Sold To The Dragon Princes: The Novel

by Daniella Wright

  He’d spent a substantial amount of his life in the Highlands, even more so in the past several years. The castle was more home to him than Wendover Manor had ever been. In fact, he’d only arrived in London on the eve of his wedding, and only intended to stay long enough for his bride to make peace with leaving the home she’d known all her life for one she’d never seen, in a land so far from her own.

  But he’d expected a young bride much more subdued than the child he’d known, not one with a sharp tongue and a stubborn will that he wagered nearly matched his own. He had a feeling she would be none too pleased to learn of his plans, even less so since she seemed to dislike him for reasons he could not understand. Her repugnance had been immediately apparent in the way she held herself from him in the church, ramrod straight and an icy gleam in her eyes.

  But those eyes had blazed with fire when she’d lost her temper with him. As angry as she’d been, all he’d been able to do was wonder if they would blaze so hot lit up with desire. But as curious as he’d been, he had no intention of taking her, not when she saw it as nothing more than her duty as his bride. No, he wanted her filled with passion, desire so hot it overwhelmed her. And he’d felt a spark, as his fingers had trailed down her spine to unfasten her gown. She would have resisted if he’d pursued it, but he had no doubt her body had been responding to him. It wanted him, even if her mind abhorred the idea.

  And why did she despise him so much? Was it that she hadn’t wished to marry, or was it him in particular to which she objected so strongly?

  Glancing over at her, he watched as her chest rose and fell in even cadence beneath the heavy blanket. She was sound asleep. He stood and paced quietly back and forth across the room, too irritated and aroused to think sleep would welcome him anytime soon. And he remained thus, alternating between pacing and brooding in the wingback chair all night.

  Come morning, the sun chased away nearly every vestige of the night’s darkness, and it shone in bright through the window, touching the sleeping figure he stood watching still fast asleep. She was beautiful, but he’d known she would be from a child; dark, silken hair, delicate features, and deep green eyes beneath gently-winged brows that rose with her anger.

  Then all of a sudden he was staring into those emerald orbs. She’d come awake suddenly and hadn’t expected his presence there, evident by the way her cupid bow lips parted slightly and her breath escaped in a rush. Unfortunately, she was quick to recover herself.

  “Do you not sleep, or are you accustomed to hiding your debauchery in the night hours?”

  “How could I sleep with ye snoring all night, mo gràidh?“ he queried sweetly.

  She came upright at once. “I do not snore!”

  If only she knew how much he enjoyed seeing her riled in anger.

  “Oh, aye, ye do. Like a couple of old-fashioned giants.”

  Fire blazing already, she moved to stand but must have realized she was dressed in only her shift and wrapped the blankets around her body instead.

  “Go to the devil, Lachlan!” she spat but covered her mouth quickly, and he couldn’t stifle his laughter at her horrified expression—which only served to bolster her anger and leave her fuming wordlessly.

  “Nay, I think I’ll go see to making m’self presentable for breakfast, though. I trust I can send in your maid without worrying ye’ll expose her to your rough tongue?”

  Her arms crossed, holding the blankets around her, she just glared up at him. He presumed that since he didn’t see the house staff running in fear of Scarlett’s proximity, she was capable of reining herself in, so he could go in search of some place where he wasn’t tempted to kiss that scowl right off her face.

  He turned on his heels and strode out of the room, but as he closed the door behind him he heard what he presumed was a pillow thump quietly against it. What a woman!

  Chapter 4

  Scarlett flew out of bed the moment Lachlan had left the room, tossing the bedcovers on the floor in a fit of fury. She had a feeling she was failing miserably in upholding the vows she’d spoken only a day before, but he was so infuriating! Even the most patient and honorable of saints would be sorely tested by the man.

  Marie knocked on the door tentatively while she was still fuming, but she swallowed her anger as best she could and bid the maid enter. And over the next hour, Marie kept up a friendly banter that helped to soothe Scarlett’s frazzled nerves.

  Freshly bathed, dressed in a pale yellow gown, and her hair gathered in a soft cascade of curls atop her head, she felt much better. Almost enough to face her husband in some semblance of serenity—almost. Nevertheless, she could dally no more. She and Lachlan were expected to join her family for breakfast, and she still had to locate him before that could be accomplished.

  Not knowing where to look, she wandered from room to room, finally finding him asleep in a chair in the quiet sunroom at the far end of the manor. It had always been her favorite room because it managed to capture every bit of the day’s light. But instead of basking in the brightness and warmth of the room, Lachlan was fast asleep in a chair next to the window. He looked so peaceful despite the uncomfortable position, and she felt the oddest urge to run her fingers through his short, auburn and gold hair.

  Instead, she stood in the doorway watching him, while all the times she’d seen him in this very room as a child played in her mind. They had been strange friends, better at mocking and inciting the other than the camaraderie typical of friendship, but she’d enjoyed his visits. She’d enjoyed his visits very much—too much, in fact. She’d thought herself in love with the eighteen-year-old he’d been the last time she saw him.

  But with those memories came one she would rather not have recalled. She was the tender age of fourteen when his family had last visited the manor—to finalize the contract of her betrothal to Calum. But she’d wanted no part of the agreement, and made her feelings on the matter clear. She had her sights set on another as her future husband, and why not? They got on well enough, even if their relationship wasn’t a typical one, and she’d been mesmerized by his boyish good looks—tall, red hair that shone copper and gold in the sun, high cheekbones and strong jaw. Every young lady who saw him couldn’t help but be captivated by him, but he belonged to her. When her father had rejected her plea, she’d taken it elsewhere, publicly declaring her affection for Lachlan in hopes it would sway the contract.

  And then he’d broken her foolish heart. “Scarlett, your father knows what’s best for ye. Don’t argue with him, lass. Ye’re meant for Calum, and I’m meant for another lady,” he’d told her right there in front of their families. She hadn’t spoken a word after that. She’d run from the parlor and hidden in her rooms until his family had departed. And she hadn’t seen him since.

  When she arrived at the church, she’d recognized him right away—the sheer size of the man made him unmistakeable. Already broad-chested and strong at eighteen, he had muscle enough for two men now.

  And now he’d been forced to wed the lady he’d not wanted. He hadn’t returned to her once after her profession of love and his hasty rejection. She felt like such a fool, married to a man who had made it clear to all that he wished to marry another lady. If there had been any doubt about it, his rejection of her last night had made it clear. As nervous as she’d been standing at the bedroom window, his words had cut her deep. He’d wanted her to go to sleep. He did not want her in the way every man was supposed to want his bride on their wedding night.

  The crushing ache she’d felt so many years ago rose to the surface, but she tamped it down quickly. She would not humiliate herself any further. Never. She would never again let him see her vulnerable like that. And so she covered it up in the only way she knew how. “Wake up you loitersack!” she screeched and his eyes flew open, though he didn’t move a muscle. “Do you intend to sleep and laze about all day?”

  “That depends. Did ye come here to snore in my ear?”

  “I told you, I don’t snore. And if I’m going
to do anything to your ear, it’s not going to be to snore in it,” she threatened idly.

  “Oh? What’d ye have in mind then?” he queried as he ran his fingers through his hair. She kept her eyes carefully averted, refusing to think about how she’d wanted to do just that only moments before.

  “Arghhh! Weren’t you going to make yourself presentable?” she mocked, changing the topic. Though in truth, he looked impeccably groomed aside from a stray wave that had fallen over his forehead.

  “And do ye think me unpresentable, Lady Wendover?” He stood and made a dramatic turn for her. “I think I’ll not embarrass ye too much.”

  “Embarrass me…” she whispered, his words bringing her last humiliation back to the forefront of her mind.

  “I’ll not embarrass ye, lass. It woundna do me any good, now would it?” he spoke gently, his eyes probing her own for an answer to her change in demeanor. He wasn’t going to find one.

  “Good, shall we go, then? You’ve already made us late.” She turned away from him and strode from the room, not waiting to see if he followed in her wake.

  Chapter 5

  She and Lachlan departed for Wendover Manor just a few hours after breakfast. Her mother’s eyes had been filled with tears, even when she reassured her she would return to visit soon. And her father had said little to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight in a rare display of affection. She was going to her husband’s home, not her grave, and yet they’d acted like they would never see her again. Still, it was better than the awkward ride to Wendover that followed. He’d pointed out old, familiar sites along the way, reminiscing after being away from England for so long. She gave little more than the occasional non-committal murmur, having no interest in dredging up memories of the time they’d spent together as children.

  “Do ye remember the picnic at Northumberland?” he asked, passing the enormous estate of the Duke. “Yer father was none too happy to find the lot of us had taken the horses down to the pond there.”

  She remembered. That menacingly pretty daughter of the Duke—Alice—had followed Lachlan around all day but the girl could not stay atop a horse if her life depended on it. So, Scarlett had proposed an impromptu venture on horseback. And though a group of six others accompanied them, Alice was not among them. He’d left the girl’s side so easily, she’d been certain it had been for her.

  But she’d been wrong. “Since when did you care what my father, or anyone else thought?” she jibed.

  “As I recall, I cared deeply what a certain young lady thought that day,” he replied unruffled.

  “Yes, I’m sure Alice was most appreciative of your thoughtfulness,” she remarked and then immediately regretted it. She sounded petty and worse, she sounded jealous.

  “I didna much care for that girl. Nice enough, but a backbone like jelly. It’s a wonder the girl could stand upright,” he mused.

  “Yes, well, that’s what I meant. You were kind to her when many others weren’t,” she lied, but it covered her earlier remark neatly.

  “Aye, I’m sure that’s what ye meant, mo gràidh.” He smiled sarcastically. Obviously he hadn’t missed her meaning.

  The rest of the ride progressed in silence while she continued to fume silently, finding it easier to keep her anger up than risk him finding what laid beneath.

  “I’d thank you to show me to my room,” she told him as they entered the grand foyer of Wendover.

  “Your room?”

  “Yes. As you made yourself perfectly clear last night, it seems there is no reason for us to share a bedroom. My snoring will only continue to keep you from a sound night’s sleep.”

  “Aye, lass, if that’s what ye want. ‘Tis probably for the best. After listening to ye making a racket last night, I feared I’d never see a full night’s rest again.”

  “And I thought you Scots feared nothing!”

  “Only half Scot, remember? The English side fears plenty, especially the prospect of losing sleep next to our snoring wives.”

  “Oh? And do none of your whores snore?”

  “I wouldna know, lass. I never stay long enough to find out.”

  The nerve of the man to speak so crudely—and to his wife, no less! “Insufferable lout!”

  “It seems unfair of ye to ask, and then get upset over the answer, don’t ye think?”

  She stood there fuming over the lopsided grin he wore on his too-handsome face. His eyes sparkled in his mirth, and in that moment she would have given just about anything to wipe the humor off his face. “Perhaps if you’re so fond of whores I should look into becoming one myself!”

  Her suggestion had its desired effect. Every drop of humor drained from his face, but what replaced it wasn’t what she’d intended. She’d meant to rattle him, to irritate him. Not to send him careening into the grips of white hot rage.

  “Over…my…dead…body,” he seethed, and though his voice was little more than a whisper, he looked ready to commit murder, every trace of the English gentleman giving way to the Highland warrior in his blood. “I’ll lock ye in my room and chain ye to the bed before I let ye lay beneath another man.”

  “Whores prefer to ride, do they not?” She had no idea what he’d meant by that comment about riding whores and cold fish he’d made the night prior, but it seemed somehow relevant now.

  He took a step forward and she worried she’d pushed him too far. She could see the vein in his neck throbbing wildly and his hands were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. But she would not cower or skitter away. It might be the death of her, but she would not let him see her fear any more than she intended him to see her humiliation.

  She squared her shoulders and raised herself to her full height, “What? You…you supposed I’d remain the innocent bride while you gallivanted around London with your whores?”

  The fire in his eyes changed as he took another step toward her. She didn’t understand it but whatever it was ignited a fire deep inside her, and its blaze sent something unlike anger coursing through her veins.

  “I supposed ye’d do precisely what your told because I’m your husband now, Scarlett, whether ye like it or not.”

  He crossed the last step that remained between them and she hadn’t time to see it coming. His arms were around her, crushing her against him in a flash, and his lips descended on her own in the blink of an eye. The anger coursing through her raged out of control.

  But no, it wasn’t anger. It was something else, and so quickly it threatened to consume her. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t scream. All she could do was stand there, feeling his hard body against hers, his full lips crushing hers…and praying to God that he never stopped.

  She didn’t resist when his lips parted hers and she felt the tip of his tongue flick across her lips before gliding against her own. And she was helpless to stop the muffled moan that rose from her throat as he slid back and forth, in and out, in an intimate caress that she somehow knew innately was an antecedent to something so much more intimate.

  His hands moved from where he held her at the small of her back, gliding up her arms, grazing across her collarbones. Everywhere he touched her, her skin tingled and set the blaze inside her burning brighter, hotter.

  He pulled away from her, but he did not release her lips, and his hands traveled lower. He cupped her breasts and she froze, stiffening in panic as the fire threatened to consume her. Dear Lord, what was she doing?

  His hands fell away and his mouth left hers, and suddenly she felt bereft, despite her confusion a moment prior. He ran his fingers through his hair as he exhaled heavily, still close enough she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek, caressing her.

  “Nay, I think ye’d not make a very good whore, lass. Have to negotiate your price up front, ye ken?”

  What? What was he talking about? And then it hit her—the argument she’d been engaged in before he’d pulled her to him and banished every bit of good sense from her mind. Mustering every bit of anger she co
uld find, she glared at him in what she hoped would appear to be righteous indignation.

  But he was first to speak. “Ye canna fool me. Ye’re flushed right down to your breasts, mo gràidh. I told ye last night that ye’d like it a lot.”

  “Insufferable lout!”

  “Is your head feeling a little bit muddled because ye’ve used that one already,” he teased with that same grin.

  Letting out a screech, she stormed off then, not the least bit concerned with her direction or the fact she had absolutely no idea which bedchamber she could claim as her own. It didn’t matter. She’d come across a maid eventually and have the woman show her to an available room. She didn’t care which one—so long as it was as far away from Lachlan’s as possible.

  Chapter 6

  The day passed and then another in relative silence, aside from the familiar sounds of the house staff bustling about the manor. Lachlan had dined alone their first evening at Wendover, and the next as well. Lady Wendover had chosen to dine in her room, he’d been told by her pint-sized, brown-haired maid, Beatrice. As much as he wanted Scarlett, he was beginning to think he’d made a mistake—not that his father would have given him a say in the matter if he’d wanted one. And if his father was still alive now, the man would tell him he was being foolish. He’d say a woman like Scarlett needed a firm man to curb her temper. But Lachlan didn’t want to curb it. Hell, he’d welcome it if she’d show the faintest interest in him she’d had as a child.

  A strong woman—there wasn’t anything finer, but it did him no good if she kept to herself in her rooms. For reasons unbeknownst to him, Scarlett did not want to have anything to do with him. Though, that wasn’t entirely true. Scarlett’s mind wanted nothing to do with him. Her body was a different story.