Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (11 page)

“Lizzie?” He crouched before her, careful not to touch her
and frighten her further. “It’s me, Donovan.” Her memory was like morning dew,
transient, evaporating quickly when she was distressed. “I’m not going to hurt
you. Let’s get you back into bed, darlin’.”

“No, go away.” Tremors shook her tender body. She covered
her head with her arms. “Pirates?” Her shrill voice echoed in the small
chamber. She lifted her head, seeming to just become aware of him beside her.
“She said the pirates came in the night—they took her away from her
father—No--leave me alone!” Elizabeth shrank into the corner. She covered her
ears with her hands. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore Amelia! Go away,
you’re scaring me.”

Donovan placed a light hand on her forearm, measuring her
response to his touch.

“Oh God!” She whimpered, making him withdraw his hand. “Why
would they do that? Why cut off your breasts and pull out your tongue if they
were going to kill you afterward!”

A plunge into an icy sea could not be more chilling. A moan
from the doorway distracted Donovan. Jack was there, his face grim as he
listened to Lizzie’s part of this odd conversation.

The air became thick and close as before a heavy
thunderstorm. A tingling moved along his forearm, from elbow to wrist. He
looked at his arm. He’d swear he’d just been touched by someone. There was no
one in the room besides the two of them and Lizzie was curled in a tight ball
on the opposite side of him. The queer sensations continued as someone tugged
at his queue. Donovan jerked back, flattening himself against the wall to avoid
that eerie contact.

The table on the opposite side of the bed started shaking
and rocking. The sheets lifted in the air and hung there. This was no parlor
trick. Something was in this room, and it was hurting his lass. Anger spurred
him to shake off his stunned stupor. “Stop it!” He shouted. “She asked you to
leave her alone. Stop frightening her!”

“Amelia, don’t do this.” Jack added his plea to the mix.
“You can’t force her to speak for you if she doesn’t want to. Stop it, I say.
She’s just a frightened little girl!”

The table stopped clattering. The sheets dropped. The air
became still. Elizabeth exhaled sharply and slumped forward like a marionette
released from its strings. Donovan put a light hand on her forearm. Lizzie
threw herself against him, wrapping her arms about his neck, nearly choking him
in her terror.

“I’m here.” He cradled her head in one hand and whispered
against her ear. “I have you, I have you, Lizzie.” He rose and sat on the bed
with Elizabeth cradled on his lap. She buried her face in his neck, shivering.
He rocked her and whispered assurances.

Jack watched from the door, white, grim, as badly shaken as
he. “Is she all right?”

Donovan nodded. Elizabeth was frightened, but she would be
all right.

He intended to make damn sure of it.

Chapter Ten

Morning sunlight bathed the master suite. Elizabeth held out
her hands, luxuriating in the warm, healing light as it caressed her skin. She
was reclining on the sofa in the outer suite, content as a cat as she
alternately reflected and dozed. This was the first time she’d been allowed out
of bed since her illness. She was still in her bed gown, but a lavender silk
dressing robe had been bestowed upon her for the occasion, along with matching
slippers.

The count was out on deck enjoying his tobacco. He did not
leave her unattended, as he seemed to understand her fear of being alone in the
cabin. His Indian servant sat on the floor before the large windows surrounded
by a perfect grid of sunlit squares on the rich oriental carpet. He leisurely
strummed an instrument that lent an exotic air to their repose. Pungent incense
drifted about the room. Elizabeth watched the smoke winding about the valet
like a transparent snake.

The valet intrigued her. He had a peaceful, serene demeanor
that put her at ease. His manner of dress was always eccentric. Today, he
reminded her of a parrot in his yellow silk vest with no shirt beneath, and
baggy white breeches that gathered below his knees. A green silk sash was tied
about his waist and a red turban covered his head. A thin ebony braid was
draped over one shoulder, swaying with the movement of his head as he kept time
with his music. Fastened at the end of the braid was a pearl nearly the size of
a cherry, hence the nickname given him by the count’s crew: Pearl.

Pearl absently strummed his sitar while Elizabeth basked in
the glowing rays of the sun and reflected on the week’s events.

The week had progressed in a casual repetition of domestic
rituals, making her new circumstances seem less bizarre. The count brushed out
her hair each morning and braided it each evening. Sheila had tended her hair
for most of her life so Elizabeth found the nightly ritual soothing as it
reminded her of her grandmother’s tender care.

The domestic companionship filled the days as he read to her
and they shared their meals in the small bedchamber. The count would sit in the
chair with a tray balanced on his lap across from Elizabeth, who was confined
to the bed. He ate gracefully with the manners of a nobleman while attempting
to draw her into polite conversation. As he was a physician and a scholar,
Elizabeth found it difficult to make small talk with him. She would undoubtedly
sound tedious, as she possessed little education or experience with the world
beyond her home.

The count talked about his childhood in the colonies. He was
an only child. His father fought in the militia during the revolt in the
American colonies. Elizabeth relished that tidbit of information, as her own
father had fought the English in his homeland as well. Her husband’s voice
thickened as he spoke of his father, Major Gaston Beaumont, dying slowly in a
dirty surgical tent from a botched amputation, mere weeks before the British
surrendered at Yorktown. As a boy of eleven, he vowed never to allow another
loved one to succumb to the effects of bad medicine, and grew determined to
study medicine. He had paused in his tale to gaze rather sweetly at Elizabeth,
making her blush. Another loved one? With no memory of a courtship--not even a
stolen kiss to cherish--she was uncertain as to his feelings toward her.

Elizabeth realized the music had stopped. The valet’s eyes
were closed, his fingers were still poised on the strings, as if he were
concentrating or just nodding off in mid-song. He was such a peculiar man, kind
to a fault, and loyal to her husband, but odd, to say the least.

She stretched and sat upright to ease the aches from her
body as she continued to ponder her peculiar circumstances; married to a
perfect stranger with no memory of him or their courtship before she’d awakened
in his bed two weeks past.

She was aware the count was sharing the bed with her. And
yet, she never seemed to encounter him there. She fell asleep before he retired
and in the morning he was up and dressed by the time she awakened. Last night,
she’d been forced to acknowledge the awkward reality when she awakened screaming.
The count was slowly decreasing the Laudanum he’d been giving her at night,
claiming she would form a dependency to it with prolonged use.

He quickly rose from the bed and went into the next room,
returning with a small lantern from the outer suite as he assured her there
were no rats in her bed. An insistent knock at the outer door and a voice
called from the room beyond asking if they needed assistance. The count replied
in a terse growl that his lady had a nightmare and commanded the intruder to
leave. That she’d awakened not only her spouse but the crew with her screaming
was mortifying.

The count hung the lantern on a hook and lay down beside her,
pulling the sheets over his legs. She was on her side, staring at him with
unease. He watched her watch him, gauging her reaction, as was his habit. After
a moment he rolled onto his side to face her with his head propped in his palm.
He placed his other hand on the pillow between them, open in invitation. Meekly,
she took that hand, surprised by the gesture, and by his unfailing patience.

 “Close your eyes, my love. I’m here, you’re safe.”

Elizabeth had fallen asleep clutching his hand. When she
awakened today, he was out on deck, as usual. When he appeared to share
breakfast with her neither spoke of the incident.

Am I truly his love? Elizabeth wondered as she basked in the
sunlit chamber and reflected upon the events of the past days. She didn’t have
the nerve to ask him. She was in awe of him. And the count had a confident,
predatory air about him, like a wolf you’d encounter in the woods. You could
admire it at a distance but you didn’t want to provoke it or draw its attention
to you by being too curious. She sensed violence lurking in him, tightly
restrained, ready to come to the fore if provoked.

All men were dangerous to some degree, but he was more so
than those she encountered during her abduction.

Elizabeth squirmed on the settee as fear lingered low in her
belly, a relentless gnawing that never fully went away. She crossed her arms
over her belly to prevent her tender flesh from tearing beneath the cruel
memory of a terror more horrifying than the rats could ever have been.

The sunlit cabin faded. She was plunged back into the
suffocating dark prison cell.

Captain Sully loomed over her, a fat gargoyle grinning from
ear to ear as he stroked his obscene member, making it grow longer and harder
before her eyes. Elizabeth had never beheld such a disturbing sight before.
Sickened with paralyzing fear and shame, she shrank into the shadows to escape
his lewd display. The captain stopped fondling himself. He seized her by her
hair and dragged her from her refuge . . .

“My lady?” A familiar, high, nasal voice spoke nearby and
the revolting image faded.

She was snatched back from the frightening abyss, returned
to the luxurious cabin suite. Her husband’s valet was crouched near her,
studying her with frantic eyes.

Elizabeth was panting. Her short, quick breaths reverberated
in the chamber. She was shivering yet sweat misted her skin, beading above her
lips and along her brow. She feared she was about to be sick from the foul
memory of what happened after her captor dragged her from her hiding place. She
closed her eyes and placed a shaking hand over her mouth, as if to ward off
that vile intrusion yet again. “It didn’t happen!” She whispered frantically.

 It didn’t happen-- it was just a dream, a very bad dream.
It didn’t happen.

A slender hand rested on her shoulder. Startled, she opened
her eyes. The valet mumbled an apology and dropped his hand. “Do you wish for
me to find his lordship?”

“No.” She said quickly. “No, I’m fine, please, just stay
with m-me.”

Pearl nodded. He seemed to be considering fleeing to find
his master and sending the man to deal with his wife’s bout of panic in his
stead. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulder in an uncertain shrug.
“You have no need to be afraid, mistress. My lord killed them that hurt you. No
man will be given the opportunity hurt you again, he’ll see to that, I
promise.” He smiled slightly at her, offering encouragement. Suddenly the
soulful brown eyes lit up. “Why, you’re safe as a chick nestled beneath its
mother’s wing in The Raven’s keeping!”

“The Raven?” She repeated, unable to follow his odd
implication.

“Aye, The Raven, that was his lordship’s pirating name.”

Pirate? The word froze in her throat and cooled her skin. No.
The count was a gentleman, a nobleman not a lawless scoundrel who preyed on the
weak and ravaged innocents.

“Do not fear him.” Pearl assured her as he took in her
stricken features. “My lord has retired from his pirating days. He is a
respectable planter now.” His expression changed from pride to apprehension. “I
was forbidden to speak of it with you. I beg you, do not mention it to him,
Mistress. He’ll be very angry if you do.”

Nodding, Elizabeth promised to not betray the valet.

Pearl resumed his position on the floor without another
word. He seemed to be trying to ignore her as he picked up his instrument and
began strumming again.

Watching him, Elizabeth digested the verification of her
husband’s violent past. So, her intuition was correct. Elizabeth believed she
didn’t possess the gift of second sight, but Sheila was dead and the old woman
insisted her gifts would pass to Elizabeth when she was gone. Was that why she
suddenly possessed odd insights and knowledge about people around her, namely
the count and Pearl, that she hadn’t been able to ‘see’ before? She trusted her
husband because she could sense a deep, genuine concern for her radiating from
him. And she knew, despite his gentleness toward her, that he was a very dangerous
man if provoked. Now she had proof.

“Have you been with his lordship for a long time?” She asked
the distracted valet.

“Nearly six years.” Pearl murmured as he concentrated on his
finger movements and continued to play the enchanting music of his homeland.

“Did he acquire the scars on his chest during his exploits
in the east?”

“No, Madame, it was done to him before then, when he was in
the Bastille.”

“The Bastille—he was in the Bastille?” Elizabeth nearly
choked on the words. Her husband spent time in a French prison? He’d neglected
to mention it when he spoke of studying medicine in Paris. Nor had he mentioned
pirating in the east. “What was his crime?”

“There was no crime” Pearl replied calmly. “My lord lived
with his uncle, the former count, during his university days. His uncle was
arrested for conspiring to assassinate the king. My lord was taken to prison
with him, suspected of being his accomplice. They tortured my lord, but he knew
nothing, he was an innocent, a youth caught in circumstances beyond his
understanding or control.”