Dark and Stormy Knight Read Online Free Page A

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,