Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (12 page)

Pearl’s words made Elizabeth think of Michael. He yearned to
go to Italy and study with the masters so he might become a famous painter one
day. Elizabeth imagined her brother, a naïve adolescent, staying with people he
did not know in a foreign land. He could easily become a victim of
circumstances, just as her husband must have been. “How did he escape?”

 “His lordship was to be executed in the public square with
the other conspirators. A few days before the execution the peasants rose up,
they seized the Bastille and set all the prisoners free. His uncle died not
long after, leaving him all his earthly wealth. After burying his uncle, my
lord traveled east, to Greece, Arabia, India, and Ceylon. After a few years of
adventure, he returned to the west and settled into life as a cane planter.”

A few years of adventure, indeed. That was a neat and tidy
version of the tale. Elizabeth grew quiet as she pondered the mysterious and
intimidating man she now belonged to.

The count returned half an hour later. He removed his coat
and draped it over the desk chair. He withdrew a pair of pistols from his belt
and placed them on the desk. Elizabeth watched him disarm himself with a horrid
fascination. A sheathed dagger remained strapped to his right thigh as he
strode to the sofa and leaned over the back of it to plant a kiss on her brow.

Oh dear, this was new. He’d never kissed her before, not
that she remembered. And he didn’t ask her first. He just took—well, it was in
his nature, wasn’t it-- being a pirate?

“What’s wrong, my sweet?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“My name is Donovan.” He insisted yet again in a wearied
tone. He leaned so close she could smell the tobacco on his breath. “As my wife
you’ve no need to address me so formally.”

“Yes, Donovan, sir.” She parroted, anxious to keep this
pirate turned planter appeased.

Lean fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to meet startling
blue eyes that seemed sharp enough to tear into her very soul. “Donovan.” He
corrected as he had often in recent days.

“D-d-donovan.” She repeated, her heart wilting beneath his
scorching gaze.

The master’s hand dropped to cup her shoulder. “Why are you
so distressed?”

“Forgive me, my lord!” The valet stood suddenly and
clumsily. “She was asking questions, sir. I beg a thousand pardons--it just
slipped out!” He hung his head dutifully.

Elizabeth glanced up at the austere man beside her to gauge
his response. He was looking at her, not his servant. And his expression was no
longer pleasant. “What did you tell her?”

“He didn’t tell me anything!” She lied quickly. She didn’t
want the poor man to be punished, even if he was dumb enough to confess his
indiscretion without it being suspected. “I asked him how we met— that’s all—he
wasn’t sure—“

“I see.” Sharp blue eyes pinioned the servant. “Pearl, what
did you tell Elizabeth that has so obviously distressed her?”

“About the Bastille, O Great One, and that you were once a
pirate known as The Raven.”

The hand on her shoulder tightened, and then it lifted and
coiled into a fist. “Get out.” He hissed. “I’ll deal with you later!” The door
slammed behind the valet’s retreating form.

The count stalked to the window, his hands tight fists at
his sides. He took in the valet’s elaborate incense burner on the floor,
scowled his fury at it and opened the window. He made a wide sweeping gesture
with one hand in an effort to wave the noxious smoke out of the cabin.

A pirate, it made sense now. The strong undercurrent of
danger simmering beneath his skin now had a purpose, a name. A cut-throat
pirate had taken her to wife. Had he killed? Surely. What kind of pirate would
be unwilling to shed blood? A weak one, an unsuccessful one, and this man was
not weak. Power emanated from his aura. He had only to walk into a room to gain
command of it. Others deferred his command, recognizing that invisible force of
will.

Elizabeth cradled her hand over her stomach. She pressed the
palm flat in a futile attempt to calm the twisting serpent as it coiled beneath
her fingers. Why was he angry? Did he think she’d betray him? Did her knowing
he had been a pirate make her a liability to the man in his new life? Oh,
dear---she hadn’t thought of that. Would he maroon her on an island so none
could learn his secret? No. The madhouse was a more civilized solution.

“You’ll disappear forever, and no one would ever be able to
find you . . .”

The serpent coiled beneath her hand, and her head started to
churn and buzz.

God, not that. . . . The West Garden Madhouse.

The count paced before the window and then stood for several
moments with his back to the room. He turned abruptly. His eyes were twin blue
flames of fury. “Why do you look at me like that?” He accused. “I’ve not
sprouted horns or a tail in the past five minutes!”

She understood now why Pearl confessed his offense so
easily. It was horrible being the object of that unnerving blue glare. “Don’t
send me away. Please. I’ll be good, I promise.”

The count’s anger melted into turbulent confusion. “What are
you talking about?”

“I won’t tell anyone you’re a pirate. Your secret is safe, I
swear it!” She pleaded like a street urchin caught picking pockets groveling
before a powerful magistrate. She didn’t care how she sounded, as long as it
stayed his hand. “You’ve no need to send me to the madhouse!”

The madhouse incident. How could she have forgotten it?

“No one will find you.” The cruel voice taunted. “You’ll
disappear forever.”

Elizabeth’s vision blurred. She choked as a bitter taste
rose in her throat. She fought the rising swell of nausea as the room shifted
and changed. Fletcher kept her subdued in a painful grip while they waited in
the outer foyer for an audience with the superintendent of the West Garden
Madhouse. “You’ll disappear, just like that other Irishman’s brat. They’ll
wonder what happened to you, but no one will ever find you.”

The front door opened. Fletcher’s grip loosened for a mere
second. Elizabeth slipped out of her stepfather’s restraining grasp, determined
to gain the door and run all the way home. She ran headlong into the skirts of
Lady Beverly, her mother’s friend from the Methodist Society.

“Elizabeth?” Lady Beverly gasped. “Your mother was to meet
us here to minister to the poor unfortunates. Is she ill?”

“Yes!” Elizabeth lied. Mama was hiding in her room until the
bruise on her porcelain face faded. “She’s sick. She had Papa bring me here to
minister in her stead.”

“Such a brave little girl. The Good Lord will reward you.”
Lady Beverly smiled down at her with kindness. “Thank you for bringing her,
Captain. We’ll see that she gets home safely.”

Papa had no recourse but to relinquish her into Lady
Beverly’s care. He couldn’t proceed with his plans to leave Elizabeth there,
for mama would surely hear of this from Lady Beverly. With a brusque nod to the
woman, he strode, red-faced, towards the street door.

The skirts of her angelic redeemer disappeared. Elizabeth
was caught in the perturbed gaze of the dangerous man who now controlled her
life. He had crossed the room during her odd mental lapse and was standing over
her. He glanced at the outer door as if it, too, had offended him, and then his
calculating eyes returned to her. “Where did you get the outrageous idea that I
would send you to a madhouse!” He demanded rather than asked. Before she could
answer, he fired another question. “Has that idiot surgeon been here prattling
nonsense while I was out? I instructed Pearl not to allow him to see you, and
by God, if he’s neglected his duties due to his hashish indulgences I’ll have
the skin flogged from his useless hide.”

“No! Pearl didn’t admit anyone while you were out. I had
questions--and I was afraid to ask you.” She hated the panicked wobble in her
voice. Her chest ached as if she wore a corset that had been laced too tightly
and she feared she was about to disgrace herself by crying into the bargain.

Elizabeth sucked in her breath and closed her eyes. She drew
her knees up to her chest and hugged them. It was too much. She was trapped
between two nightmares, the present one colliding with a long forgotten
incident from the past. Papa had actually said he’d get rid of her, “Just like
the other Irishman’s brat.” He’d been behind Kieran’s disappearance, Sheila
knew that, and she believed her grandmother when no one else did. Fletcher made
her older brother disappear forever. Had he killed Kieran or did he hire
someone else to do it for him?

Lost in the tormented memory, she was distantly aware of
being lifted and then settled across the count’s lap and cradled against his
solid chest. “Lizzie, look at me, let me see your eyes. Tell me what’s
happening. Can you hear me, Darlin’?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes. The count’s face was grim. “It
was a bad memory, from childhood. It just came—so suddenly.” She explained, not
liking the fear she saw in his features when up until now he had always been
her source of calm.

“Tell me.” He insisted. “Tell me what frightened you just
now.”

“It was my ninth birthday,” She began in a shaking voice,
explaining the incident to him as best she could remember it. “Fletcher told my
mother he was taking me to the zoo. He took me to the madhouse instead. He
intended to leave me there under a false name. One of mother’s friends came,
and he was forced to let me go with her to help hand out blankets to the
insane, as he couldn’t explain why else he would be there with me.”

“That is reprehensible.” He admitted. “You must have been
terrified.”

“I forgot about it.” She admitted in a thin voice. “Until,
just now.”

“Because you thought I might do the same. But listen to me
now, sweet girl.” He said in a firm, insistent tone. “Even if my behavior in
the past month is all you have to go on, you should know I would never treat
you so cruelly.”

“But I don’t know you!” She retorted, anger and frustration
rising to the fore. “You say I’ve been with you for a month—I can barely recall
the last two days. And a few days is not enough to determine a person’s true
character, not when he goes about threatening to flog anyone who crosses him!”

That was it, the final unraveling of her thinly held
self-possession.

Elizabeth was overcome by frantic, frightened,
throat-shredding sobs.

Chapter
Eleven

Elizabeth didn’t remember falling asleep, or being carried
into the small bedchamber. She’d been weeping bitterly and then everything went
black. She touched her cheeks, unaccustomed to the sensation of dried tears
making the skin feel tight over her bones.

It was evening. The lanterns had been lit in the outer
suite. She sat up in bed. A rectangle of light fell across the mattress from
the larger room. It was quiet in the suite; too quiet.

The count had been indulgent regarding her fear of being
alone in his cabin, but she learned at an early age that indulgences were rare
where men were concerned and like promises, they were not enduring. Eventually,
he would consider her an annoyance and his kind indulgences would cease. He
seemed to be nearing that point this afternoon.

She rubbed her eyes, feeling stupid for her irrational bout
of weeping. She didn’t want him to think she was a spineless twit who was
easily cowed. That had been her mother’s mistake. She’d just have to show this
count she did indeed possess a backbone.

She rose from the bed to peer cautiously into the larger
suite. Relief filled her. The count sat at his desk, calm, strong and so
wickedly handsome, like a dark hero in a gothic romance.

His eyes lifted from the ledger. “You’re awake. I was just
about to check on you again.” He was at her side before she could blink. His
arm went about her waist, and she had the distinct feeling of being herded
toward the sofa. Once there, he urged her to sit. He took a seat on the
opposite end, leaving a discrete space between them.

Elizabeth turned about to face him. She drew her knees to
her chest, adjusted her gown for modesty, crossed her ankles, and then hugged
her knees. Satisfied with her barrier against probing eyes, she regarded her
opponent with a mask of wide eyed innocence.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon. I didn’t mean to frighten
you, Elizabeth.”

Rule number one in any engagement was to not let the enemy
know he’d succeeded in his efforts to unnerve you. “May I have a drink of
water? I’m terribly thirsty, my lord.”

His lordship seemed taken aback by her request in the midst
of his apology. He didn’t even correct her deliberate formal address. “Of
course, you must be parched.”

When the count returned with a goblet of sparkling water,
Elizabeth fairly inhaled it. Holding the empty glass out to him, she asked for
another just as he started to sit down. He took the glass from her, stalked to
the sideboard, and returned with her refilled glass. This time, he sat close
and pulled her bare foot onto his lap. He took to alternately stroking and
massaging it, running light fingers over her toes and across the top of her
foot.

She sipped her water, quelling the urge to retract the limb,
which would be taken by her opponent as a sign of surrender or unease.

Yet, Elizabeth had never experienced the singular sensation
of a man fondling her bare foot before. She squirmed against the pleasure of
his finger lightly tracing her arch. His free hand cradled her heel, retaining
firm possession as he continued to explore its contours with his fingertips. He
gazed at her sweetly, as if men played with their wives toes every evening.

Elizabeth studied her glass, intent on weathering the storm.

He gently unfolded her bent leg, extending it across his
lap. He did the same to her other leg, adjusted her gown, and let his arm drape
lightly across her knees, his palm flat on her outer thigh. Elizabeth was
astonished at how easily he uncoiled her from her defensive posture.