Dark and Stormy Knight Read Online Free Page B

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.”
    “Oh, aye.” Mrs. King drew nearer the bed. “Her ladyship is very good like that. She cares about her readers, she does. She just doesn’t care overmuch for celebrity.”
    Her ladyship? It had never occurred to Gwyn the reclusive author might be an aristocrat. Just as she started to ask more about her literary idol, Mr. Brody returned with a footed bed tray.
    Mrs. King helped Gwyn sit and plumped the pillows to support her back. Mr. Brody set the tray across her lap. It held a small, self-contained teapot, a silver rack holding triangles of toast, and something beneath a silver dome. Mrs. King lifted the cover, revealing a steaming bowl of chunky brown soup. The rich, beefy aroma made Gwyn’s mouth water.
    “Thank you.” Gwyn picked up the spoon beside the bowl. “Did you happen to speak to his lordship about my backpack?”
    Mr. Brody, who she presumed was the butler, shook his head. “Not yet, lass. But I will first chance I get.”
    Her heart sank. She had no clothes, no ID, no passport, and no money. What was she going to do?
    “I need to speak with his lordship at once,” Gwyn blurted.
    “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
    Tears of frustration stormed her eyes. “You don’t understand. I’ve got no money, no one to turn to, nowhere to go.”
    “Don’t fash yourself so.” Mrs. King patted her arm. “You’ll be well looked after.”
    The servants left the room, leaving Gwyn alone with her worries. As she poured her tea, a fragment from the night before drifted to the surface.
    Are you a faery?
    Something like that.
    He’d given her something to mend her bones. If he wasn’t a faery per se, he was definitely something magical. Suddenly suspicious, she sniffed the golden liquid half filling her teacup, which smelled of chamomile and honey. She took a sip, tasting only tea and sweetness.
    Satisfied the beverage was safe, she lifted the cup to her lips. A handsome knight with magical powers in an old Scottish castle? Maybe she’d fallen into a real-life faery tale, which wasn’t so bad. It was pretty cool, in fact. It would be even better, of course, if her knight wasn’t married to the woman who could make or break her whole future in filmmaking.
    * * * *
    Tearing at his hair, Leith scanned the day’s depressingly paltry output. His head throbbed, his eyeballs burned, and his gut was a tangle of fiery knots. After hours spent mining his brain, all he’d managed to extract were two lousy paragraphs.
    Bloody