Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (10 page)

There it was, in permanent black ink. She belonged to this
man, like his horse or his cane plantation. He could do with her as he pleased
and none could interfere, the law was on his side. She dropped the parchment
and shrank back, into the corner of the bed.

 “There is no need to be frightened, Elizabeth.” The count
soothed as he sat down on the bed and gently took her hand in his. “I know
you’ve been hurt. You needn’t fear me. I’m not like those men who hurt you. I’m
a gentleman, and a gentleman does not abuse those in his keeping. I’ll not
expect more of you than you’re able to give. I’ll give you time . . . to heal.”

Elizabeth quelled the rising panic as she listened to his persuasive
timbre. He spoke on, of separate rooms at his estate if she wished, of taking
things at a leisurely pace and allowing her to come to know him as her friend
before they pursued the intimacy of lovers. She felt herself relax by degrees.
His voice, his words were compelling as he spoke in that soft, deliberate tone.

As she listened, her mind latched onto a detail that might
be her salvation in all of this: he didn’t know she was still a maid. He said
she’d been abducted after the wedding, which meant it was before the wedding
night. That being the case, he couldn’t know her heavy courses prevented her
from being abused by her captors. He assumed she’d been molested and he was
offering her a celibate marriage based on his assumption.

Good Heavens! She’d be a fool to set him straight now.

Elizabeth mumbled her gratitude for his kindness to her. She
slumped onto the pillows, feeling as if she’d escaped a harrowing fate--and
that by inches. Her limbs were shuddering. Her insides felt like a great, looming
cavern infested by gnawing fear.

“Just rest, my sweet. All this agitation isn’t good for
you.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. She was surprised at the
weariness pulling at her. The count continued to sit on the bed, his hand
stroking her forearm in slow, patient circles. The gesture was comforting as
she lay quietly as he bade, closed her eyes, and let the world go by.

Chapter Nine

The waters were murky and turbulent beneath the moonless
October sky.

Donovan leaned against the rail on the forecastle deck
nursing his tobacco and watching smoke rings float into the night. The melody
of an overworked fiddle carried up from the main deck as the men laughed and
bantered while sharing their rum rations.

Ignorance had its benefits. His medical texts described a
plethora of symptoms in patients with head injuries, everything from mild
dizziness, disorientation and impaired coordination, the abrupt loss of vision
or hearing and speech impediments to limb paralysis and full blown grand mal
seizures. Lizzie’s speech difficulties manifested only when she was fatigued or
agitated. They diminished with enforced rest, so he attributed that symptom to
anxiety, not brain damage.

He ran a hand along the tense muscles of his neck and gazed
into the dark horizon.

So far, there had been no presentation of grand mals, but he
was noticing petit seizures occurring with alarming frequency now that she was
awake for longer periods. Lizzie took to staring into space, as if in a trance.
She wasn’t aware of their occurrence and she emerged from the odd spells with
verbal prompting, so he was trying to not worry overmuch.

Donovan exhaled a wreath of smoke and studied the fluid
reflections of light dancing upon the surface of the water from the ship’s
lanterns. Lizzie seemed more alert than usual this afternoon. She kept asking
him questions, her mind voracious for answers after weeks of lethargy. That was
a good sign, a ray of sunlight amid the shadows of uncertainty.

He tossed the stub of his cheroot into the sea and gazed out
at the dark horizon.

A movement from behind caught him off guard. Instinctively,
he reached for his pistol.

It was Jack, coming to join him at the rail. Donovan dropped
his hand from his belt. He turned his back to the sea, stretched his arms out
along the railing, and enjoyed the crisp breeze blowing through his hair. Since
their retirement from piracy Rawlings lost his wealth to gambling, including
his ship. Donovan asked his friend to captain of The Pegasus. The position
benefited them both. Jack would have a ship to sail and Donovan could rest easy
knowing his cargo would reach the markets unhindered. Who better to guard a treasure
than a former pirate?

 Jack looked surreptitiously about them. “We need to talk,
in private.”

“Come to my cabin.” Donovan replied, fiercely aware of the
passage of time. Lizzie was asleep, and his valet was looking after her, but it
pained him to be away from her for too long.

At the arched entrance to the officer’s deck, just outside
his cabin door, a figure leaned against the wall. Donovan stopped. Jack
cannoned into him from behind.

A glint of steel in the lantern light made Donovan reach for
his pistol a second time.

“What are you doing lurking outside his lordship’s suite,
sailor?” Jack demanded.

 Donovan recognized the slim figure of Ambrose Duchamp
beneath the dim circle of light next to his door. “It’s all right, Jack, its
Duchamp.” He holstered his weapon. Duchamp had been Donovan’s first mate in the
east. Jack brought his first mate with him to his new position. Duchamp was
barely tolerated by Rawlings. It didn’t help that the Frenchman liked to sit
alone in the shadows, paring ripe fruit with his enormous dagger.

“I know who it is!” Jack barked, resenting Donovan’s
intrusion in matters of discipline. “I asked you a question, sailor. Answer
it.”

“I was sitting under the stairs when the Indian went below.”
Duchamp explained. He waved his dagger at the portal. The door was left
slightly ajar. “Damned careless, my lord. A man might be tempted to sneak in
and visit la petite belle while she sleeps.”

Donovan nodded. Duchamp sauntered past them. Jack scowled
after the man.

The smell tipped him off as soon as Donovan entered his
cabin, the pungent aroma of his valet’s intoxicating tobacco. The hookah was on
the carpet near the open window, as was the valet’s sitar. Pearl had been on
one of his wool-gathering expeditions again, forgetting he was supposed to be
minding Elizabeth as he wandered off to the galley for something to eat.

 Jack sat at the small table and reached into his coat to
remove an envelope.

Donovan lifted the curtain and peered into the smaller room.
Elizabeth was asleep, as he expected. He opened the cabinet to retrieve two
goblets and an unopened bottle of whiskey, Jack’s sedative of preference. He
poured a measure in each glass, pushing one toward his friend.

 Jack cradled the crystal goblet in one hand, holding the
stem between splayed fingers. “What did that angry mob want with Duchamp in
France? You tossed him a rope and hauled him onto your ship as you were leaving
the quay. Suppose he was guilty of some heinous crime?”

“Ambrose has proven his loyalty to me a thousand times
over.” Donovan replied, dismissing Jack’s insinuation. Taking the seat across
from his friend, he gestured to the envelope. “What is it you wanted to
discuss?”

 Jack opened the packet and spread the two letters from the
abduction before them. “I’ve interviewed my officers and the crew. No one
remembers who delivered the kegs of ale before they set sail from the London
docks. Jinks said this letter accompanied the delivery.”

“We’ve been over this. The crew accepted the ale as a gift
from me with the forged note encouraging them to celebrate my good fortune in
taking a bride. We know Fletcher was behind the abduction. He probably pried
the seal from the letter I sent him a week earlier and reused it.”

A lock of red hair also lay between them. It had been tied
about the handle of the dagger pinning the ransom note to the main mast. The
note demanded two thousand pounds for the safe return of the Countess de
Rochembeau.

Fletcher is going to die, he thought as he caressed his
wife’s hair. After learning the gambler orchestrated Elizabeth’s abduction,
Donovan sent his own couriers of death to London to ferret out the man and
exact revenge. Duchamp volunteered, but he preferred to keep his most vicious
dog close to heel in case they suffered further hazard during the voyage.

 “Damn,” Jack’s fist hit the table. “If I’d been here that
night, I’d have known this note was a forgery. It doesn’t sound like something
you’d say.” Jack had accompanied him to Lord Greystowe’s estate, at his
request.

“My wife is sleeping.” Donovan chastened sharply.

Jack gave him a pained look. They sipped their drinks
silently, tensed like two old nursemaids waiting for a whimper to come from the
smaller room.

“I’m thinking someone was planted here.” Jack whispered
after a few moments, hunching forward slightly. “One of their own could have
been hiding below, waiting to give signal when our crew was knocked out by the
drugged ale. How else would they know it was safe to attack?”

“Does it matter? They’re all dead.”

“Yes, but how else could aging sailors overcome seasoned
fighters who took down Barbary Pirates--” Jack’s eyes widened as he looked
behind Donovan. He rose. “My lady!”

Donovan followed Jack’s startled gaze. Elizabeth was
standing pale and silent as a wraith behind him. Sleepwalking, he guessed, due
to the decrease in her nightly Laudanum.

Rising, he blessed Duchamp for his heightened vigilance that
seemed to annoy everyone else. Unguarded, Elizabeth might have wandered out on
deck and fallen overboard. At the moment, her womanly curves were visible
through the thin gown with the lantern light behind her. He stepped forward and
hugged her to him to shield his wife from Jack’s hungry gaze.

Lizzie leaned into his embrace, all softness and compliance.
Lavender scented hair he’d washed for her earlier this evening wafted
deliciously beneath his nose. He nuzzled the top of her head with kisses,
savoring the feel of her in his arms as she sagged trustingly into his embrace.

A discreet cough made him remember his guest. He shook off
the stupor. “Sit, Jack.”

“Jack?” Lizzie asked in a sleep thickened voice. Her head
lifted from its haven beneath his chin. She turned to face Jack. “Are you
Captain Jack Rawlings, from Boston?”

“I am.” Jack made a gallant bow. “A pleasure, Madame
Beaumont.”

“Amelia asked me to give you a message, sir.”

Jack went rigid. Donovan could feel the man’s heart seizing
in his chest.

“It’s just the Laudanum.” Donovan said. “Pay it no mind,
Jack, sit down, and pour yourself another drink. Let me get her settled.” He
swept Lizzie up in his arms, determined to remove her before things turned
nasty. He deposited his wife on the bed and took his time tucking her in,
giving Jack time to compose himself. “There, my sweet, go back to sl—“

“What did she say?” Jack’s voice boomed like cannon fire
behind him.

Donovan turned about, incensed that the man would follow him
into the bed chamber.

“What did my Amelia say to you?” Jack demanded, eyeing
Lizzie with determination.

Elizabeth sprang out of bed and backed into the corner
behind Donovan. The fleeting thought came that despite her confusion, his wife
seemed to grasp the idea that the safest place for her was behind him when she
was being threatened by another man.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Donovan growled, stepping
forward to block any advance toward his already traumatized bride. “I told you,
it’s just the opiates—“

“It’s not the opium! Christ, Donovan, for someone who’s a
damned genius, you sure as hell miss the simple shit! Your wife is a seer; she
can talk with the dead!”

The flagrant flood of vulgarities hung in the air like smoke
from cannon fire.

Donovan stepped forward with menace. “Mind that foul tongue,
sailor, you aren’t in a brothel, you are in the presence of a lady—my lady.” He
seized Jack by the shoulders and pushed him into the outer suite. Drawing the
man close, he whispered, “You’ve frightened my wife with your crude behavior. I
suggest you remove yourself from my cabin straight away.”

Sanity returned to Jack’s eyes. Well he knew that few men
would receive a warning before Donovan reacted. “My apologies.” He held up his
hands. “I lost my head. Just let me speak to her. For the sake of our
friendship, please, Donovan. Amelia was my whole life.”

“And Elizabeth is mine.” He returned, releasing his hold
upon the man and stepping back. “She may be very ill but she does not have
conversations with dead people.”

“Pearl told me about her gift. He says she’s given him
messages from his mother.”

“Superstitious twaddle embraced by an uneducated man. Pearl
would believe anything when he smokes his hookah, even the confused ramblings
of a feverish girl.”

 “It’s not confused ramblings! She tells him things about
his mother she couldn’t possibly know. Ask her how Amelia died. I’ll bet a
month’s pay; she knows!”

Donovan was well aware that his wife had been changed by her
injury. He didn’t understand how she could have moments of startling clarity
about others lives when she was barely cognizant of the circumstances of her
own. He’d rather ignore these odd incidents, chalk them up to another bad
symptom and hope they went away as she recovered.

“Let me get her calm.” He said, intending to sedate her and
that would be the end of it.

Returning to the small chamber, he restrained the urge to
rush in and gather the fragile waif in his arms. She was still backed in the
corner, her face ashen, eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing. He expected any
moment her eyes would roll back as she slipped into convulsions. At that
thought, he reached for her. Elizabeth slid to the floor to escape his embrace.
Her knees were drawn up to shield her torso. At last, he divined the mystery of
why her shins had been a mass of bruises weeks ago. The bastard kicked her
while she’d been huddled into a corner like this.