Stormy Peril

by Victoria Pinder

  Stormy

  Peril

  Victoria Pinder

  Winter Peril

  Copyright©2016

  Cover Design by Laura Gordon

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemble to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Copyright © 2016 Victoria Pinder Love in a Book

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 069260491X

  ISBN-13: 978-0692604915 (Love in a Book)

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my family and the basic concept of love. My life continues to expand and new things appear out of no where. All in all life is great because of the togetherness of my family through love. I could not write a word without the blessing.

  CHAPTER 1

  Kimberly Mira blinked into the dark and sniffed the air. Clean cotton sheets? A soft mattress cushioned her back. Her skin grew goose bumps as the wind howled outside. This wasn't heaven. Her skin felt grimy and her head pounded like she'd drunk too much last night. Flashes of an out-of-control fire replayed in her mind. She sucked in her breath like she needed to hold as much oxygen in as possible. She told herself to be normal and that the intense fire was in her mind's eye. Eventually she relaxed her body. Another memory surfaced as she closed her eyes and remembered falling into depths of a freezing forest.

  She wiggled her feet, and her bare feet brushed against the soft sheets. This bed wasn’t hers and this black-as-night room made no sense. What had happened? Kimberly rubbed her eyes and stared into a dark gray room with walls etched out of stone. With the help of the moonlight her eyes adjusted, and she saw the wood floor shone as if from a recent polish.

  Wind rattled the windowpane.

  She breathed in and out, neither dead nor frozen. She sat up in bed, in the dimly lit room, and ran her hand over the silk nightgown she wore. She hadn’t had silk anything, ever. Her brow furrowed as she realized this wasn’t hers. Her own clothes were gone. She scratched her arm because it itched, and she remembered the hard, cold ocean. Who knew how deep she'd fallen into the watery depths, and she thought herself dead. Her skin itched with salt. Last night she’d been so cold. How was she wearing silky anything? She stretched to get out of the bed, and her feet pressed against a rug, though it wasn’t anything like the blankets, which offered warmth she hadn't thought to experience again.

  Nothing made sense here. Where was she? She glanced around the room, and this time paid more attention to the long, thin windows that reminded her of Medieval Times. Was it a castle window? The dreary mist that was illuminated with the full moon outside offered no natural light.

  A crisp wind blew past the window, and she shivered despite how the room was warm. Kimberly peered at the stone wall near the massive curved door with a round top and black metal trim, looking for a switch. She sucked on her bottom lip as she stared at a chandelier above her head. She had to be wrong about that. This was a crazy dream, but did castles have electricity? She shook her head and decided one step at a time. One issue at a time.

  Step one. She wasn't dead. Was she kidnapped? Unlikely. A flashback in her mind went straight to the second where the tall, dark pilot left the front of the plane with a gun and she screamed. She shook her head. He’d tried to kill her. Her heart raced, but this didn’t help. She reasoned to herself that he wasn’t her kidnapper. How would the pilot know where to crash the plane to get here?

  Calm down. However she’d ended up here in this room, she’d been placed in bed and changed into a nightgown. Everything had to be fine.

  She stood up, and the cold from the wood floor rushed through her feet, up her legs. Kimberly jumped onto the plush Persian rug between the bed and the door, happy to lose the frigid bite of ice from her toes in the silky carpet. Then she traced the walls. They were rounded, polished, and real stones. This was a castle. How?

  Castles were European and not American, and they had to be closer to the US, unless the pilot took them seriously off course. Airplanes follow routes, and they’d have been stopped if they went this far off course. Nothing made sense about where she was. She rubbed her forehead. She had left London hours ago. The plane had refueled in Greenland and they were on course to Boston. Eileen and Ali had offered her a ride. She had bought them a hot chocolate at the last airport. Then she remembered blood and how shards of the plane littered a beach. Now they were gone. The memories were facts, and now she was here.

  Kimberly stared into the ornate mirror with delicate black metalwork surrounding the glass. Her face was pale, except for that nasty bruise on her cheek that made her dark eyes almost black. She leaned closer and reached behind her chestnut hair to her scalp. She had a nasty Easter egg, but someone had bandaged the spot where she had found blood. Her chestnut-brown hair was a knotted mess, and hardly hid that bump.

  She wore a silk nightgown, long, that was like something Mom would wear in the house, but not her. She blinked. It certainly wasn't from Eileen's designer wardrobe. She jerked away from the mirror, like a memory of her friends cut into her skin.

  There were more mysteries to unravel here. Someone had changed her out of her wet jeans. A memory of the pilot pointing a gun to her head as she huddled with sharp rocks replayed in her mind. Had that someone saved her from someone about to shoot her in the head and brought her here? She winced and remembered the gun in her face. Kimberly had to find out if she was still in danger. The windows rattled again, louder this time.

  She needed to call home. Kimberly hobbled across the floor toward a gray dresser with doors that had two different knights. She threw it open and ransacked the square wooden drawers with metallic circles for handles. Socks would help. She crossed her fingers and veered to the right. She rifled through towels and shirts until she found wool socks. She leaned onto the wall and lifted her feet.

  Someone had bandaged her feet too. How had she not noticed? She took a deep breath and checked the nasty Easter egg with her fingers again. It had to have been an angel last night that saved her.

  The windows shook like someone or something wanted in. She swallowed and stared at the storm that brewed outside the window. Thunder boomed in her ears.

  Bang.

  She fell to the floor behind the dresser and covered her head. Fragments of memories flooded her brain, but she had to stay in the here and now. She squeaked, but then finally said, "Hello?"

  The heavy wooden door creaked open, and her adrenaline spiked.

  She stood up, coughed, picked up a dove figurine from the dresser top, then called out, "Hello. Can I help you?"

  An older woman with gray hair and a Victorian-style black dress entered the room. Kimberly had chest pains as the woman opened her mouth and said, "The master sent me to ensure you're fine, miss. May I come in?"

  The master? Who said that in today’s world? Her hand shook, and Kimberly carefully set the figurine back on the dresser. She chewed
her lip and realized the older woman was not who had saved her last night. The coldness that rushed to her bones made no sense. The older woman was no match for the pilot. She rubbed her forehead and hoped her fingers warmed.

  "Are you okay, miss?"

  I'm an idiot. Her entire body wanted to run. Kimberly straightened her spine and nodded her head. "Yes, please come in."

  The woman's gray hair was streaked with pure white, and the bun on the back of her head accentuated the wrinkles on her pale face. She walked over to the bed and stripped the sheets.

  Kimberly swallowed and wondered if she should help, but the woman was done too fast. "You're up,” she said. "It's a good sign, miss. What is your name?"

  "Kimberly… Kimberly Mira," she answered in a shrill voice. She dropped her hands to her side. "How did I get here? And who are you?"

  The older woman walked over to the closet and retrieved a wicker basket. "I'm Meg, the maid in this house. Master Raphael, my employer, found you and brought you back unconscious. We spent half the night attending to your wounds. Were you in that plane crash near on the beach where he found you?"

  "Yes." Memories of running around the island forest bombarded her brain, but the picture was so foggy. She couldn’t remember. She tried to keep her voice light as she walked toward her. "Are authorities on their way?"

  "I don't know, miss." The woman walked around her and went back to the bed to gather the sheets. "Ask Master Raphael. I’ll get you clean sheets, as these must have salt and sand from the beach."

  He'd probably saved her life. She intended to thank him, but then a chill raced up her spine. Where was the pilot? Was he in a different room? Her voice cracked, and her throat became parched. "Was I the only one brought into the house last night?"

  "You're the only survivor that I know about." The maid packed the sheets in the basket. "You'll have to ask him your questions. I have a lot of work to do."

  "Where is he, Meg?" Kimberly stared at Meg with her mouth still dry. She hugged her waist. She was probably safe for now, but her mind raced with what ifs and more goose bumps grew on her arms. "I’d like to talk to him."

  Meg nodded. "Good. Wash up first. I found some clothes for you to wear and hung them in the closet."

  Kimberly smiled and rubbed her arms. Mr. Raphael must be in his sixties, like Meg. He probably wore old-fashioned clothes like Meg. They lived in a castle that was straight out of a history book. And Kimberly didn’t care if the clothes offered to her were from the last century, as long as she washed the dried salt of the ocean off her skin with a decent shower. Her skin was caked with grime, and even a bath might help her mind be clear. She sniffed her hair and her face wrinkled. She smelled like a sewer mixed with oil. Meg went to the closet and carried out clean sheets. She made the bed.

  Coldness floated through Kimberly. A gust of wind must have come from the slightly opened door. Meg finished her work then pointed to the en suite bathroom. "Wash as best you can, miss. I'll change your bandages if we have to."

  Kimberly held her tongue that would have asked why this room had its own bathroom, as castles didn’t seem to have that luxury. It was best not to know details. Then Meg took a step toward the door with the basket of sheets. Kimberly’s blood pressure surged. "Wait. Where you going?"

  "I need to set the wash." Meg shook her head. "I'll be back, but you are not my only responsibility today. I've work to do."

  Another chill rushed through Kimberly as Meg opened the door to a drafty hallway. How big was this castle? The door thudded closed and the windowpanes shook. She turned and stared at the mist outside. The storm might be worse now. Kimberly held her tongue. She wanted that shower.

  She swayed on her feet and stared into the mist. Lightning brightened the sky. Was the pilot out there? Waves crashed against the rocky coastline, and a billow of black smoke emanated right off shore that mixed with the gray mist.

  Mr. Raphael must have seen the crash from his windows. Did he have other neighbors? Was there a nearby hospital? She scanned the horizon but couldn’t see past the forest of thorns and evergreens. Her skin pinched like one of the thorns last night had pricked her. She brushed her arm and glanced to see the cut from last night. She ran through that, and the ocean was past the dense woods. She gulped and realized the ocean was a memory, as she couldn’t see anything but trees. She scratched her chin. The pines and firs had a slight glitter that probably held icicles. She had a sense that she was utterly alone.

  She walked into the bathroom and the door slammed shut. She hadn't intended for it close so hard, and the loud bang sent tremors in her stomach.

  The stone walls continued, but the shower had tempered glass and seemed modern. She stepped into it and the sterling silver knobs released warm water onto her raw skin. The shower was cleansing. The shampoo smelled of cucumbers, and the soap had a hint of coconut that reminded her of her mom’s home in Miami. She lathered twice to ensure that the rawness of the salt wouldn't return to make her itch again.

  Kimberly dried off with a huge towel that she wrapped around herself and tied at her chest. She rubbed away steam from the mirror. Where were the police and why wasn't she in a hospital?

  She swallowed, studying her face. Her bruise wasn’t so pronounced, but her head still stung. Meg and Mr. Raphael had brought her here and not to emergency personnel. Why? Kimberly closed her eyes and swore not to be so negative. She was alive.

  She owed them her thanks. Ali and Eileen’s skulls had bullets through the brains. Kimberly’s legs almost collapsed. It was better not to think about her friends who didn’t make it.

  She walked back into her room and studied the vast chamber. With the thick rug, hardwood floors, and handcrafted furniture, this was made for an elegant lady or some rich, elite person. She must have read to many historical stories to imagine something like this.

  She clicked her tongue in her mouth and went to the closet.

  Her mouth fell open and she stepped into the walk-in closet. These weren’t old-lady clothes. She picked up one black silk shirt and read the label. The shirt cost more than the rent on her small house in the South Seas last year, but then she had lived cheap. Whoever owned these would want them back.

  Kimberly realized her chest and average waist wouldn't fit the designer top.

  The previous owner probably ate half a salad and never tasted chocolate. Kimberly shook her head and repeated her old mantra: no need to be mean. Then she sifted through skirts and tunic dresses to find something more loose-fitting that might work around her hips.

  She gathered every piece that might work and piled them on the door hook. The super-skinny off-to-a-nightclub outfits could be shoved to the end and never touched.

  A knock reverberated in the air. She threw on a red cotton dress and walked out of the closet, hoping it was Meg. The maid had already let herself in, and carried fresh towels. Goose bumps grew and the overwhelming sense to run hit Kimberly hard.

  "Do you need me to change your bandages, Miss Kimberly?" Meg asked.

  Kimberly blinked. She was a miss? No one was so formal with her. "I'm feeling good. If you have some first aid or antibacterial cream for my scratches, though? If not, I’m sure everything will be fine."

  "Very well." Meg shook her head then stepped around Kimberly to place the towels in the bathroom and take the soiled one. She placed it in a basket and said, "I'll be right back. Then you can go see Master Raphael. He's expecting you."

  The woman had a slight accent, but the proper style of her phrases jarred Kimberly. On the island or in Miami, people spoke warmly and invited others into conversation. Meg did not.

  Kimberly picked up a hairbrush, working her way from the ends toward the roots, and detangled the mess.

  The door opened, and this time Kimberly didn’t jump. She finished her hair then turned to smile at Meg. "Are you from Boston?"

  "No." Meg shook her head. "I was born and raised in Scotland, but Master Raphael moved us here to Maine."

  Maine. Kimberly l
et out a breath. She was in the continental United States again after eight years. If she had to walk to Miami, she'd find her way home.

  Meg stared at her feet. "We don’t have any slippers that would fit you, and you didn’t have any shoes. The socks will have to do. I'm to ensure you find your way to the study."

  Kimberly swallowed then rushed to follow Meg's directions. On the second foot, though, she slowed down a bit. Questions never helped her get on people's good sides. She ought to meet the aged man that Meg worked for.

  "Socks don't take this long, miss." Meg tapped her foot a bit.

  Kimberly folded the top then stood up. Dizziness hit her hard as she stared at Meg, but she fought against the notion. She nodded at Meg and asked, "What is Mr. Raphael like?"

  "You'll see soon enough." Meg walked in front of her. "And don't dawdle, Miss Kimberly. I have a lot to do."

  Kimberly picked up her pace, but the long hardwood floor with the blue carpet that ran down the middle made her feel small. This place was huge and dark. The stone walls were cast in shadows. She stared at the huge mahogany doors that circled at the top. How many bedrooms did this place have? She shivered. This had to be a real castle. The hallway floor was meticulously kept, but her eyes were drawn to the portraits. Long-dead European nobles from throughout the ages littered the walls. One portrayed a man on horseback holding a bag full of heads to present to a woman in front of the castle. Kimberly swallowed and turned away. Her heart felt like it would explode in her chest.

  Her gaze adjusted to the darkness, though she followed Meg, who picked up a candelabra from a corner table near her room. Kimberly held her breath then stared at the polished banister that overlooked the first floor. There was nothing scary about modern.

  She cringed at another gargoyle in the corner near the stairs, but she kept her head up. "At Christmas, I bet you have a huge tree on the first floor."

  Meg lifted her long skirt and went down the first step. "Last year Master Raphael skipped Christmas, but this year might be different."