Page 3 of The Iron Dagger
The finishing touch of chaos was the series of narrow wooden shelving and platforms that ran along the walls, as though a tiny person used them to reach the higher areas of the cottage.
The room was oddly circular, as though it were inside a turret, and the bed he was so cozily occupying rested in a round window enclave. The tiny window actually had some stained glass; a neat little pattern of blues and reds gave a surprising touch of beauty to the cramped room.
Gideon shifted and let out a sharp gasp. His body felt thoroughly tenderized. Every muscle ached, and a white-hot throb of pain shot up from his ankle each time he moved. He lifted the quilt that covered him to find that someone had bound it in a poultice and bandages. The memories of what had happened before he found himself in this strange place bloomed in his mind, sharp and weighty.
His men were dead. Weakened from the wench’s evil potion, already ill, they were slow and stumbling as they made their way out of the forest. They had walked all day and had settled down to try and make a camp without supplies. It had been freezing, and he did not know how they would last the night without a fire. The whole venture had been a failure, and never had he regretted a decision more as his men sat shivering from fever and weak from poison.
Dusk had begun to fall, and then they heard the wolves. He urged the men to disperse and move quickly, drawing their weapons. The howls had grown louder, then the footsteps. The men were frightened. He could hear their ragged breathing as they moved near him, and then the beasts were upon them. Gideon called out a warning as a beast surged from the darkness and pounced upon Harris. His man fell screaming, and the others panicked. They sprinted, but they were weak.
Gideon ran with his heart flying from his chest, his throat dry and his legs burning. He could hear the pack chasing close behind, but the darkness and his pounding footsteps were all he could focus on. He heard cries behind him, and his throat ached with despair as his two other men were cut down. But he could not stop. If he stopped, he was as good as dead.
Something sharp caught his ankle, yanking him back so that he fell hard, sprawling. His foot was caught in the beast’s jaws, and Gideon wrenched it free, leaving his boot behind. A streak of pain made him cry out as a set of teeth caught his bareheel and jerked it viciously. Trying to pull away made the agony increase tenfold.
With panicked fingers Gideon grasped his dagger and sank it into whatever flesh he could find, but this only seemed to enrage the creature. Through the mindless terror, he found his pistol and fired two shots before the chamber was empty. One shot found its mark. The wolf yelped and its jaws loosened.
Gideon pulled his foot free and stabbed the beast in the neck for good measure, leaving his now-useless pistol on the forest floor before gaining his feet again.
Soon the sounds of snarling and running paws fell behind him, and all he could hear was his own desperate panting. The agony that stabbed up from his mangled foot shortened his breaths and made him limp.
Then there were lights. Ahead, through the trees, lights swam golden and twinkling. A cottage. He moved forward, and then the vision swam before his eyes and he stumbled. He fell hard, his face scraping the forest floor. Getting back up seemed to be a gargantuan task, and at that moment, he hoped death would take him.
But it had not. Someone else had.
Gideon was abruptly brought back to the present as she walked through the door.
A blast of wintery air followed her, and he saw drifts of pure white snow just before she shut the door. She lowered her hood and he caught a glimpse of red cheeks before she turned her back to him, tossing her outer garments onto a chair. With a softly muttered curse, she removed her boots.
She was a tall woman, and he watched as she moved about the room, taking up a dish and a jug. A plump black and white cat followed at her heels, purring deeply.
The woman’s chestnut braids fell to her waist. A thick and shapeless shawl swallowed her form, but he caught aglimpse of floral embroidery on her stays, peeking out from underneath all the wool.
“Who are you?” he said.
The woman turned with a gasp and put a hand to her chest.
“Oh, how long have you been awake?” she asked, setting down the jug and coming to his bedside. She came much too close, and then she reached out and laid an icy hand on his brow. Had she been holding it in a snowdrift before coming inside?
Gideon jerked away from her touch. No respectable woman would be so forward with a strange man, and as the Commander’s son, he was not accustomed to common people laying their hands on him.
“Still warm. Do you feel shivery?” she said.
He did, but that was less important at the moment. He pushed her hand away.
“Kindly step back, woman. I’ll thank you not to touch me.”
She removed her hand as though he had singed her. “It’s a bit late for that.”
He fixed her with a scowl, but before he could say anything, she turned to go to the fire. Her low voice held a slight rasp, making her sound older than she appeared. As she busied herself making some sort of tea, he was able to study her profile. She had a wide mouth—well suited for toothy smiles, he imagined. Pink still lingered on her cheeks, and frizzy curls had come loose from her braids, giving her a disheveled air.
After pouring hot water into a mug, she went to his side and handed him the cup with a hard look. Gideon made no move to take it, however. The last time he had accepted a steaming cup from a woman, he had been gruesomely poisoned.
“What is it?”
“Willow bark tea. It will help with the fever.”
“You taste it first.”
Keeping their gazes locked, she brought the cup to her lips and drank. He watched the way her throat moved, and the rim of the cup looked wet when she removed it. She did not seem to be suffering a minute afterwards, so he reached out a hand and took the cup. He gave it a tentative sniff, then took a swallow and made a face. It was quite bitter.
