by Meara Platt
Had he abducted her?
She couldn’t recall anything after she’d gone to sleep last night at Wethersby Hall, the grandest house in the Lake District and home to the dukes of Penrith. Her father was the current Duke of Penrith and her wedding was to take place in their ancestral home this morning. Or had her wedding day already passed? “Answer me,” she demanded, tipping her chin up and holding herself proudly. He wasn’t the only one capable of exuding regal authority.
“Shouting at me will not get you what you seek.” The man rose from the stool and took her hands in his so that she felt the roughness of his skin against hers. Surprisingly, his touch was gentle. Indeed, far gentler than she’d expected as he worked to loosen her bonds. However, he did not untie her.
Had anyone missed her yet? Was anyone searching for her?
Did Oliver care that his bride was nowhere to be found?
She cleared her throat, deciding to take a softer approach. “I didn’t realize I was shouting at you. My apologies. I’m overset, obviously. I don’t know how I got here or why you are holding me for ransom.”
She struggled to her feet, this time successfully, and realized she wore no shoes or stockings. However, the stone floor was warm despite it being winter and there being no fire blazing in the massive hearth which stood at the opposite end of the large chamber.
“I didn’t abduct you and I’m not holding you for ransom.” Instead of releasing her, the man anchored her bonds to the bedpost so that it was impossible for her to leave. “Wait here.”
Wait? While he went off and did what?
She tried to pull free again, but he stopped her by taking her hands into his once more. Mercy. He was tall and built like a warrior, his chest broad and arms seemingly sculpted out of iron. Despite his anger, there was something in his rough touch that felt protective and soothing. Why? Who was this man to her?
He scowled at her. “Stop struggling. Have you not learned your lesson? These ropes are thin and will cut through your skin like a razor.”
“Then untie me.” She frowned back at him, still overset and confused, but determined not to show weakness. “I’d rather not bleed all over my expensive wedding gown.”
Unimpressed, he turned and gave a sharp whistle. Two black dogs the size of horses trotted to his side. Georgiana stifled a gasp, for they’d been sitting so quietly in the shadows, she hadn’t noticed them. “Your pets?”
He patted the slightly larger dog on the head, the casually affectionate gesture so at odds with the pervasive air of danger in the chamber. “This one is Charon.” In response, the dog licked his hand. “And this one is Styx.” If Styx had a tail, he would have been wagging it. “They’re friendly. But disobey me and they’ll rip your slender throat to ribbons.”
To prove his point, he snapped his fingers once and the dogs immediately tensed and began to growl at her, a soft and deadly growl emanating from deep within their throats. In this moment, they were nothing like pets and everything like predators about to trap and devour their defenseless prey. “All the more reason why you ought to release me. I can’t possibly run away while they’re guarding me.”
He ignored her request and knelt to speak to his dogs in a language she did not recognize, perhaps an ancient pagan tongue. The words were enchanting as he spoke them, so she turned away to avoid being accidentally caught in his spell. There was something eternal and magical about this man, but not in a good or appealing way despite the masculine beauty of his form. “Please, don’t leave me bound like this.”
He continued to ignore her.
She released a shaky breath, her mind suddenly filling with thoughts of wild creatures, for he moved with the powerful grace of a beast from an ancient world, one that her heart recognized and wanted to protect. “My name is Georgiana Wethersby. Lady Georgiana, to be precise.”
She’d given away nothing that he hadn’t already known, for she didn’t believe he was innocent in her abduction or ignorant of her identity. “Won’t you please tell me your name?”
“You’re Georgiana?” Despite the brutal coldness of his stare, she sensed a sudden surge of volcanic heat within him and feared he would unleash his molten fury upon her. “The daughter of Penrith?”
She shook her head. “If this is revenge for a business dispute, I can assure you–”
“I have no business dealings with your father.” He moved close, and although he was tall, a full head taller than her average height, he seemed as big as a mythical leviathan looming over her. “I’m known as the Dragon Lord Bloodaxe,” he said in a husky rumble and then turned to show her his back and the black dragon emblazoned in ink along its broad and muscled expanse.
“I know this dragon,” she said with a gasp. “It’s on the coat of arms of the dukes of Draloch.” She reached out to touch it with her bound hands, spreading her fingers across his back so that her open palms pressed against his warm skin.
A flood of heat washed through her and seeped deep into her bones. Her heart began to pound with such force, she thought it might burst. “Dear heaven!” She struggled to hold back the tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. “Who are you to me?”
He shook his head as he turned to face her, his Draloch eyes the same compelling crystal blue as those of the black dragon etched on the muscled planes of his back. “I am Lord Bloodaxe,” he repeated, but she knew he purposely avoided giving her the answer she sought. “I live and rule as a Dragon Lord in my realm.”
She knew he was feeling the same powerful connection, he had to be. Her hands were still on him even though he’d turned to face her, now resting on his chest and splayed across his heart. She tried not to show her disappointment at its calm and steady beat. Hers was wild and pounding through her ears. She drew her tingling hands off his body. “What is a Dragon Lord?”
“A creature of the Underworld. One who reigns over the dead.”
She shuddered, unwilling to believe the vibrant sensations he roused in her heart had anything to with death. Was this a dream? Or had she somehow lost her sanity? Had he lost his? The man appeared fully in control of his senses, but spoke of a world outside of the quiet Lake District where she had been raised or the fashionable London society where she’d spent the past several seasons paraded on the Marriage Mart. His world was one warned of in biblical tales and church sermons. “Am I dead? Is this why I’m here?”
“No, Georgiana.” His voice was husky and soothed her. In the next moment, he gave a slight wave of his hand and her bonds magically disappeared. “You’re very much alive and don’t belong here.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise. “Then you’ll set me free?”
He traced a finger lightly along her cheek, as though he also needed assurance that she was real. But he was a sorcerer of some sort, wasn’t he? Couldn’t he see who she really was? “It isn’t up to me,” he said and drew his hand away.
“Who then?”
“I don’t know yet.” His crystal blue gaze stole the breath from her. “Maybe you.”
“Me?” She wasn’t certain what he meant by that. Was he suggesting that she pay for her freedom?
What price?
END
SNEAK PEEK AT
GARDEN OF SHADOWS
Danger lurks in the Garden of Shadows for Julia Marsden, the daughter of the late vicar of St. Lodore’s in the quiet village of Borrowdale. Julia doesn’t believe in faeries or magic or dreams coming true, but odd things have been happening at the vicarage lately that cannot be explained. As Julia begins to fall under the spell of the powerful faerie king Cadeyrn, she realizes that only her love for Douglas Hawke, the Earl of Eastbourne, a man she considers an enemy, can save her. Is Douglas capable of loving Julia, even at the cost of his own life?
Chapter One
Lake District
Borrowdale, England
October 1816
Douglas Hawke, sixth Earl of Eastbourne, reined his mount at the crest of a gently rolling hill and peered into the distance to su
rvey 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 softly, turning 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. 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, which 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 warning you, m’lord. That knife of yours had better remain 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 you’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.”
“Nor would I,” Douglas said, arching an eyebrow. Though Homer showed all the physical signs of age, for his hair was gray, his girth expansive, step slow and lumbering, Douglas knew Homer had lost none of his sharp deductive abilities. He was the perfect man to find the elusive Julia Marsden … and of course, the boy. For that reason, he indulged the mild outburst.
Over the course of their weeks together, he had grown accustomed to the Bow Street runner’s lack of diplomacy, in truth preferring his bluntness to the feigned admiration so often encountered by one in his position. “My nephew shall 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.”
“She lives there alone with the boy,” Homer replied with a frown. “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 route 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 sighed. “Mr. Barrow, you’re lecturing me again. Now, you’ve said in your report that she comes to market every Wednesday.”
“Aye, m’lord. She arrives around midday, punctual and precise. Rain or shine.”
Douglas gazed into the distance, noting the menacing red storm clouds that towered above the imposing crags. An odd, disquieting color. Those clouds would soon sweep into the valley on the quickening October wind. He drew his cloak about his shoulders as the sun, gleaming only moments ago, suddenly disappeared behind one of those gathering clouds. “Looks like rain today. Never seen such an ominous sky.”
“Aye, strange things go on in these parts,” Homer muttered, and then appeared to shrug it off. “We’ll have a downpour within the hour, for sure. But never you mind about ruining ’em fancy boots and fine clothes. If the skies open up, I’ll go to Julia and the boy on your behalf while you 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 your arrival.”
“Julia, is it? You’ve become quite good friends… a fact you neglected to mention in your report.”
Homer’s face reddened. “You paid me to find ’er for you, m’lord, and I did. But she’s a decent sort, no matter what rot you hear from them’s 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 said with a light groan, surprised that the old man could be so easily swayed by a shy smile and a pretty face.
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 that appeared little more than a small stream. He paused beside the river 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 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.
END
Get Garden of Shadows Now!
SNEAK PEEK AT
GARDEN OF LIGHT
Chapter One
St. Lodore’s Vicarage
Borrowdale, England
May 1817
“Sir! Are you injured?” Melody Hargreaves asked, falling to her knees beside the unresponsive stranger who lay face down in her bluebell garden. How had he ended up there? St. Lodore’s vicarage was a walk from Borrowdale and involved a short climb up a mountain path—difficult for a hiker and almost impossible for a drunkard weaving his way home after a night’s binge at a local tavern.
He obviously wasn’t a hiker.
Whoever he was, she wanted him out. He was ruining her lovely flowers.
She shook him, cautiously at first and then raised his head slightly to feel his brow. It was cool to the touch. So were his hands, though the day was warm and the sun shone against a blue sky. A rare cloudless day like this always made Melody’s heart sing. Birds chirped in the surrounding willows and rabbits hopped in and out of the flower beds, completing what would have been an idyllic scene but for this stranger.
A sudden thought struck her. Was he dead? She hadn’t really considered that he might be.
Nor did he feel dead … not that Melody had ever seen or touched a dead man before, so she wouldn’t really know. There was an unmistakable vitality to this stranger. The way he now rested his head on his arms and the casual bend of his long legs made him appear to be merely sleeping.
Or drunk, she decided with annoyance when he let out a snort.
“Wake up!” Melody gave him a hearty push, intending to roll him out of the bluebells, but the grass had a slope to it and she’d pushed too hard. She scrambled to her feet and chased after him as he rolled toward the hot spring bubbling beside her garden. To her relief, she managed to grab hold of him before he fell into the water.
“Oh, dear! Stay right there,” she muttered, easing him onto his back and beginning to worry that he had not yet moved a muscle … and he did have quite a lot of those. Kneeling beside him, she hesitated but a moment before grazing her fingers along his hand again, which no longer felt cold. Odd, he now felt invitingly warm, as though he was heating to her touch.
She sighed and began to run her hands along his body. Not that she wanted
to do it, but someone had to check him for cuts or broken bones.
She found nothing more serious than a few bruises.
Still worried, she poked him gently.
His chest rose and fell slightly in response.
“Your breathing is steady. Thank goodness. Now lie still while I dunk my handkerchief into the hot spring. Don’t be alarmed, I only mean to wipe the dirt off your face.” She dipped her handkerchief into the warm water, squeezed out the excess moisture, and carefully wiped the streaks of dirt off his cheeks and brow. “You look wretched. What happened to you? I don’t suppose you were attacked by a highwayman. You seem quite capable of defending yourself. Besides, no decent highwayman would waste his time out here. Behind the hedgerows on the road to Chester is where I’d hide if I were planning to rob a passerby.”
She wiped dirt off his neck. “I suppose it was a tall tankard of ale that did you in … or several tall tankards. Were you drinking alone? Or with friends? Well, they aren’t very good friends if you ask me. Friends don’t abandon each other. I wouldn’t have abandoned you. Forgive me for chattering, but I’m relieved that you’re alive. I so rarely have a companion … not that you and I are friends or even acquaintances, but you’re easy to talk to, especially now that you’re … not dead.”
The stranger opened his eyes.
Melody shrieked and rocked backward on her heels, spared a tumble into the hot spring when he grabbed her firmly by the wrist and drew her back to his side. Flustered, she lost her balance and fell atop his hard chest. “You’re awake! Why didn’t you tell me?”
