Dark and Stormy Knight (3 page)

The seatbelt dug into her shoulder. She was upside down in the air. Something banged into her head. Weird, random thoughts ran through her mind. Her father telling her how Culloden had left a permanent scar on the empurpled hills of his homeland. Her stepmother beating her with a leather belt. Waiting by the phone for yet another lying user to call. The faery giving Heath MacDubh a blow job.

Please God, don’t let this be it. I haven’t yet begun to live.

The biting smell of gasoline overwhelmed Gwyn’s senses. She dug her fingers deeper into the armrests. The window beside her exploded. Safety-glass buckshot stung her face and arms.

She cried out and let go. The seatbelt let go, too. She went weightless. Good God, she was flying. Her head hit something hard. The crack of bone echoed in her ears as pain shot across her skull. Darkness pulled at her awareness like an undertow, dragging her down and down into the shadowy depths of unconsciousness.

* * * *

The cat was almost back to the shed when an explosion boomed in the distance. His back arched and the hair on his tail stood on end.

What the hell?

If that was thunder, he’d never heard its equal. He waited, whiskers twitching, pointed ears pricked.

Lightning lit the sky. The clap that followed was much less violent than the one he’d just heard.

Alarm pulsed through his sleek feline frame. Something wasn’t right. The first bang had come from the cliffs. The road there could be treacherous when wet. Please, let it not be the tour bus. He might resent the intrusion, but he wouldn’t wish injury upon a group of harmless old biddies to preserve his privacy. With worry gnawing his gut, he shifted back to his human form, raked back his dripping hair, and set off at a jog to check it out.

* * * *

Gwyn was sure she was dead. She had to be. There was no way in hell she could have survived such a terrible accident. Still, she was in pain, which seemed wrong. She took a minute, struggling to make sense of what she felt, but the synapses of her brain refused to synchronize. Somewhere nearby, flames crackled. Something was burning—something acrid and foul with undertones of roasting flesh that made her mouth water despite her revulsion.

She opened her eyes, blinking to clear her blurred vision and fuzzy mind.

The sky was dark and the earth was muddy beneath her. Trees towered over her. Tall, skinny pines looking unsteady as they swayed on the biting wind.

This couldn’t be hell, but try as she might, the knowledge of where she was and what had happened refused to answer her summons. It was as if her memory tore along with her clothes, and whole strips had blown away.

She was still alive. But for how much longer? Not much, judging by the severity of her pain. Clenching against it, she cast a glance down her body. Her clothes were muddy and tattered, blood seeped from her chest, and her left arm looked distressingly similar to the pipe under the bathroom sink in her bungalow back in South Pasadena.

Shock cut into her thoughts. Her hips were twisted at an impossible angle.

A book lay beside her, its cover gashed and mud-splattered. Was it
Peter Pan
? How she had loved that book as a child. Her father used to read the story to her at bedtime, and whenever he reached the part where Peter asked the children to clap if they believed in faeries, she always applauded like crazy and cried, “I believe! I believe!”

And meant it.

Just because she’d never seen a faery didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Nobody had ever seen God, either, and plenty of people still believed in Him.

She stretched her hand toward the book. She had to have it. Had to. If she could just touch the binding, even the merest graze with the tip of her finger, she would magically survive.

She reached—stretching, straining—but the effort proved beyond her. As pain shot up her arm, tears of anguish stung her eyes. Wherever she was, however she got here, she was going to die.

Without ever really having lived.

Hot tears warmed the cold rain on her cheeks. Had her body been able, she would have curled up in the fetal position to comfort herself.

A sound from the trees pulled her outside of herself. Footsteps on damp leaves. Please let it be help and not a wild animal.

“You’re going to be all right, lass.”

A face came over her—a dark silhouette curtained by long, dark hair. His accent was the same as her father’s, which comforted her some. She searched the shadows of his face for features, but couldn’t make any out. She closed her eyes, giving up. Her head pounded, her thoughts wavered like a weak radio signal, and her limbs felt feeble and leaden.

The man pressed something to her lips. Something flat and warm. “Drink this,” he said. “It will help.”

Despite her spinning head, she did as he bade. A familiar flavor filled her mouth. Salt and iron. Tingling warmth spread through her system. The worst of the pain backed off. As impossible as it seemed, her broken limbs straightened out.

“Are you a faery?”

“Something like that,” he said.

Darkness singed the edges of her consciousness. Maybe it was the accent, but she felt safe with this man. As safe as she used to feel before that drunk driver plowed into her father’s car.

As he scooped her up, she closed her eyes and surrendered to oblivion.

Gwyn’s eyes fluttered open. Haze shrouded her mind. Where was she? How did she get here? At any moment, she was sure the answer would come to her; that the memory of what had happened would come flooding back. She shook her head. Rather than clear her thoughts, the motion detonated an explosion of pain.

She stilled, waiting for the pounding to ease. The darkness of the room told her it was still night. The lamp on the nightstand provided the only light. Red velvet damask hung overhead. She was in a canopy bed. The big, brawny Jacobean sort found in medieval castles. Heavy panels of the same red velvet, tied to the massive bedposts with thick tasseled cords, draped the sides.

“Holy smokes. Where am I?”

Someone gasped. There was a scuffle, followed by footsteps, which grew softer. A door creaked open. Outside, the storm raged on.

“She’s awake,” a Scottish female voice called out. “Mr. Brody. Come at once. The wee lass is coming around.”

Gwyn lay very still to keep another bomb of pain from going off. Ever so carefully, she cast her gaze around the room.

A massive wooden armoire stood on the wall facing the foot of the bed. Seeing herself in its mirror gave her a start. She looked so different, she hardly recognized herself.

Beside the immense wardrobe was a dressing table with an ornately framed mirror and tightly gathered skirt—the same fabric as the bed curtains. Flocked red paper and portraits of Grecian nymphs and regal ladies hung on the walls. A worn, but still sumptuous, oriental carpet covered most of the wide-plank floor.

Footfalls echoed in the distance—a single set, growing louder. Mr. Brody, presumably, whoever he might be.

Faint memories broke through the cobwebs in her mind. The violent storm. The coach rocking and tipping. The shrill screams. Shattering glass. Mind-numbing mortal terror. Landing in the mud like a broken doll.

She slid her gaze toward the drainpipe arm. Impossibly, the limb looked normal. Her twisted pelvis, too, had righted itself. Maybe she’d imagined the injuries. And the crash. Maybe Mrs. Dowd the knitter, Robert the driver, Alice the tour guide, and all those other nice women were here somewhere, too, and still okay.

“When did she wake?” a man asked quietly just outside the door.

“Just now,” the Scottish woman replied.

“Has she spoken?”

“Only to ask where she is.”

“Oh, aye? And what did you tell her?”

“Not a thing, sir. I ran to the door and called out, just as I was told.”

The accident replayed in Gwyn’s mind like a 1970s disaster movie. The crash had seemed so real, it had to have happened, but how had she recovered so quickly? She combed her mind for an explanation, but could only come up with one answer.

Faery magic.

Approaching footsteps trampled her thoughts. Mr. Brody and the woman drew nearer the bed. They stopped and hovered over her, breathing softly.

“She is not awake,” Mr. Brody said.

“She was, sir. I swear it. I saw her eyes with my own.”

Collecting her courage, Gwyn opened one eye.

“See there.” The woman pointed. “I told you she was awake.”

Gingerly, Gwyn opened the other eye and blinked up at the pair of faces now bent over her like buzzards.

The woman had chin-length dark hair streaked with gray, a square jaw, and a hooked nose. Even so, she seemed more kindly-grandmother type than threatening.

The man, clad in a kilt and short suit jacket, was middle-aged, round-faced, and balding. Wire-rimmed spectacles sat upon his bulbous nose, all but hiding his blue eyes behind their glare.

“What happened?” Gwyn strained to speak. “Where am I?”

“You were in an accident, lass,” said the Scotsman. “And you’re at Castle Glenarvon.”

It took a couple of seconds for her brain to snap the puzzle pieces together. Holy crap. The crash really had happened, and Glenarvon was the castle they’d been heading toward—the home of Leigh Ruthven, the reclusive authoress.

Dazed and shaken, Gwyn moved her gaze from the man to the woman. “Did you write
The Knight of Cups
?”

“Oh, no, lass.” Color rose in the woman’s dried-apple cheeks. “The most I know how to write are recipes and grocery lists.”

Gwyn’s mind jumped back to the accident. “Where are the others? From the tour bus.”

The man’s expression gravened. “You were the only survivor, lass.”

Grief wrung her heart. “How did I come to be here? Who found me?”

“The laird,” the woman said.

The laird? Gwyn opened her mouth to ask, but no words escaped her parched throat. She swallowed and sucked on her cheeks until she’d raised enough moisture to croak out one word: “Water.”

“Of course. You poor dear.”

The woman reached for a ceramic pitcher on the bedside table. Oh, crap—where was her backpack with her screenplay and the photo of her parents? She would die if her most precious possessions had been destroyed in the explosion.

As she parted her cracked lips to ask about her things, the woman pressed the rim of the glass against them.

“Drink, dearie. You must be dying from thirst. Not to mention half-starved.”

After gulping down the contents of the glass, Gwyn licked her lips. She was hungry, but eating was at the bottom of her list of worries. Topping it were the location of her backpack, an explanation for the miraculous healing of her bones, and what to make of the man who’d found her.

“Shall I bring up a tray?” The woman’s gaze flicked toward Mr. Brody, who gave her a nod. Returning her gaze to Gwyn, she asked, “What might you feel up to, dearie? Tea and toast? A wee bit of broth?”

Gwyn started to nod and then stopped herself, afraid of triggering another headache. “May I have all three?”

The woman smiled and touched her arm in a caring manner. “Of course you may.”

Mr. Brody took a step back. “I’ll go. His lordship will want to know she’s awake. You stay and see that she’s comfortable, Mrs. King.”

“Just as you like.” Mrs. King threw a backward glance at Mr. Brody, now halfway to the door.

“Would you ask his lordship if he happened to see a pink leopard-print backpack anywhere when he found me?”

A shadowed face framed by long hair popped into her mind. The man who’d helped her. The laird of Castle Glenarvon, apparently. He had to be Leigh Ruthven’s husband.

“What is his lordship’s name?”

Her question stopped Mr. Brody in the doorway. “MacQuill. Sir Leith MacQuill.”

“Are he and Leigh Ruthven a couple?”

Brody cleared his throat. “In a sense, I suppose.”

The vagueness of his answer aroused Gwyn’s suspicions. Obviously, the man was hiding something—something Gwyn meant to get to the bottom of as soon as she felt well enough.

“Please tell Sir Leith I’d like to see him when he has a moment—to thank him for saving me.” She scraped her teeth across her lower lip. “And for his hospitality.”

“His lordship is occupied with other matters at present,” Mr. Brody said. “But I promise to convey your appreciation when I apprise him of your condition.”

A mixture of curiosity and wonder gurgled in Gwyn’s brain.

Mrs. King had moved to the fireplace. Carved cherubs and multi-colored marble panels ornamented its limestone facade.

“Sir Leith is a knight?”

“Aye, lass. Of the Order of the Thistle, no less.”

How interesting. Not to mention, impressive. In
The Knight of Cups
, Heath MacDubh also was a Knight of the Thistle, an honor bestowed by the Bonnie Prince himself while the exiled monarch lived in Italy. Heath had fought to help the prince reclaim the throne of Great Britain, which had been stolen from Charles’ Catholic grandfather, King James II and VII, by the Protestant monarchs William and Mary in the so-called “Glorious Revolution.”

“What does Sir Leith look like? Is he handsome?”

“Oh, aye.” Mrs. King struck the logs with a poker, unleashing a hissing fountain of sparks. “Very handsome.”

“Does he look anything like Heath MacDubh?”

“Who?”

“The character in Leigh Ruthven’s book.”

“Oh, em, well, yes,” Mrs. King said. “I suppose he does.”

Why were the servants being so evasive?

“What’s
she
like?”

The housekeeper’s eyebrows shot up. “She?”

“Leigh Ruthven, the authoress.”

“Oh, erm.” Mrs. King’s stammer further aroused Gwyn’s suspicions. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?” A smile played on wrinkled lips. “Though a bit on the shy side.”

“Is she here now?”

Mrs. King offered a tepid smile. “No, lass. She makes herself scarce when there’s a tour group about, though she leaves books.” She nodded toward the nightstand. “Just so you know, that there’s an autographed copy for you to keep.”

Gwyn turned her head, which felt much clearer, and gave the hard-cover copy of
The Knight of Cups
a gander. “That was very thoughtful of her.”