The Crimson Lady by Mary Reed McCall Read Free Book Online Page A

himself against the table, Braedan tried to regain his position, but his legs felt like jelly, his mind awash with seemingly a thousand disjointed thoughts and images. He clutched again at the burning ache that was his head, locking his knees to keep from tipping over. There was something he needed to tell her. Something important. About Draven…
    “I never had a chance at the Crimson Lady,” the smithy continued, speaking loudly enough for the benefit of the entire gathering, “but I still know a way to tell any who wants if this be her—aye, that I do, and I learned it from the master himself. Proof positive. Left her a little token of his esteem, he did, and it should be right here—”
    As he spoke his meaty fist darted out with surprising speed, his fingers latching into the scooped neckline of Fiona’s gown. In his fever-induced confusion, Braedan didn’t react at first. The vague thought that it was probably useless anyway to jump to the defense of a woman as tarnished as the Crimson Lady flitted through his mind, but then his natural instincts surged to the fore and he staggered into action, drawing his sword from its sheath with a hissing sound to level it at the foul-breathed ogre who was using her so roughly.
    “Unhand her. Now,” Braedan muttered, squinting to keep himself and his blade steady, and hoping that the resulting expression on his face looked more menacing than woozy.
    He must have done well enough, he thought, hearing the gasping sounds of awe echoing around him, even as the brutish smithy’s face blanched a grayish white. But after glancing up, he realized that the gasps were only in response to the sight of his sword—a mercenary knight’s fine-tooled weapon, likely worth more than a year’s wages of any man in this chamber…and that the pale, gaping look on the smithy’s face was only in reaction to the blood that was coming from the gash Fiona’s dagger had sliced into the flesh of his palm.
    “The bitch cut me!” the smithy echoed in disbelief, stock-still as he stared at the flow. Before Braedan’seyes, he seemed to pale further, stumbling back toward his comrades before lurching forward again, as if he would fall on Fiona. At that, Braedan blindly threw himself in his path, intent on taking the brunt of his weight.
    But there was no impact. There was simply…nothing. Braedan blinked and shook his head, wavering on his feet where he’d come to a stop. As the black spots swirled across his vision, he realized that the giant had toppled sideways instead of forward, knocked off-balance by several from the crowd who had leapt up to intervene. Fiona had stepped back a few paces, and now Braedan managed to twist around to look at her. But the motion deprived him of any little balance he still had, and he careened dangerously.
    The slow stream of images that played out then were like a dream—but it was no imaginary stone slab that rose up and slammed into him. Nay, it was hard and cold, packing a solid wall of pain into his lungs, every hint of breath removed. As if from a great distance he heard his sword clattering to the stone floor, saw through the shrieking blur of torment in his chest and head the mob of people milling about, some attempting now to restrain the smithy or scuffling with his friends, while another enormous man came waddling from the kitchens, shouting commands in an effort to lessen the uproar.
    Braedan’s gaze managed to find Fiona; though she still clutched the bloodied dagger, no one had approached her. Before he could think further on it, his burning lungs took over, forcing him to draw in his first, agonizing breath since crashing to the floor. His eyes squeezed shut, his face contorting with the pain of it, and when he opened them again he saw that Fiona hadcome to kneel beside him. She frowned and gripped his shoulder, calling his name. But he couldn’t hear her. Her mouth moved, but it was empty of sound thanks to the buzzing and his own raspy,