Dark and Stormy Knight Page 2

  She played small, hid in the background, lived in fear—of rejection, criticism, failure, and just about everything else.

  Even success.

  With any luck, Scotland would change her. Transform Gwyn the Meek into Gwyn the Bold. There was magic here, after all. Her father had told her as much. Real magic, too. Not just the phony kind produced in Hollywood.

  Chapter 2

  Leith looked around the shed’s interior through the black-and-white lens of a cat. Assorted rakes and hoes hung on pegs. A stack of clay pots, some chipped, one broken, stood near the door. Bags of mulch and manure, all unopened, were stacked here and there. A coiled length of hose lay in one corner. A pair of rubber Wellies awaited their absent owner beside a potting bench. A cobweb-laced wheelbarrow was propped on end against the far wall.

  Keeping up the grounds of Castle Glenarvon was more than he could handle. If only he could afford a proper gardener.

  Chasing the human thought away, he padded to the door, which he’d purposely left ajar when he entered. Hooking a paw around the front edge, he pulled. The weathered hinges squealed in protest. The assault on his ears made him cringe. Shaking it off, he slipped outside. Soil, grass, pine, decaying leaves, and that earthy perfume Mother Nature dabbed on just before it rained bit his tiny sinuses.

  He searched the bouquet for the musky undernotes of prey. Detecting a hint of hare, he followed the scent-trail into the woods. The sky cracked and flashed overhead. He’d been an idiot to wait so long to hunt. With a bit of luck, the storm wouldn’t break until he’d filled his wame.

  The clouds rumbled as he tracked the hare to the cliffs. Waves crashed on the rocks below. Normally, he loved the sea. At the moment, however, its brine masked the scent of his prey. Hares weren’t particularly clever creatures, so he doubted the subterfuge was deliberate. Even if it were, the ruse would only delay the inevitable.

  Though his prey’s scent was veiled, he could still sense the creature’s fear, knew it was concealed somewhere quite near. Hares weren’t just stupid, they also were skittish. If he waited, dinner would show itself. He crouched on his haunches, muscles as taut as springs.

  After a few tense minutes, the hare bolted, as predicted, in a streak of motion. He bounded after it, ran the animal down, and pounced. As his claws dug in, the hare screamed, heightening his predator’s instincts.

  The hare kicked and thrashed in his grip. He clamped his jaws around the neck and bit down, piercing pelt and flesh. Blood spurted over his tongue before settling into a steady stream, tasting of iron and protein—flavors he’s grown accustomed to in exile. He much preferred human prey. The blood was sweeter and less gamey, but, in a hamlet like Nairn, rumors spread as swiftly as pox in a brothel.

  Discretion was the key to avoiding discovery, along with the ill-effects of his curse.

  The iron fist of resentment closed around his heart. He hated feeding this way, hated what he’d become, hated his miserable existence. Mostly, though, he hated her. The evil faery bitch who’d taken from him everything that made life worth living.

  He released the hare and proceeded to wash himself with a rough tongue and curled paws. Through the sheltering branches, the sky was a roiling black menace. A jagged bolt of light shot across it, etching its imprint on his vision. The retorting thunder boomed like a cannon. Memories of Culloden flickered, but retreated as soon as the clouds opened.

  Bloody hell. It was raining cats and dogs. He smiled inside at the pun he’d made, but his feline aversion to water soon drowned his mirth. He shook his damp paws. Better head back before he got soaked. In his human form, he didn’t mind it so much, but his cat self couldn’t abide wet fur. Besides, he wanted to be sequestered inside his bedchamber long before that busload of hens invaded his roost.

  * * * *

  Thunder cracked louder than Gwyn thought possible, rattling her nerves along with the window beside her. With trembling hands, she slipped The Knight of Cups into the backpack at her feet. The hot-pink leopard print still jarred her sensibilities. She’d bought the backpack for the trip—to symbolize her new lease on life. Fake it till you make it and all that. So far, the bold print only made her feel like an imposter, even though it carried her touchstone. A photo of her parents on their wedding day—the only image of them she had left.

  Her stepmother had burned the rest.

  The bus listed abruptly. Gwyn gripped the armrests. Good God. The coach damn near tipped over that time. Why didn’t the driver pull over?

  The tour guide, a forty-something woman named Alice Trowbridge, was coming down the center aisle, reassuring the other passengers, who looked as uneasy as Gwyn felt.

  Alice was lanky and long-limbed with a sculpted pageboy and oversized teardrop eyes that reminded Gwyn of those creepy sixties-era paintings of sad-eyed children her stepmother collected. Not that Alice was creepy. On the contrary, she seemed friendly, organized, and, though English, knowledgeable about Scotland.

  Just as Alice approached their row, another violent gust rocked the coach. A chorus of screams rose from the forward seats. All the blood in Gwyn’s body rushed to her stomach. She shot a hard look at the tour guide.

  “Shouldn’t we pull over and wait it out?”

  “We’re horribly late already.” Alice glanced at her wristwatch. “And the driver knows this road like the back of his hand.”

  Gwyn hoped to hell it was true. Wringing her hands, she turned back to the storm. It was like being inside one of those drive-through carwashes without the soap.

  “All will be well,” Alice assured her. “I promise.”

  The bus tipped. The tour guide stumbled, but gripped the headrest on Mrs. Dowd’s seat to stop her fall. The color drained from Alice’s face. Her pageboy was no longer perfect.

  Gwyn turned back to the window just in time to meet a blinding flash. The sky was dark and churning, rain poured down in sheets, and a steep ravine edged the narrow road. One good gust could blow the bus right over the side! She gulped and closed her eyes. She should pray. But to which saint? Michael, the archangel of protection? Christopher, the patron of travelers? Shit, she was almost sure there was a saint for storms, but couldn’t seem to dislodge the name from her fear-jammed brain.

  Fuck it, she’d go with the old standard, not that prayer had ever done her any good before.

  Angel of God, my Guardian dear,

  to whom His love commits me here,

  ever this day, be at my side,

  to light and guard, to rule and guide.

  The coach tilted to one side. Her heart jumped into her throat and fear crawled across her skin like a herd of baby spiders. Holy smokes. She was going to die. The wheels dropped with a jolt, knocking her teeth together. Damn, she’d bitten her tongue, but at least she was still alive.

  The bus lurched, throwing her forward. The seatbelt stopped her, and she slammed against her seat. Her head snapped back like a Pez dispenser. Blood salted her tongue. Damn, she’d bitten it again.

  Beside her, Mrs. Dowd, needles clicking like rosary beads, recited the Hail Mary under her breath.

  The coach teetered on the edge of the ravine.

  Screams cut through the noise of the storm.

  Gwyn clamped her hands around the armrests.

  Mrs. Dowd was still knitting and praying.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God”—click, click, click—“pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

  Gwyn struggled to shut her out. She didn’t want to think about dying. This trip was supposed to be the start of a new, more exciting life. The beginning, not the end.

  Eurosia! That was the name of the patron saint of storms.

  As the bus tipped toward the cliff, another shrill chorus assaulted Gwyn’s ears. She swallowed, eyes shut tight. If they were going over, she’d rather not witness the carnage.

  Her memory unveiled the wedding photo of her parents. Would she see them on the other side? Or had they already com
e back as somebody else? Despite her Catholic upbringing, she believed in reincarnation. She just prayed she wasn’t about to find out she was wrong.

  The coach tilted and hung there, balanced. Time stood still. So did her heart. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t remember how to pray.

  The bus tipped past the balancing point.

  No! This wasn’t happening!

  And yet, it was.

  The bus rolled down the embankment, thrashing and groaning like a dying elephant. Panic stabbed Gwyn hard again and again. The other passengers screamed and screamed.

  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.

  Chapter 3

  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 th
e 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.