Dark and Stormy Knight Read Online Free

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 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,