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.”
Saron stretched his legs before him. He was a large man and found the enclosed space of his carriage most confining. “Are you certain? She detests me, believes I stole Harleigh Hall from her father. Perhaps she believes that, however indirectly, I caused her father’s death. He died shortly after losing the estate.”
“Your refusal to part with the place, considering the circumstances under which you acquired it, did hurt her deeply.”
“The card game was honest. Her father understood what he was doing and the risk involved.”
“Yes, yes, there is not a man in all of England who would disagree. Even her little imp of a brother, the young Earl of Cleve, will not blame you for his father’s death. He understands you have every right to Harleigh Hall and is displeased with his sister for initiating those legal proceedings against you. However, Anabelle will not accept Lord Markby’s decision.”
Saron patted his breast pocket and the judicial decree contained within. “She will have to, now that he has ruled.”
Chalmers sighed. “I cannot envision Anabelle without this place. Her spirit is so closely bound to it.”
Saron merely raised a quizzical eyebrow, for although Anabelle was a most determined young lady, she was no match for the Dragon of Draloch, as Society had taken to calling him. Few understood how appropriately the name applied and he meant to keep it that way. “Nonsense,” he said with a scowl. “Harleigh is an unimpressive estate situated by a secluded lake in the middle of nowhere. What young lady would wish to remain here if given the chance to live lavishly in London? Though Anabelle is an unwelcome burden to me, I shall do my duty as honor demands.”
Chalmers began to shift nervously in his seat. “Your Grace…”
“Yes?”
“That is to s-say…”
“Out with it. You know you may speak freely to me. What is it you wish to ask?”
“Yes… well…” Chalmers drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. “What I wish to know… what all of London has been dying to know, is why did you let the game go so far? Why is Lady Anabelle so important to you? You could have simply sold Harleigh back to her and ended your entanglement. She would have given you anything for it.”
Saron regarded him thoughtfully. “I’ve often asked myself the same question. Perhaps when I meet the lady I shall learn the answer.”
*
Lady Anabelle Harleigh gazed across the snow-dappled front lawn to the distant wrought iron entry gate swaying in the wind. The gate should have been locked, as she had ordered at the time of her father’s death six months ago. Curse her bad luck! Today of all days it had been overlooked. Now, it was too late to remedy, and the duke’s imposing gray coach had entered the grounds unimpeded, drawn by four huge black beasts snorting cold air out of their flared nostrils.
She held her breath as the duke’s coach clattered to a halt on the cobblestone courtyard in front of the manor house. Emblazoned across the door of the coach was the Draloch crest – a demonic black dragon with horribly long, curled talons and smoldering eyes that were a forbidding mix of blue and gray—evil eyes filled with hate.
Suddenly overcome by a terrible dread, Anabelle considered running away, but she forced herself to stand her ground as the coach door groaned open and a figure emerged. Uttering a silent prayer, she remained frozen in place as her archenemy disembarked.
Exquisitely garbed in daunting black, he strode toward her as though without a care in the world. Although they had never set eyes upon each other until this moment, they knew each other well from their months of legal battling. She had been curious to meet her enemy, and by his presence here, he had obviously felt the same. Or was it more than mere curiosity that brought him here? His presence did not bode well for her.
The duke paused at the foot of the steps and raised his eyes to study her.
“Lord protect me,” she whispered in panic. His eyes were the dragon’s fearsome blend of azure blue and gray. Though he did not regard her with quite the dragon’s venomous gaze, nonetheless, she felt the iciness of his penetrating stare. Too late, she realized she ought to have run while she had the chance, for the duke, apparently sensing her uncertainty and deciding that she posed no danger to him, ominously advanced.
“Take one step closer, Your Grace, and I shall shoot you dead.”
Slowly raising her hunting rifle, she took aim at the duke’s broad chest. Sporting neither cloak nor hat, he apparently regarded himself impervious to the winter’s cold. She, too, was underdressed for the weather, having been warned of his arrival too late to tend to matters of comfort. She prayed he would mistake her shivering for cold and fail to recognize the fear gnawing at her insides.
Her arms began to shake from the weight of the infernal rifle and she wondered how much heavier it would be if it were actually loaded.
A feral grin spread across the duke’s lips as he swiftly unbuttoned his black coat and elegant brocade vest, spreading the garments open to reveal a fine, white lawn shirt and the solid strength beneath it. “Take careful aim, m’lady,” he mocked, “for if you miss, you will have sealed your doom.”
Another chill ran up her spine, but she shrugged it off. ’Twas nothing more than the cold March wind at her back. “Be gone, Devil! You shall not gain entrance to Harleigh Hall as long as I live.”
“I would not count on that if I were you.” His commanding voice betrayed a trace of reserved humor. When she did not immediately respond to his remark, he ran a hand through the waves of his black hair and glanced questioningly at Lord Chalmers, who was staring at her, mouth agape, from the duke’s carriage.
After a moment, the duke returned his gaze to her, sporting a waggish smirk that made him seem more pirate than respected duke of the realm. “The game grows wearisome, little one. Send me off to my just reward or step aside.” His eyes gleamed brighter as he goaded her into dispatching him to his Maker.
“What manner of man are you?” Anabelle could not fathom his apparent indifference to his own well-being. She had heard gossip to the effect that the duke cared not a whit for anything or anyone. Yet, she never imagined that his indifference might apply even to himself. That had been a serious miscalculation on her part. Where another man might have turned and run, Saron Blakefield, the Dragon of Draloch, as he was known, would not.
She cocked the rifle.
“What are you waiting for, little one?” His voice was strangely tender, almost as though he felt he had experienced enough of life and embraced the prospect of impending death. Was he absolving her of the sin of his own murder? Goodness! Did he really believe her a murderess?
She secured her hold on the rifle stock, her finger slowly curling about the trigger, but to her dismay, he did not appear in the least frightened. Indeed, he stood steadfast and confident. In truth, dishearteningly magnificent, not at all twisted and bent like the fiend she had imagined him.
“Well? Are we to stand out here all day? If so, take my coat. I see that you are shivering.” His manner remained surprisingly tender.
Was this another of his tricks? He ought to hate her beyond words.
At the last moment, she set the rifle aside. The duke had not been scared off and the game no longer seemed humorous. In any event, she could not let him believe she meant to kill him.
“Don’t do it, Anabelle!” her brother cried, racing out of the house and lunging for her, apparently unaware she had set down her weapon. “Harleigh Hall isn’t worth it!”
“Robert, you little pest – ack!” Her brother hit her solidly, sending them both hurtling a small distance through the air toward the duke. She knew, with a sudden horror, that they would knock him over as well.
“Good lord!” she heard the duke mutter as she and her brother struck him full in the chest. Anabelle bounced off the solid brick wall that was his body, and should have landed flat on her back on the cobblestone courtyard, but was somehow spared the worst of the fall as the duke reached out to catch her.
He would have safely caught her, too. But her brother’s flailing arms got between them at the worst possible moment. Despite the duke’s efforts to hold on to her, she tumbled ungracefully out of his grasp and landed relatively unharmed at the bottom of a messy heap at his feet. She opened her eyes only to find her freckle-faced brother gawking at her, for he’d managed to land atop her. “Get off me,” she said with a grunt.
Robert shifted slightly, apparently too winded or embarrassed to do more. As he did so, the sky suddenly began to spin overhead with violent force. Anabelle clutched at the cobblestones to steady herself, but in vain. The gentle blue sky only spun faster and suddenly turned a dark, demonic shade of dragon blue, not that she’d ever seen such eyes on a dragon other than on the duke’s coat of arms. “Oh,” she groaned, realizing that she was staring into the duke’s eyes.
Slowly bringing one hand to her head, she also realized her precarious bun had come undone. She was lying at the duke’s feet. Well, not quite at his feet but on them, her hair now fanned out in waves of red across his shiny black boots.
She recalled her head had somehow hit his hands and then his boots, and not the courtyard stone. Thank heaven. If not for that stroke of good fortune, she would have been knocked senseless. Was he staring at her? Of course, he was. How could he overlook this bizarre scene?
Her brother moved across her stomach, using her body as leverage while he rose to his knees. Thankfully, he was uninjured. She looked down at herself. She, too, was uninjured except for her pride, which had taken a stunning blow. She resolved to box her brother’s ears as soon as she caught her breath, which she did quickly once he was no longer atop her.
“Why aren’t you at your Latin studies?” she grumbled, knowing he ought to have been squirreled away with his tutor on the far side of the house.
“Mr. Dullingham dismissed me early. He complained of a terrible headache.”
Anabelle sighed disgustedly. Yet another problem to handle. Though Robert’s tutor had come highly recommended and seemed quite capable at first, of late he had become utterly useless. One might even say dimwitted.
Was it possible for a learned fellow to grow stupid, for he seemed to become more tongue-tied and lack-brained the longer he was around her?
Suddenly, her brother shrieked as the duke lifted him to his feet and set him down on the step beside them. Then, to Anabelle’s utter amazement, the duke knelt down and proceeded to run his hands along her sides.
She inhaled sharply.
“Did that hurt?” He furrowed his brow as though concerned.
“No.”
“Good.” He continued to run his hands up and down her body. His hands were large and well-formed, and caused her skin beneath the fabric of her gown to prickle wherever they stroked. She couldn’t imagine why, then recalled that she had just taken a bad tumble. Of course, the fiend must be hurting her by pressing on her bruises.
There was no other explanation for it.
But she felt no discomfort. In truth, she felt a pleasant numbness spreading throughout her body and found it most alarming. “Take your hands off me this instant, you fiend!”
He regarded her with apparent indifference. “I see your jawbone is undamaged.”
Insufferable! How dare he mock her. “I order you to release me at once!”
He smiled menacingly. To the unsuspecting, his smile might have appeared pleasant, for he had fine, white teeth and appealing lips, but she knew better. The duke was an evil, untrustworthy man.
“Lie still,” he commanded, placing a restraining hand across her stomach when she refused to obey. “I’m only checking you for broken bones. And my name is Saron. You have my permission to call me that. It is a wicked enough sounding name for your purposes.”
“Only checking for broken bones?” After a moment’s consideration, she permitted him to continue his task. He seemed to know what he was about, and as her numbness wore off, she did begin to feel more than a little sore.
“Don’t move yet,” he insisted when she renewed her attempt to rise and instead fell back with a groan. “You took quite a tumble.”
“I don’t need you to tell me… oh! Ow.” She attempted to rise once again and sank back, more from dizziness than from a desire to obey, irritated that the Dragon of Draloch had been right in cautioning her. As for his name, Saron, she had no intention of taking him up on his offer to call him that. They were enemies, not friends, though he was treating her quite gently at the moment.
He ran two fingers along the nape of her neck, carefully turning her head this way and the other. She felt his warm breath against her cheek when he lifted her slightly toward him.
“I see no bruises.” He was again gentle when he set her back down. “Can you wiggle your toes?”
“Yes, I am immensely capable,” she said and wiggled them.
He turned immediately to check her lower extremities, but not before she caught the quirk of a smile at the corner of his lips. Drat, he was quite handsome when he smiled.
She placed a hand upon her brow as though to ward off sunlight and gave in to the bold urge to look him over. He was a man used to spending time outdoors, she mused, noting his lightly bronzed complexion. She thought it much more attractive than the pasty, often ashen pallor strived for by members of Society. He had a strong jaw, a fine firm mouth, and a perfectly proportioned nose. His thick black hair and gripping blue-gray eyes complemented his flawless masculine profile. Indeed, she realized with disgust, if one could conjure up the perfect male specimen, it would be Saron Blakefield.
“Anabelle, are you hurt?” Lord Chalmers lumbered to her side, short of breath.
She smiled up at her dear friend as though casually meeting him on a country lane. The scene was too ridiculous to do other than brazen it out. “I’m quite well, thank you for asking. I would like to get up now, but I find a dark, demonic presence holding me down.”
“Yes, well…” Lord Chalmers cleared his throat.
Anabelle regarded him sympathetically. The poor man was obviously overwrought by her situation. She knew him to be soft spoken, but also knew that despite his gentle manner, he could be stern when necessary. He would stand up to the Dragon. He would order the arrogant duke off her. She waited with marked anticipation for his inevitable ultimatum.
Lord Chalmers turned a questioning eye toward her brother, then shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps we could all do with some refreshments. Come along, young man. I’m certain I smell freshly baked cakes. Perhaps Dolly has a freshly brewed pot of tea for us, as well.”
Anabelle couldn’t believe it. Her brother and her neighbor strolling off in search of tea and cakes, leaving her to the mercy of the Dragon of Draloch? What could they be thinking?
*
Damn. Saron gazed down at Anabelle. Amazing Anabelle, as she was known throughout the ton, might have had her head blown off had he given his coachman the signal. Fortunately for her, he had decided to trust Lord Chalmers’ opinion of her nature. Fortunately for him, Lord Chalmers’ assessment had proved correct. But it could easily have been otherwise and for what? This small parcel of land which had meant so little to her father that he’d wagered it in a game of cards and laughed in relief when he lost it to Saron? Hadn’t her father realized it meant everything to Anabelle?
Amazing Anabelle. What a strange appellation for a slip of a girl. He had thought her quite plain at first, dressed as she was in that formless black gown. Yet, when the wind had pressed the fabric of her gown against her skin, he’d noticed well-formed legs and a slender waist. And though her eyes, from what could be discerned above the scope of the rifle, had seemed an unimpressive brown, when she finally lowered her firearm and gave him an unimpeded view, he had been pleasantly surprised by their exotic upward slant. Her lashes, he now noticed, were thick, long and dark. All in all, reminiscent of the eyes of a fawn, a soft, gentle fawn.
He shook off the impossible notion immediately and began to peruse her hair, which seemed a safer subject. He was wrong, he realized as he suppressed the urge to run a possessive hand through her unruly mane. With growing annoyance at his own distraction, he forced his gaze to remain steady. He refused to let the girl affect him.
She needs to tame me, not stir the beast within me.
Though her hair was long and lush, he would not call it extraordinary. No indeed, many other young women were possessed of similarly beautiful manes. It meant nothing that at the moment, he could not recall a one with hair quite so splendid.
The only unusual trait about Anabelle’s hair, he decided, was its unusual color. One moment it appeared more gold than red, but a slight toss of her head and the red blazed through. Yet, it was not a brassy red, but rich and warm, with a touch of gold noticeable when the sunlight reflected off it. A very confusing mix of red and gold, he decided. He wondered how it would look by firelight.
He shook back to his senses, realizing he had not moved a muscle since Robert and Lord Chalmers had walked off. More than a little irritated with himself, he addressed Anabelle gruffly. “Do you think you can get up now?”
“As soon as you remove your crushing weight from my stomach.”
It was a feisty retort from a mere slip of a girl. He released her, though his hand had been lightly resting at her waist and nothing more. “Do it then.”
She glared at him as she rose, biting her lip in a failed attempt to hide her obvious discomfort. Her leg buckled the moment she put her weight on it, but he caught her in his arms and drew her against him to prevent her fall. The girl was in pain, having taken the brunt of her brother’s dramatic entrance, but was too proud to admit it.
She shoved out of his light grasp and took another unsteady step, defiance gleaming in her eyes.
“You’ve proved your point. I’m not about to let you take another tumble.” He swept her into his arms, intent on carrying her into the house. She ought to have thanked him for his consideration instead of glowering at him.
“Put me down, you oaf,” she said between clenched teeth. “I’m fine, I tell you.”
“Be quiet, and the name is Saron.”
“I will not be quiet.” She was light to carry and would have been no burden had she stayed still in his arms. As it was, she kicked and squirmed and tried to do him bodily damage. “Put me down at once!”
Bloody nuisance. Couldn’t she see that he was doing her a favor by helping her into the house? “I do not take orders from noisy, little chits.”
“From what I’ve heard, you don’t take orders from anyone at all.”
“That’s correct. You would be wise to remember it.”
“Well, I don’t take orders either,” she said, sticking her chin into the air. “You would be wise to remember that. I’m not one of your delicate London flowers who’ll wilt at the first sign of distress.”
No indeed, she was a vibrant rose with very sharp thorns, he thought, suppressing the urge to grin. How had he ever thought her meek? “I’ll allow your insolence this one time. I know my presence has upset you.”
“My insolence? And what would you call your stealing my estate?”
His menacing growl silenced her next protest.
Thankful for the temporary respite, he shifted her more comfortably in his arms. An unexpectedly lush softness pressed against his chest and stopped him dead in his tracks.
By the Stone of Draloch. Her gown indeed hid much from view. Anabelle, he realized with a start, had a decidedly ample bosom.
He remained frozen in place, willing his body not to respond.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “Are you afraid to step into the house?”
“Not in the least. Your doorway is… most attractive. It caught my interest.” What else could he say? He couldn’t reveal he had just experienced a swell of desire so powerful that it had rendered him motionless.
He refused to believe it himself.
Her eyes brightened. “Yes, it is quite intriguing. The dragon crest above the door dates back to the time of the Norman conquest. I thought–”
He interrupted her, knowing it would give further offense, but he needed to get her out of his arms as soon as possible. She obviously admired the history of the place, and while he was eager to learn more about how that particular crest came into Harleigh hands, he could not do so now, for his body was about to betray him. “We shall discuss it later, when I am not so weighed down.”
“Weighed down?”
“You weigh me down.” He leaned forward as though to drop her, then laughed when she gasped and gripped his shoulders. But as her body pressed against his once more and he felt the glorious softness of her body, he knew he’d made a tactical mistake. The girl’s touch set him on fire. How long before she realized her allure and attempted to use it to her advantage?
She pursed her lips and scowled. “Put me down. ’Tis you who insists on carrying me though I’m quite capable of walking on my own. If you grow weary, you have only yourself to blame. Perhaps a nap will restore your strength. I hear napping is quite fashionable among you more elderly men of Society.”
“Perhaps you would care to join me,” he said huskily.
She opened her mouth to throw another barb his way, then snapped it shut as the import of his words struck her. Saron noticed the heightened color in her cheeks. “Contemplating my offer?”
She turned away in disdain, sticking her dainty nose into the air.
“Pity. I was certain you’d accept,” he taunted, at the same time disgusted with himself for addressing her in so ungentlemanly a fashion. What was it about Anabelle that so confounded him?
She tossed him a cynical look. “Taking to bed with the Dragon, no matter how handsome his assumed form, is something I shall never do.”
We’ll see about that.
END