by Meara Platt
He sank back in his chair. “No, and I don’t plan to.”
“But you must, to curb the pain.”
“That, little one,” he said softly, “is something I’m quite used to.”
“Saron,” she said in a ragged whisper, wishing she could throw her arms around him and soothe away those horrid memories. “I know. I saw your back.”
“Blast,” he said softly and ran a hand across the nape of his neck. He seemed irritated, more at himself for letting down his guard and allowing her that peek at his suffering. “I didn’t want you to. I wish you hadn’t. It isn’t a pretty sight.”
“I don’t understand how anyone can be so cruel.”
“You wouldn’t. But it is done and I’ve survived.”
“Not all of you. I think your innocence died in those horrible years.”
He cast her that guarded look again. “Don’t turn all soft and doe-eyed. I was never an innocent. We Dralochs are a cold, cruel family. I wouldn’t have turned out kind or amiable no matter how I was raised.”
He was wrong. Their fight over Harleigh was all about his need for peace and solace from the terrors he’d endured, she understood that now. The realization left her aching, but to Saron’s credit, he managed to lift her spirits by providing excellent conversation throughout supper and continuing to provide amusement during their first game of chess, which he won handily.
Their conversation over the course of the evening consisted mostly of safe topics, casual talk of London parties, of their favorite foods and wines. Surprisingly, their tastes were more similar than she’d expected. They spoke of books, and a little about politics and farming. Again, she was surprised to learn they agreed on most matters, those she considered of greatest importance.
Somehow, she did most of the speaking and he listened, which was not at all what she had intended, but he seemed as interested about her and what her life had been like before their battle, as she was about him. She responded to his questions openly and honestly, hoping he’d respond similarly to hers.
But there were many aspects of his life that he refused to discuss, those terrible instances that had caused him greatest pain, the memories now forged into the protective armor surrounding his heart. “How did the first duke of Draloch come to adopt the dragon crest?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Did he slay a dragon?”
“You’re thinking of the legend of St. George. No relation to my family, we’re sadly lacking in saints.”
“I keep seeing you as a dragon–”
“Anabelle,” he said with obvious impatience, “must you dwell on this nonsense?”
“Yes, I think I must. I keep dreaming of you.” She noticed that he began to shift uncomfortably, but she pressed on. “You come to me in my dreams, at first as yourself, as you are now. But as the dream progresses, you start to change.” She paused to study him. “You become that dragon on your family crest. I think it’s your eyes, so similar it’s shocking.”
“Fascinating,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Care for another round of chess?”
“Don’t you wish to hear more about my dragon?”
“Yours? I thought it was mine. My family crest. My blue eyes. Aren’t you afraid I’ll turn into one before your very eyes?” He leaned forward, rubbing his hands and giving a wicked arch of his eyebrow. “Dragons eat tender young things such as yourself.”
“I’m simply trying to understand you,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’d like to get to know you. I don’t want us to be enemies, Saron.” She wasn’t certain just what she wanted beyond regaining Harleigh, but she liked being here with him, talking to him. However, she could see he had lost patience with their current topic. Afraid to probe too hard and rouse his anger, she fell back onto lighter topics. She had no wish to shatter these fragile, but very pleasant, hours.
Servants slipped in and out of Saron’s room throughout the evening, serving the soup course, the meat and fish course, and ending with a hot apple tart that melted so deliciously on her tongue she couldn’t help the little moans of pleasure escaping from her lips.
“Take away the dessert,” Saron ordered a passing servant before she’d had the chance to cut another slice. Though disappointed, she did not countermand the order. In truth, she’d eaten quite heartily and couldn’t fit another morsel down her throat.
“Too distracting,” he’d grumbled during that first game, as though she were too simpleminded to concentrate on both the board and her apple tart.
Now alone once more, they moved to a smaller table beside the fire and Saron set up the chessboard for their second game. She’d allowed him to win the first, testing his opening moves, and curious about his feints and tactics. It was time to mount her assault. “Let’s make this round interesting.”
Amused, he arched that wicked eyebrow again. “What do you propose?”
“The loser must reveal something very personal about himself.”
“Himself?” he repeated.
She nodded. “Or herself.”
He studied her expression, those incredible dragon eyes of his seeming to absorb every nuance of her features. “Very well. I accept.”
The second game moved slower because there was more at stake than a mere win or loss. Each move required extreme thought and care. They battled hard and ended in stalemate.
Anabelle could not hide her disappointment, for anything short of a win was a decided loss for her. He’d never open up to her now, she realized with a resigned sigh and rose from her chair. “I’ve suffered enough defeat for one night. And you need your rest. How is your leg? Still very painful?”
He rose as she did, and shrugged. “You played well, little one.”
She shook her head in dismay. “Not well enough.”
“Disappointed?”
“Very.”
“You did not learn my secrets, but neither did I learn yours. The stalemate was a loss for both of us.”
She sighed again. “I hardly think so. You could have asked me anything and I would have answered without shame or regret, for until you came into my life, I’d led a happy existence. No secrets whatsoever. I’m undoubtedly the most boring person you shall ever meet. I can’t even fashion a decent plot of revenge against you.”
“Indeed, a sad state of affairs,” he teased, cupping her chin in his hand and gently running his thumb along her jaw to the indentation in her chin.
She was too despondent to appreciate his humor or the remarkable softness of his caress. Besides, she had something important she wished to ask him. Their time spent together this evening confirmed the question was important and needed to be asked.
She took a deep breath. “Saron, will you marry me?”
*
Saron stared at her, unblinking.
Damn. He hadn’t seen the question coming or he would have found a way to end their conversation and get her out of his room before it was asked. “No, little one. You and I are not meant to be.”
Though Saron spoke the words calmly, he was anything but that, for he’d spent the evening in torture, watching Anabelle wrap her delectable lips around her food and practically make love to the damned fork with every bite. Of course, she had no idea what she was doing, for she was innocent in that way. It was in her nature to take delight in every simple pleasure.
He was completely at fault for failing to recognize the danger of spending a quiet evening with her.
Now, she’d asked him to marry her.
He wanted to accept.
The dragon within him was roaring in his ears, urging him to say yes. But that was his dragon lust speaking, the hot, powerful part of him that ached to have Anabelle’s body join with his.
“No,” he repeated more gently, for it was never his intent to hurt her. But a little hurt now would save her from far greater anguish in the future. As for him, he felt the agony of his refusal to his very core.
“I see. I had hoped–”
“
Don’t hope.”
He was not making a mistake.
How else was he to protect Anabelle?
The roar of the now angry Stone of Draloch thrummed in his ears. Foolish lord of Draloch. She is your destiny. Harleigh is your dragon lair and this is where you must mate. Why do you think she refuses to leave here? This is her nest. This is where you shall breed your sons on her.
His blood began to course through his veins and the pulse at the base of his throat began to beat like the powerful beat of a dragon’s wings.
He needed her out of his life as soon as possible. She needed to forget him. Unfortunately, he would not so easily forget her. How could he? She roused him in so many little ways. The image of her tongue darting between her lips to lick away drops of juice was still vivid in his mind. Nor could he forget her sensual moans as she sank her teeth into that damned apple tart. She’d left him breathless and twisting painfully in his chair.
The games of chess, suggested to ease his distraction had made matters worse. He’d been so intent on mentally peeling every stitch of clothing from her exquisite body, he’d almost lost that second game.
However, the physical pull was nothing compared to the incessant call of his heart. I need you. I need you. The violent strength of his yearning surprised him. His blood was still hot and thrumming through his veins. The angry hum of the Stone of Draloch continued to ring in his ears. She is your dragon mate. She is your savior.
He wasn’t about to heed its call. No! I am death to her.
Nor did he stop her when she tore from his room in sobs of humiliation.
*
Saron felt wretched the following morning. His leg was still sore. His heart was still in torment. He washed quickly, ordered a simple breakfast brought to his room, and then dressed for the day. He donned a crisp, white shirt, burgundy silk cravat and jacket, and breeches of dark superfine which fit snugly under his polished black boots.
He wanted to forget last night’s conversation, but couldn’t.
He met Dolly hurrying up the stairs as he was about to go in search of Anabelle. “Where is she?”
Dolly stopped and bobbed an ungainly curtsy. “I’m sure I don’t know, Yer Grace.”
“And I’m sure you do,” he muttered under his breath, having earlier taken the measure of the Harleigh housekeeper and knowing she was fiercely protective of the girl. “Find her and ask her to join me in the study.”
“At once, Yer Grace.”
However, ‘at once’ did not mean quite the same to Dolly as it did to him, Saron realized as the minutes passed and he grew tired of pacing across the Harleigh study. Losing patience, he ignored the sharp jolt to his leg and stalked out of the room. His leg was still tender. He should have remained in bed another day, but he wasn’t about to greet his aunt while sprawled helplessly in his sickbed like some pasty-faced Society dandy.
Nor was he about to take more laudanum. The medication, while numbing the pain, also numbed his senses, and after last night’s disaster with Anabelle, he was desperate to keep his wits about him. Only a clear head, keen eye, and quick reflexes would save him from the girl’s disarming innocence.
She’d asked him to marry her.
He’d been too cruel in his response.
He walked out of the house and crossed the yard toward the barn. He knew where to find Anabelle and headed directly to the rear-most stall.
His dark shadow fell across Anabelle and the newborn calf cradled in her arms.
“Goodness! You startled me.”
He knelt beside her. “Anabelle, I’m truly sorry about last night.”
She cast him a hesitant smile, one as lovely as a moonbeam. “Have you changed your mind?”
“I haven’t, but let us speak of it later.” Who ever heard of a young woman proposing to a gentleman? A duke of the realm, no less. “My aunt will be here shortly. I had hoped you would make yourself presentable.”
“I am presentable,” she said, glancing down at her black gown of woolen crepe which had gathered bits of hay and dust and would now smell of the livestock inhabiting the barn. “It’s one of my finest.”
“I doubt that.”
She snorted, intending to voice her disdain, but the effect was completely undermined and made comical by the calf’s playfully responsive snort. Anabelle, showing more poise and good humor than he deserved, chuckled. “Serves me right, I suppose. Though I think it is very rude of your little namesake to take your side against me.”
He suppressed his own grin, imagining his victory to be fleeting. Before long, little Saron, as she had named the bundle in her arms, would bend to her will, would love her as much as every other living creature at Harleigh seemed to love her.
As much as he feared to love her.
“Bessie styled my hair,” she said a moment later, obviously no longer troubled by the calf’s tweaking of her dignity. “Do you like it?”
He let out a noncommittal grunt, loathe to compliment her in any way, though the wispy curls delightfully framed her face and brought out the exceptional beauty of her doe-eyes. In truth, he was pleased she’d taken special care with her hairstyle on his aunt’s behalf, but wished she’d done the same with her gown. Anabelle was too full of life to wrap herself in trappings of death.
“Oh, I suppose my gown is a little soiled,” she admitted with a sigh, then returned her attention to the calf. “I’ll change as soon as I’m finished here. Look at how beautifully our baby is doing.”
“Pray, do not refer to that creature as my baby.”
She scowled again. “I said our baby. He isn’t just yours. You think you own everything around here.”
He could have stated that he did own everything around here, but decided not to argue the point. “Our guests–”
“They’re your guests, not mine.”
“Will be arriving shortly and I expect you to stand beside me to greet them. I distinctly recall asking you not to wear funereal black.”
“You did, indeed.” Anabelle set the calf back beside her mother and lifted to her feet. “But I chose to refuse your request.”
“Because I refused your offer last night?” Saron reached forward to help her brush hay off her skirt.
“You would think such a ridiculous thing.” She took a quick step back. “I can manage.”
“Then do it.” He raked a hand through his hair and groaned lightly. “Marrying me is no solution to your problem. I declined in order to protect you. It wasn’t for any lack in you.”
She smoothed the wrinkles from her gown while walking out of the stall, then paused beside a litter of kittens and reached for a little gray one curled in a tight ball in the corner. “He’s the runt of the litter. I named him Goliath.”
Saron stifled his exasperation. Ordinarily, Anabelle’s devotion to her animals would have pleased him. “You may show him to me later. Right now, we don’t have time to stop beside every defenseless creature that distracts your attention.”
“How is your leg? Very painful, I imagine. Your eyes look strained and your complexion sallow. Truly, your eyes look quite red. A demonic red, like that of the stranger who first saved me from those creatures.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “You remember him?”
“Of course, why should I not?”
Because the Fae king had cast a spell of forgetfulness over her, one that obviously hadn’t worked. “Why didn’t you mention him to me last night?”
“You were in pain and there was nothing new to relate.”
Saron felt his blood turn hot and his body began to thrum as it did when in the heat of battle. “Have you seen him again?”
“No, nor have we had any incidents since that day. No animals lost and no sign of those hideous creatures.” She tucked the little gray ball she called Goliath into her pocket. His tiny brothers and sisters followed, playing with the hem of her skirt as she walked. It wasn’t long before Anabelle paused to stare at him. “When I said your eyes looked red, I wasn’t jesting. Yo
u look…I can’t explain it. Dark. Angry.”
Demonic. Every journey into the demon realms, even those of the Fae, destroyed a little more of his soul.
She gave a little shudder. “Please don’t look at me that way. You remind me too much of that stranger.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“In a tortured and forbidding way that unsettles me. Here.” She handed him Goliath. Surprisingly, the kitten was not afraid of him. “Be gentle with him, he’s a newborn.”
“Come along,” he said, settling Goliath in the crook of his arm, and hoping whatever look he was casting her would mellow into something more human. He was indeed tortured, but it had nothing to do with demons or dark thoughts. He wanted Anabelle. The Stone of Draloch was humming in his ears again. She is your salvation. “My aunt will arrive at any moment.”
He nudged Anabelle along, doing his best to avoid stepping on her feline entourage, which coupled with his limp, made for very awkward progress out of the barn. But he was outnumbered by Anabelle’s loyal followers. Finally surrendering, he scooped up a few of the most persistent kittens and handed them to her.
She giggled warmly as the little bundles began to lick her face.
Saron watched silently, taking in her joy, her gentleness, her beautiful glow as the warm sun shone on her face. Heaven would be like this, he imagined, and for one brief moment regretted he was unlikely to make it there.
Marry her.
He scooped up the last of the kittens and tucked them in the crook of his arm beside Goliath.
Anabelle smiled at him when they reached the front steps of the manor house. “They like you. You’re good with animals, quite knowledgeable about their proper care. I’ve heard the Draloch farms produce some of the finest livestock in England.”
He intended to take her to Draloch once he’d completed his business in London, but reminding Anabelle that he meant to take her away from Harleigh would only rile her. Since he didn’t wish Penelope to come upon them arguing, he muttered a simple acknowledgment and continued to watch her play with her kittens, one of whom had climbed onto her shoulder and now toyed with the soft curls at her nape.
