by Anne Renwick
Luke dragged Natalia behind the thick trunk of a tree. Staying was foolish—they ought to turn tail and run—but leaving the two eggs, leaving Zia to fend for herself wasn’t an option.
Zia let loose an enraged squeal, then flutter-hopped behind the pteryform, snapping and biting at its ankles. Venom dripped from Zia’s jaws as her teeth sank into the tough hide, and the rotten smell of hydrogen sulfide grew stronger.
Distracted, the pteryform turned again to hiss at this not-insignificant annoyance.
Though bloody and battered, energy still coursed through Luke’s veins. He credited the stem cells. Crouching low, he braced his feet against the ground and prepared to run. “I’ll grab the eggs. Can you cover me?”
Pushing the coal scuttle behind the trunk of a tree, Natalia drew a throwing knife from her boot. She tested the weight of the blade in her hand. “There’s little chance I can do more than cause it a moment’s annoyance.”
He pointed at a farmhouse in the distance; they needed walls if they were to stand a chance against the pteryform’s sharp beak and massive claws. “Then we run. We reach its door, then draw the creature’s attention, give Zia a chance to find cover.”
She nodded. “Ready?”
“Ready.” He tensed.
Natalia stepped into the open and took a deep breath, focusing on her target. Waiting. She gave a sharp whistle and the great winged reptile turned, surveilling her with a single enormous eye. As the blade left her hand, Luke darted forward, gathering up a dragon egg in each arm, tucking them close to his chest before veering into the thin cover of the underbrush toward the coal scuttle.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the enormous creature rear back, a knife embedded in the side of its torso just beneath the front edge of its wing. Zia darted forward, ripping a chunk of flesh from the beast’s hindquarters.
Skidding through forest detritus to the coal scuttle, Luke dropped the two eggs inside and closed his hand about the handle, every muscle tensed for escape.
“Wait,” Natalia said, pointing.
Above the field, a shadow passed. He looked up with dread. The other pteryform had returned and now circled, calling to its companion below. The grounded—and wounded—creature replied with a ground-shaking roar, then began to flap its enormous wings, rising into the air.
At his side, Natalia called to Zia, urging the dragon into the copse of trees at the river’s edge, all while taking steps in the direction of the farmhouse. Should the two pteryformes decide to attack, amidst the tree trunks, they would find it difficult—though not impossible—to maneuver.
But though the cries of the two beasts rent the air and shattered the morning peace for miles, they no longer had masters to command them and their forms circled ever higher into the sky. Perhaps, seeing no reason to continue to tangle with sharp and biting adversaries without good reason, they sought a lair to lick their wounds and hide from the bright morning sun. Not that Luke cared. Their silhouettes disappeared into the distance.
The dragon bumped against his leg, tipping her head sideways to inspect the contents of the scuttle he held. He set it upon the ground and ran a hand over her head. “There you go, Zia. Safe and sound.”
He turned and Natalia threw herself into his arms, wrapping hers about his neck, triumph flashing in her eyes. “We did it!”
He pulled her against his chest. “Accomplished the impossible at least three times since dawn.” Desire flared, and he spun her around, pressing her back to the bark of the tree, spreading his fingers wide to grip the flare of her hips.
Her eyes darkened. “Only a kiss.” Her voice was husky. “We’re about to have company.”
In the distance, William’s voice called. With only a few minutes until they were discovered, Luke reined in every instinct. Save one. Dragons. A sword fight. And the battle won. Claiming the lips of a lady—his love—felt as necessary as drawing his next breath.
Epilogue
Natalia stood beside Luke atop a rocky promontory overlooking Loch Lubnaig as Zia and Sasha acquainted themselves with each other. Over rough grasses and scattered scree, they walked side by side, tongues flicking as they explored the many cracks and crevices, searching for a space to serve as a home.
“Took you long enough,” Luke’s brother said, then muttered under his breath about fire-spitting dragons and sparks and the inconvenience of an entire wardrobe of now-charred clothing. Michael Dryden—waiting impatiently for over a week in the Trossachs—had happily turned over care of the young male dragon to them. He slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Looks like Scotland agrees with you.”
Luke snorted, but didn’t elaborate.
With little more than a sideways glance and a twist of his lips, he’d taken in Luke’s restored health and dropped the keys to a small cottage—where the dragon eggs rested, warm and safe beside the hearth—into his hands. Soon, their tiny egg teeth would pierce through the shells and they would have their hands full. “I’m needed back at the estate. Send a skeet pigeon when you pick a date.” With a grin, he departed.
William had caught the empty, flat-bottomed boat as it drifted past them on the road to Stirling, then turned back for Castle Kinlarig to look for its missing occupants. Relieved to find them safe, if bruised and battered, he’d happily reported that Aileen and McKay were unharmed. After discovering the bed of the wagon held not much but crated swords and armor, the Russians had spotted the ploy and wasted little time with questions before taking to the air.
Adjourning briefly to the castle for bandages and fresh supplies, Natalia had given William a fierce hug and promised to visit the city soon. Then she and Luke had set out once again upon the River Teith, reaching the small town of Callandar—unmolested—by late afternoon. Inquiries directed them to his brother, some distance further north alongside Loch Lubnaig. Unwilling and unable to stop, lest they reveal the reality of dragons, they pressed onward. Sleeping—for the most part—beneath the stars, they’d reached his brother’s temporary residence the following day.
Alone at last, Luke cleared his throat. “I retract my earlier suggestion. That you marry a wealthy gentleman. Let the castle crumble. So long as we’re together—”
“I refuse to be your kept woman.” His gaze snapped to hers, but she softened her harsh words with flashing eyes and laughter that rose to ride upon the wind. “I insist we marry.” She pressed a palm to her heart. “I love you. I have ever since you first taught me the proper way to wield a sword.” Waving a hand, she continued. “I don’t wish to own a castle, Luke. I’ve had enough of its dark, dank stone walls. A distant relative of some consequence wishes to purchase the rock pile and its lands. No doubt keen to style himself the next laird.”
He grinned. “Is this a proposal, Lady Kinlarig?”
“It is.” She swatted his arm. “Don’t be difficult. Will you marry me, Luke Dryden?”
“You wish to live with a dragonkeeper in a cottage beside a loch?” He tipped up her chin.
“For now. Provided we spend a portion of each year in the city so that I might consult with colleagues. We’ll need to install a small laboratory, of course. And eventually, we’ll need more room for the children.”
“Children?” His eyes lit up.
“Several.” Leaning into his touch, she lifted her hands to his shoulders, drawing him closer still. Brushing her lips over his. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” he whispered, then nipped her earlobe sending a tremor of need through her entire body.
Her next words came on a gasp. “The cottage bed looked sturdy. Shall we investigate?”
“Immediately.” He scooped her into his arms and strode down the hillside.
Laughing, she wrapped her arms about his neck, planning all the different ways they might make use of a—relatively—empty cottage.
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A speeding train. A determined villain. A reconciliation of broken hearts.
Lady Alice Hemsworth wasn’t supposed to fall in love. It was her duty not to. Alas, she’d failed miserably. Mr. Benjamin Leighton—despite being turned away by her steam butler—can’t stop thinking about her. Alone, both are miserable—until a deadly encounter throws them together on the night train to London.
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Keep reading for the opening chapters of A Reflection of Shadows
A Reflection of Shadows
Chapter One
London
February 1885
Loops of fine chain coiled as Colleen returned Lady Sophia’s golden locket to its velvet pouch. Done. She closed the safe, gave the dial a spin and rehung the heavy oil painting to hide the strongbox from view. Odd, that a man of Lord Aldridge’s means would choose to stare at blurry haystacks in a field. Years of creeping into the libraries and studies of wealthy gentlemen had taught her that most preferred to gaze upon portraits of themselves. Or of a distinguished ancestor. A favorite dog. Occasionally a beautiful wife.
All, however, kept at least one bottle of single malt scotch whisky on hand. Liquid sunshine in a bottle. Drifting across the dark room to the lord’s liquor cabinet, she considered the array of choices before her, tracing the zigs and zags of the pattern cut into a crystal decanter with a leather-clad fingertip.
The household was quiet. All servants had retired. Lord Aldridge himself would be careful to be elsewhere this evening. Still, she shouldn’t. Not once in four years had she helped herself to the smallest of nips. But tonight’s task had gone smoothly, without the slightest hitch. And she was officially off the job.
Retired.
With a blemish free record.
A smile stole across her face. Already her bags were packed. Soon her cat, Sorcha, would return from her city prowl, and London would be nothing but a sooty memory.
She ought to celebrate. Lord Aldridge wouldn’t begrudge her a drink for saving his daughter—and her dowry—from a marriage to a good-for-nothing scoundrel with significant gambling debts, would he? She pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured herself a splash.
Generous dowries made for wonderful bait, but sometimes they hooked a bottom feeder.
Livid, the earl had turned to Witherspoon and Associates: Private matters handled with discretion. His daughter had been compromised—a polite way of saying she’d allowed herself to be seduced by a treasure hunter without regard for the consequences. Pressing for an engagement announcement, the reprobate had threatened to display her engraved locket while sharing detailed stories of his conquest. Shameful behavior. And all mere days before the naïve girl was to be presented to society. The very kind of situation which Witherspoon and Associates was often employed to handle. Colleen had retrieved the locket while Mr. Witherspoon himself arranged for the offending gentleman’s debt to be called in, casting any nasty rumors that oozed from his mouth into doubt.
Glass in hand, Colleen sank into the large chair behind Lord Aldridge’s desk, tipping backward to rest her booted feet on its surface. Swirling the whisky, she took a sip. Dignified, with a seamless blend of rich fruit, spice and just a hint of peat. Aether, she missed Scotland. Missed the quiet countryside surrounding Craigieburn and the nearby village, where none of its populace ever glanced at her askance for, though golden eyes might be rare, there wasn’t a single family who couldn’t name a relative whose eyes glimmered in the dark.
Everything had changed the night the bridge carrying her parents’ train across the River Tay collapsed, killing all aboard. Her chest still ached at the memory of burying empty coffins, of standing in the graveyard surrounded by well-meaning villagers but without a single family member beside her. She’d felt so very alone.
With her father’s death, she’d become a laird in her own right, but tied up as her inheritance was in legal verbiage, her title was nominal until she reached her twenty-fifth birthday. Life in London under the thumb of her uncle—her mother’s disapproving brother—had become her new reality.
Only three more days to go.
Once she ripped control of the property from her uncle’s hands, she could finally tackle the ever-lengthening list of repairs on her family’s home and surrounding properties. Five long years had passed since she’d last crossed its borders.
The door creaked.
Abandoning her drink, she dropped her feet to the ground and slipped into the shadows mere moments before another individual slipped into the room. She’d not expected Lord Aldridge’s study to be such a popular destination this evening. Was his daughter’s dowry so grand that men would have her by whatever means necessary?
Her hand slid to her boot, hovering above the dirk sheathed there. She was a sneak thief, working silently and alone. Unaccustomed to any interference. The blade was for self-defense, not for drawing blood over a silly girl’s locket. Not once had she ever needed to resort to violence. Neither, however, did she wish to fail at her last task.
Please, not here. Not tonight.
The man shifted. Heredity, unnatural or otherwise, had provided her with the advantage of keen nighttime vision. The faint light cast by the thin sliver of a waning moon was enough to fully illuminate Mr. Torrington’s familiar form. Dark hair. A straight nose. The honed planes and angles of a handsome face. A set to his jaw that spoke of single-minded purpose and a razor-sharp mind.
Friend not foe. Her heart started beating again. With new purpose.
She’d always enjoyed watching the Queen’s agent work. Reveled in stepping out of the shadows to materialize beside him. Colleen grinned. The first time she’d tapped his shoulder in the dark, he’d jumped so far and so high that she’d expected his own eyes to reflect the light of his lamp. But not only was Mr. Nicholas Torrington’s lineage noble, his family tree contained no inexplicable branches.
Still, they both lived dual lives. One kept hidden from the ton, the other highly visible. For years, they’d flirted as their paths crossed. On rooftops, inside locked rooms, down dark alleyways. In ballrooms, at garden parties, in the hallways of the theater. Neither betraying the other’s secrets with so much as a stray comment or shared glance at an inopportune moment.
Time passed and small conversations grew longer. An inexplicable bond formed. One that had snapped some months past.
With the coming of fall, gentry retreated to their country estates, and London society thinned. Still, small gatherings were held. On All Hallows’ Eve, Mr. Torrington—eyes glittering—had lured her out onto a balcony where torches affixed to the balustrade burned. In the flickering light, he’d pressed a soft kiss to her mouth, and the ground beneath her feet shifted all while dragonflies took wing in her stomach. Would he propose they merge their assorted lives? If so, how would she answer? Forming an attachment to a London gentleman was not at all compatible with her plans.
But a giggling couple had wandered out behind them, and whatever he’d been about to say had died on his lips. The evening ended in disappointment, and no flowers had arrived for her the next day, no note. Not a single indication that he wished to discuss the possibility of joining their two lives. She’d not seen or heard from him since.
Irritation had faded into a dull, empty ache, and she’d thrown herself into work and another f
lirtation. One that had been decidedly misguided on her part. Her fault for allowing emotion to direct her behavior. Had her dowry not been perceived as worthless, her life might have taken a turn not unlike that of her client’s daughter for Mr. Glover was becoming an unavoidable and increasing irritation.
There was a faint click, and a dull, red light flickered to life. A shade with a long wavelength, one barely visible to most human eyes. Curious. Decilamps usually glowed a greenish-blue. A recent advance placed in the hands of the Queen’s agents? Mr. Torrington’s eye caught upon the unfinished drink as he crossed to the desk, popped open its locked drawers with ease and rifled through its contents.
Was it coincidence that led him to this very study on this particular night?
Possibly. Lord Aldridge sat on the board of the Lister Institute, a group with close ties to the Queen’s agents. Still, she needed to be certain.
Frowning, Mr. Torrington prowled about the edges of the room, peering behind paintings. Colleen’s heart stopped and she forgot to breathe as he lifted the blurry haystacks, setting the painting aside to contemplate the numbers etched into the dial upon the safe. She couldn’t allow anything to leave the lockbox tonight lest she stand accused. Frozen, she watched as he pressed his ear to the door and spun the dial with deft and capable fingers. Left four spins, right for three, left for two, then a twist to the right. Pop. The door fell open. She cursed silently as he inspected each box. Gold and silver. Emeralds, rubies and diamonds. But he took nothing. With a soft huff, he closed the door and rehung the painting.
Once again, she breathed.
She ought to stay silent, wait for him to leave, then slide down the drainpipe and disappear. After all, curiosity always killed the cat. But something about him still tugged at her heart, and soon she would quit London, never to see him again. With the necklace—and all of the contents of the safe—secure, she could afford to indulge a whim. “Can’t find what you’re looking for?” Mr. Torrington whipped about, lifting his decilamp as he reached for his weapon. The light seared her eyes, and she averted her gaze. “Do you mind?”
