to let him in when he knocks.”

  “How would he know?” She didn’t begrudge Charlie’s need for friends. Goodness, even she felt desperately lonely at times. But this was simply too much.