Garden of Dragons (Dark Gardens Series Book 3) Read online

  Garden of Dragons

  by

  Meara Platt

  Copyright © 2017 by Meara Platt

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sneak Peek at Garden of Destiny

  Sneak Peek at Garden of Shadows

  Sneak Peek at Garden of Light

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  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 pr
esence 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.”