The Dragon Earl Read online

  A NEW HISTORICAL ROMANCE FROM THE CREATOR OF THE TIGRESS SERIES

  BRAVING THE STORM

  Evelyn was drawn to fierce power. It was her one wild trait. Thunderstorms always found her outside, soaked to the skin, daring the heavens to strike her down. Perhaps that was why she walked directly toward Jie Ke now, into his dance of fists and feet that was just like a storm. He did not stop. She'd known he wouldn't.

  His blows continued. With his eyes firmly fixed on her, he began a. series of furious punches and jumping kicks, assaulting the air around her. She was safe; so long as she stayed absolutely still, he would not touch her. But one breath, one hair out of place, and she knew she could be knocked unconscious. It was his silent dare. How steady were her nerves when eight stone of weight was aimed right between her eyes?

  Evelyn smiled. Part of her wanted to close her eyes and lift her face to the sky as she did in a thunderstorm, but she could not break the hold he had on her gaze. His breath touched her; she felt and gloried in its force. She smelled his scent then, too—strong, with alien spices, but not in the least bit rank. He was simply different...and wholly compelling.

  Own me. Possess me. She cried those words to thunder­storms. She screamed them silently as she danced in the rain. She'd never before thought that about a man. Not until now.

  A LEISURE BOOK® September 2008 Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  Copyright © 2008 by Katherine Grill

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN 10: 0-8439-6046-9 ISBN 13: 978-0-8439-6046-4

  The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Chapter One

  A Chinese monk was walking up the aisle at her wedding. Evelyn blinked to make the apparition go away, but there he was, bright yellow robes billowing out behind him as he strode the length of the Norman church. Right toward her.

  Evelyn hadn't heard the commotion at first. She'd been waiting breathlessly for her moment to say, "I do." But a minute beyond "Dearly beloved," her bridesmaid sister had giggled nervously. Maddie often giggled inappropriately, so Evelyn ig­nored it. Moments later she'd heard at least four whispers, two creaks from the pews, and one gasp. The final blow had come when the Reverend Smythe-Jones faltered. His words stum­bled and his mouth fell slack. That had been too much. She'd had to see what was behind her, no matter that it was her wedding and brides did not turn around in the middle of their ceremonies. So she'd turned her back on cleric and future hus­band, shot a warning look at her sister Madeline, then glared all the interruptions into silence.

  That's when she'd seen him: the Chinaman. There were three of them, actually—two men and a boy—but the first seemed to dominate, with his ground-eating stride and his bright yellow robe.

  This simply would not do. Evelyn shifted her gaze to her father and arched her brow. She could already see the Earl of Warhaven, her fiancé Christopher's father, rising to his feet on the other side of the aisle. But the earl was choleric in temperament; he'd likely make a bad scene worse. Thankfully, her father felt the same. He would get to the disruption be­fore her future father-in-law. It would take only a moment.

  Except, it did not take a moment. Her father had barely found his feet when the Chinaman reached the front pew. Evelyn expected that the twin form of both fathers would at least make the man pause, but it didn't. He neatly and almost magically sidestepped them. One moment the fathers blocked the man's path; the next moment, he had somehow left them behind and was continuing up to the dais.

  And still, all Evelyn could do was stare. The man wore yel­low robes that wrapped him from head to foot. At her wed­ding?

  "Now see here!" Christopher exclaimed as he stepped for­ward, his outrage a palpable force. He sounded just as an in­dignant viscount and future earl should, and Evelyn felt the tension in her shoulders ease a bit. Christopher would handle this disturbance.

  But the Chinaman completely ignored him. He bowed once respectfully to the reverend, then threw back his cowl to focus on her.

  "My God, you're white!" she gasped. And he was, with bright blue eyes, a Roman nose, and ruddy, stubbled skin. If he hadn't obviously been in robust health, she would have thought he resembled Christopher's great-grandfather before the poor man died at the age of ninety-eight.

  The white Chinaman arched an eyebrow at her. It was an aristocratic expression and completely at odds with his cloth­ing. Then he spoke in a commanding voice that was strangely accented. "You are Evelyn Stanton? Of twenty-four years age today?"

  Evelyn swallowed and forcibly reminded herself that she would one day be a countess. Lifting her chin, she responded as haughtily as possible, "I am, and you, sir, belong outside." She should turn her back on him, she decided. It was the best way, according to Christopher's mother, to dismiss someone in regal fashion.

  But before she could even start to move, his arm shot out. He grabbed her elbow and held her fast. She squeaked in alarm, but fortunately Christopher intervened. He'd been too slow to prevent the Chinaman from touching her, but managed to grab hold of the man's rather massive biceps, clearly outlined by the folds of his robe. And there they stood, Christopher holding the bizarre Chinaman, who held her.

  "Release her, sirrah," Christopher growled.

  Again the Chinaman ignored her fiancé, and he boldly scanned Evelyn from head to toe. From the tight compres­sion of his lips, he was none too pleased with what he saw. "You are to wed the Earl of Warhaven on this date? In this church?"

  "Yes!" she snapped. "Now go away!" She glanced over his shoulder—no easy feat given his height—in the hope that the fathers would be able to help. But what she saw made her grimace with disgust. Trust the men to be having a furious whispered debate with two other gentlemen while complete­ly ignoring the Chinamen interrupting her wedding. What was going on?

  Meanwhile, Christopher leaned forward and spoke clearly and directly into the Chinaman's face. "If you have some­thing to say to my wife, you can do so after the ceremony." He jerked his head sideways at his groomsmen. "These are my brothers. They will escort you outside where you will await our pleasure."

  The Chinaman's gaze abruptly sharpened, but was not on Christopher or his bristling brothers. Instead, he pinned the Reverend Smythe-Jones with his intense stare. "The cere­mony is accomplished? They are wed?"

  Was there a note of hope in his voice?

  "Er . . . no . . . n-not yet," stammered the cleric. "We'd just begun." Then the reverend abruptly straightened and peered down his bulbous nose. "If you would please leave the altar area, I will proceed."

  "Then I am in time." The Chinaman's tone was almost dull, but still clearly heard. He turned to Christopher, and with every word, his voice became clearer and more authoritative. "You are not wed. And she is promised to me—the earl."

  "Sirrah—"

  "And now I am here." He turned to look at the reverend. "You may marry us. I am the Earl of Warhaven."

  Once again, the words did not fit into Evelyn's conscious­ness. She heard him, of course. Everyone likely heard him, with that booming voice of his. But the meaning would not set
tle in her thoughts, and she simply gaped at him.

  Not so Christopher, who snorted one word—"Madman!"— then waved to his two brothers. As one, they sprang into action to drag the disrupter out of the way. Evelyn did her part, shying sideways to stand protectively in front of the elderly cleric. She also kept a watchful eye on her sister. Madeline was more likely to join the mayhem than avoid it.

  Unfortunately, this Chinaman who was not Chinese re­fused to release her. He held her fast in one hand while— quick as lightning—the other shot forward in two chops: one to Christopher's forearm, the other to his shoulder. Evelyn's fiancé gasped and stumbled backwards, his arm dropping use­lessly to his side. Evelyn reached out instinctively, trying to steady him, but he was too far away and she was held fast.

  Then it was the brothers' turn. They rushed forward, but the Chinaman lashed out with his soft brown boots from be­neath his yellow robe. Truthfully, the footwear did not look all that solid—designed more for warmth than fighting—but Evelyn distinctly heard the impact of each kick. Alcott took two blows, one to his chest, then his face, and dropped on his bottom beside Christopher. Stephen's arms were raised to protect his face, but his knees were vulnerable. Two kicks to his legs and he dropped away.

  "This is ungodly!" cried the reverend as he charged around Evelyn to attack the Chinaman. The madman did not react. He simply stood his ground. His hands remained lowered as the elderly cleric rushed forward. Evelyn had a moment of ir­rational hope that a man in his sixties could accomplish with fisticuffs what three brothers in their twenties could not. She was wrong. At the last possible second, the madman stepped back and away, easily avoiding the reverend's fists. The cleric swung anyway, missing by a mile as the madman arched back­wards. Then the reverend's momentum carried him farther to stumble down the dais steps and into the arms of the other Chinaman, the one wearing orange-saffron robes.

  "Don't hurt him!" Evelyn cried.

  The other Chinaman—a real Chinaman this time—didn't need the warning. He gently guided the cleric to a seat—on top of the countess—and then returned to his place between the madman and everyone else.

  Evelyn hurriedly scanned the crowd for more assistance. But the people in the pews remained rooted in place, their mouths hanging open like an audience at a bizarre show. To one side, Christopher and his brothers were regrouping, but it would take them a moment. On the other, Madeline had dropped her bouquet and raised her fists.

  "Don't you dare!" Evelyn hissed, effectively stopping her miscreant sister long enough for their cousin, who was the other bridesmaid, to grab Maddie's skirt and hold her back. Which left Evelyn at the top of the dais with a madman. It was up to her to end this.

  Using her bouquet as a weapon, she roundly smacked the intruder on the back of his head just as she would an errant child. "Why are you ruining my wedding?" she demanded. It was a ridiculous question. Madmen did not respond well to reason, but it did at least bring his attention to her. Perhaps that would give Christopher enough time to coordinate an attack.

  "My apologizes for my tardiness," was the man's response, and it came in surprisingly cultured tones. "I wish no one harm," he said as he tossed a glare at Christopher and his brothers. "But I am the earl, and you are my intended bride."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Evelyn returned. "You are nothing of the sort."

  "But I'm afraid he is!" came another voice, a young voice tremulous with apology. It took a moment for Evelyn to find the speaker. He was older than his voice suggested: twenty-six, she guessed. He was standing next to the arguing fathers, his pale skin slick, his expression anxious.

  "What are you talking about?" she demanded.

  He didn't answer, because the madman spoke up. "Nearly twenty years ago, my father took me, my mother and sister, and a few servants on his travels to China. He wanted us to be together as a family." He said those last words with a negli­gent wave of his free hand. "We were attacked by bandits. None survived except me, his son." He turned back to her, and she was struck by the raw intensity in his pale blue eyes. "My parents promised us to one another when we were chil­dren. I have returned now to honor that vow." His shoulders sank somewhat as he grimaced up at the altar. "I am here to wed you."

  "Like bloody hell!" bellowed Christopher as he barreled forward.

  Evelyn squeaked in alarm. She knew what would happen, even if she thought Christopher terribly gallant for trying. But without the support of his brothers, who were a step be­hind as usual, Christopher would not fare better against the madman this time than he had the last.

  She tried to help. She jerked her immobilized arm back­wards as hard as she could while slipping sideways to inter­pose her body between the two men. It didn't work. The madman easily moved with her, allowing her to step between him and her fiancé, and then follow all the way through until she stood on his other side. That gave ample room for his booted foot to connect with the center of Christopher's chest, and again her fiancé went flying backwards. The mad­man, of course, was not even breathing hard.

  "This is outside of enough!" cried Evelyn. "This is my wed-ding!" She glared at Christopher's brothers before they could attack and fail again. "Do not be foolish. And you!" She turned to the madman. "You are not the current earl!" She looked out to her father for confirmation. She even tried to get the atten­tion of the real earl, but it was useless. The fathers plus an older gentleman were hissing and blustering to one another, com­pletely oblivious.

  Or perhaps not completely oblivious, because at that mo­ment Evelyn finally placed the graying man, who was ner­vously wringing his handkerchief as he cringed in the pew. It was the Honorable Mr. Grayson, the earl's family's London solicitor. Which meant the sweating young man who had spoken up in support of the madman was the solicitor's grandson and a solicitor in his own right. Evelyn blinked and tried to understand what could possibly be happening here.

  "Solicitors argue like chickens," said the madman in a strangely reasonable tone. "But the truth does not change. I am my father's son. I am the current earl, and you were promised to me."

  She focused back on him because, honestly, how could she not? He had that commanding tone that captured one's at­tention even in whispers. Still, the situation simply didn't make sense. "You cannot possibly be the earl." She looked into his very blue eyes and pleaded. "This just isn't the way things are done."

  His eyes narrowed. His gaze was so intense, so direct, she felt as if her skin sizzled. He looked at her nose and her mouth, her ears even, but eventually, his gaze returned to her eyes. "This is important to you? That things be done properly?"

  She stiffened. Here was proof positive that the man was mad, but she answered his question nevertheless. "Of course things must be done properly. Anything else is . . . improper!"

  The tension in his grip eased, and she thought perhaps his face relaxed, but it was hard to tell as he dipped his head in a bow. "Very well then, my wife, I will accede to your wishes. We will do things correctly."

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Except, he didn't move. He didn't release her arm, and he didn't step away from her. And most importantly, he didn't take his fellow Chinamen with him and leave so that things could return to order. He simply stood and looked at her.

  "What?" she finally snapped.

  He reared back slightly and arched an eyebrow. Then, with a sweeping gesture of his arm, he indicated Christopher, who was whispering to his injured brothers, the arguing fathers and solicitors, and the entire slack-jawed congregation. "How does one proceed correctly in such a situation?"

  There was no earthly way to answer that question. And yet it was incumbent upon her to answer, since the only other ranking woman in the room was the countess, who was sob­bing uncontrollably beside the reverend, who had managed to climb off her lap to sit rather awkwardly by her side.

  Evelyn sighed then made her decision. "Father," she called. No response. So she raised her voice despite the fact that brides most certainly did not do such a thing. "Fathe
r!"

  Her father jerked around to face her. "Dearest, there seems to be some question—" he began.

  "So I understand," she interrupted. "Perhaps our guests could all adjourn to the breakfast? It appears that there will be no wedding today."

  Her father glanced ruefully back at the earl and the solicitors—both young and old Mr. Grayson—as the three hissed and spat in their squabble. The madman had a point: they did seem rather animalistic, though more like snakes than chickens.

  Her father grimaced. "Don't worry, Button, we'll get this all sorted out soon enough. Then you can have your wedding day just as everything ought to be."

  She smiled at her father. Simple and even-tempered, he al­ways knew just what to say. Putting his words into effect, however, took much more time. Evelyn turned and ad­dressed her mother. "Mama, do you think you could help everyone find the wedding breakfast? I'm sure they must all be very hungry." It was a polite fiction. No one was hungry; everyone clearly wanted to stay and watch the unexpected show.

  Mama blinked, then a martial gleam entered her eyes. "Of course! Excellent idea," she said. Then with quick words and pointed stares, she shamed the audience into leaving, enlisting the bridesmaids in getting the stragglers out the door. At Eve­lyn's insistence, the groomsmen left as well: Stephen with a limp, Alcott nursing a bloody lip. The earl was urged by the reverend to remain silent, at least until they had more privacy. Finally, Christopher ordered everyone remaining to sit down and conduct themselves as befitted their stations.

  No one obeyed until the madman bowed politely to Eve­lyn, then settled in her father's seat in the front pew. He re­clined there like a . . . well, like a Chinaman, she supposed. He sat with his back straight, his legs spread, and his hands on his thighs. But he was at least silent and no longer holding her prisoner, so that was progress.

  She waited until the last guest was escorted out. A number of Christopher's family remained, for he had retained them. Evelyn's own family—except for her father—was gone. Mother and Evelyn together had marshaled every last one to "assist" at the wedding breakfast. The other two Chinamen— the orange-robed one and the boy—were standing respectfully off to the side.