Lethal Red Riding Hood (Dark Goddess Chronicles Book 1) by Leonard Wilson & Ann Marie Wilson

Author:Leonard Wilson & Ann Marie Wilson [Wilson, Leonard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lost In The Wood Press, LLC
Published: 2020-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

“Don’t move, dear.”

Clay roused himself from dreams at the sound of the familiar, friendly voice, but allowed himself to be restrained by the firm hand pressing the cool cloth against his forehead.

“It was a bad fall,” Grace told him. “You hit your head on a gravestone. What were you doing up on the Harrison Mausoleum, anyway? It’s not like there’s any Harrisons around anymore to complain of its condition. Not a soul would have cared if you’d waited ‘til there was help, and you know those old slates are treacherous.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized with heart-felt sincerity. He was paying for the indiscretion liberally, his body aching all over, but his head most of all—like he was suffering from the worst hangover ever, and then got hit on the head with a shovel for good measure. “I…” He tried to make excuses, but it was hard enough to remember having gone up there in the first place, much less recalling why.

“You scared me witless, silly man,” she said with the sort of brave little smile used to plaster over slowly fading fear. “You know we need you alive and whole.”

“Sorry,” he apologized again. He tried to sit up a little only to be rebuffed by a firm-but-gentle hand, and he sank back into the bed.

“Just apologize by making a full recovery.” She kissed him on the forehead, and her smile turned genuine as she gazed down at him. “I hope you’re feeling up to a bit of dinner.”

“Definitely,” he assured her as his eyes followed her across their cottage to the crackling hearth. “I’m starving, actually.” From the smell of it, she’d gotten a rabbit from somewhere while he’d been oblivious. The aroma of the bubbling stew filled the cottage, along with the scents of wood smoke and roasting apples.

Folk did not generally accuse Grace Ambleforth of being a beauty, with her plain, shoulder-length hair the color of damp sand, and a face still bearing some blemishes from a childhood pox, but Clay couldn’t imagine a more lovely sight to wake up to—after so many dark and disturbing dreams—than that familiar smile.

“Aidan? How’s Aidan?” Clay asked, a sudden fear gripping his heart. “I dreamed…”

“Our boy’s fine, dear.” Grace looked up from stirring the kettle to smile reassuringly. “He’s just out to the plots, digging a splendid hole. Took it t’ heart that he’s the man of the house while you’re abed—and he’s doing a fine job of it, all things considered. It may not be near right, but I dare say it’ll be easier for you to make it right than it would be to’ve dug the whole grave yourself. Old widow Dawson finally moved on in the night. The family will be needing it as soon as can be managed.”

Clay breathed a relieved sigh, and began flexing his fingers experimentally to begin a catalog of how badly he’d been hurt where. He’d gotten as far as deciding he still had five working digits on each hand when Grace appeared back at his side with a steaming wooden bowl.

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