Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (22 page)

In response to his rejection, Elizabeth attacked the house
with a vengeance. She was determined to open all the first floor rooms by
Christmas, when his mother was scheduled to arrive. She worked herself to
exhaustion every day alongside the maids, polishing and scrubbing everything she
could find. She welcomed distraction from the agonizing crack that was slowly
rending in her heart.

Gareth O’Donovan was the one bright spot in her bleak
existence. Donovan’s uncle had an easy smile and a singsong Caribbean accent
that intrigued her. He strove to maintain conversation with her instead of
subjecting her to long, pensive silences as her husband had been wont to do.
His favorite author was Shakespeare, and he tended to sprinkle his
conversations with quotes from the bard like a preacher reciting verses from
the Bible.

She dined with Gareth in the formal dining room each evening
and discussed literature and music with him in the refurbished salon afterward.
Each night, she secretly hoped Donovan would appear at dinner or join them in
the salon. He did not. Elizabeth played the small harpsichord at Gareth’s
insistence while he turned the music pages for her. He humbly admitted to
playing the cello, being self-taught as he’d never left the island and asked if
she might teach him to read musical notations. She was grateful for Gareth’s
easy companionship; without him she’d be truly alone as Donovan seemed to have
abandoned her.

As the dinner hour approached one evening, Elizabeth brought
her kitten to the dining room and set him on the chair beside her. Dinner was
enlivened by Puck’s antics. The little imp climbed up on the table and sat very
somberly next to her plate, watching her eat every spoonful without trying to
intrude. Gareth teased him by making shadows on the tablecloth with his hand.
The chubby little tom was confused and then fascinated by the shadows,
attacking them and tipping over a water goblet in his attempts to capture the
moving shadow. The floral arrangement captured Puck’s attentions next. He took to
nibbling the flowers. He pulled one from the vase without tipping it over by
some miracle, and then rolled on his back on the table to shred the bloom while
they laughed at his antics.

They left the ruin of the table to take an evening stroll in
the gardens. Elizabeth caught sight of Donovan in the stable courtyard. Dressed
as O’Rourke, he mounted a chestnut bay. The groom handed him his musket, which
he balanced across his lap before spurring his mount to gallop. The dogs barked
a noisy farewell as the groom locked the gate behind him.

Elizabeth clutched her shawl about her and watched her husband
leave. Gareth put an arm about her consolingly. “‘Our count is neither sad nor
sick, nor merry nor well; but a civil count, civil as an orange, and something
of that jealous complexion.’ So says Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, and
upon her sage advice we shall take no notice of his foul mood nor allow it to
poison our evening.”

Elizabeth sighed. “He despises me.”

“No, dear one. Tis not you who makes him ride hard away, but
Duty, a demanding mistress, and a cruel one.” Uncle Gareth took her hand,
settled it upon his arm, and guided her down the garden path to watch the
golden sunset melt into the molten sea.

Once Elizabeth retired she paced about her room. The
stillness in the next room screamed accusation at her for the rift between
them. Seeking distraction from her treacherous thoughts, she began sorting
through her wardrobe. She removed a box from the bottom drawer and spread
Sheila’s belongings on the bed. Paper packages contained dried herbs. She
examined cloth pouches the old woman had fashioned as charms that held
mysterious scents.

A bound leather book was wrapped in a plaid shawl. It was a
history of the O’Flaherty Clan dating back to the thirteenth century,
containing notes of marriages, births and deaths. Elizabeth opened it with reverence.
It was passed down through the Chieftain’s family, and it was difficult to read
as it was written in old English at the beginning with passages digressing into
Gaelic. She found Gaelic easier as Sheila taught her the forbidden language
with her letters as a child.

She turned the pages containing recipes for healing potions,
instructions for conjuring earth spirits and performing sacred rituals. She
read notes on where to find wild plants with detailed sketches to aid in
identification. Druid secrets were recorded within the yellowed pages; spells
for healing, protection, fertility, love and revenge. As she studied the pages
her fascination grew regarding the rich heritage she disregarded when her
grandmother was alive.

The clock chimed eleven by the time she wrapped the book in
Sheila’s plaid shawl and placed it back in her wardrobe. She sorted through the
box of cloth pouches and settled on one that smelled of earth, imagining it to
be soil from O’Flaherty lands in Ireland. It would be a protection against
nightmares, she told herself as she put the box away. She placed the pouch
beneath her pillow and settled into the bed, careful to avoid the lumps in the
old mattress.

******

“Elizabeth--wake up, you must help me!”

Elizabeth jerked awake at the sound of her mother’s
insistent voice.

Mama was beautiful, as always, a porcelain doll, fragile yet
cold. Long ebony hair cascaded in waves to her waist. Her eyes were not
violet-blue as they had been in life. They were dark and soulless. “I cannot
endure this. You must tell that man what happened to me.”

Just as in life, her mother was too absorbed with her own
worries to care that her daughter’s heart was breaking. Liquid dripped down
Elizabeth’s chin. She wiped the annoying tears away with the sleeve of her bed
gown. Clutching Puck against her, Elizabeth slipped out of the bed on the
opposite side. Mama didn’t appear pleased to see her, she seemed menacing.

“You have to speak for me! You are the only one, Elizabeth.
You know what he did to me. You must release me. You have to tell them what
truly happened to me.”

“No one will believe me.”

“You must help me.” Mama insisted, drawing close. The smell
of sulfur wreathed about her, noxious and vile. The air surrounding Elizabeth
became ice. “And you will!”

“Leave the child alone.” A woman’s smoky Irish burr chided
from behind Elizabeth. She whirled about and nearly dropped her cat at the
sight of another spirit. It was the former occupant of this very room, Maureen
O’Donovan. Elizabeth recognized her from the portrait in the salon.

Puck hissed and arched his back. His claws were like needles
in her skin, assuring her she was awake as he struggled to be let free. He
dropped to the floor and scurried under the bed.

“Go away. This is my house. You have no right to be here.”
Maureen’s ghost drifted forward to challenge Elizabeth’s mother.

Mama’s face contorted into something ugly and then she
disappeared.

“It’s all right, little one.” Maureen glided to Elizabeth’s
side. She extended a pale, luminous hand and Elizabeth felt a light breeze
caressing her hair.

Gareth had warned Elizabeth about their resident spirit. He
told her not to be afraid if Donovan’s grandmother visited her one night. It
was rumored she watched over Gareth in the night when he was a babe, and had
been seen lingering over her grandson’s cradle as well. It made sense. The
woman left behind a small child. That daughter was grown, and so was the
daughter’s son, yet Maureen still yearned to comfort the frightened child she
left behind.

“You’re safe, darlin’. I won’t let her hurt you.”

“Mama wouldn’t hurt me!” Elizabeth replied, edging around
the apparition. She crossed the room and touched the cool knob leading to her
husband’s suite. Light flickered beneath the door, illuminating the floorboards
and her pale toes. She heard Donovan pacing. She wanted to go to him, to seek
the comfort and protection he offered without reservation on the ship.

Remembering his cool detachment of recent days, she let go
of the handle.

There was no comfort to be found behind that door.

*******

The sweat ran off of him in rivulets. Still, he pressed his
opponent, determined to work the tension from his body with a punishing session
of swordplay. Donovan feinted, and just as he moved in to deliver a deadly
thrust, his uncle blocked him with the move he had taught the man before
sailing to England. “You’ve been practicing.” He said, pleased as he dropped
his defensive stance. “Whose hide have you been scratching while I was away?”

“O’Reilly’s.” Gareth grinned. “I let him win a few times so
he wouldn’t become discouraged, as you’ve done with me.” Gareth mopped his brow
with his discarded shirt.

“Oh, you think I let you have that?” Donovan taunted,
knowing it was so. “En Garde, old man. I’ll send you back to Johnny in the
stables with your tail dragging!”

Gareth held up a hand, his chest heaved as he bent forward
with hands on his knees. “You’ve too much energy for a man who has recently
taken a bride.” He huffed.

Gareth’s golden torso gleamed with moisture, although it was
early morning. Donovan’s shirt stuck to his back, but he would not remove it
and reveal the scars of the count when he was dressed as O’Rourke. His uncle’s
face broke into a feral grin as he positioned himself to accept the challenge.
They parried across the cobbled garden, intent only upon the clash of steel.

“Do you think Winslow speaks the truth?” Donovan asked after
a break in the action as they circled one another with wariness. “The men
escaped the compound in the night?”

“Winslow has a brutal streak, one he hides well.”

“A man’s true nature emerges when he believes his master
isn’t there to see it.”

“Winslow displayed his temper frequently in your absence. I
warned him, but the color of my skin negates any authority he thinks I have as
your representative.”

“My apologies.” Donovan deliberately turned his back on his
opponent.

“It’s is not your fault the world does not accept me as I
am.”

As anticipated, Gareth made a bold lunge. Donovan twisted on
his heels and swung his blade to the right to meet Gareth’s sword, blocking his
attack from behind. “Don’t attempt that move unless you are certain your
opponent is unprepared to block you.” With Gareth behind him, their blades
crossed to his right, Donovan stomped his opponent’s left instep. Using the
sparse second’s distraction of pain and surprise in his adversary, he captured
Gareth’s wrist and applied pressure on the nerve until Gareth was forced to
drop his blade.

“Ooow! That is unfair!” Gareth exclaimed as his sword
clattered to the cobblestones.

“Only a novice keeps to D’Anver’s philosophies about honor
when the fight is to the death. Never allow an enemy to draw you close. Your
sword should keep him at arm’s length at all times.” Donovan lowered his
weapon. “Perhaps it’s time you moved on to my Italian texts.”

“I welcome the challenge.” Gareth bowed to him as the master
swordsman.

He’s eyes caught the figure observing them from the veranda
as he looked beyond and above Gareth. Elizabeth’s unbound hair cascaded in
radiant waves about her shoulders like a cloak of fire, giving her the
appearance of a Byzantine icon as she stood in the sunlight.

Donovan stood, clutching his sword like a knight of old
beholding a surreal vision. The allusion was not lost on him; she was the
goddess who haunted his dreams, the object of his desire, and she was so high
above him. Beautiful, divine, and unattainable. His Aphrodite.

Gareth turned to see what captured him so. “Ah, your shy
hummingbird is awake. That reminds me, as your elder it is my duty to call you
to account for your ill behavior.”

Donovan grimaced. Gareth was his elder by not quite two
years, yet the man delighted in exchanging affectionate parries as uncle and
nephew almost as much he enjoyed their fencing exercises or trying to best
Donovan at chess.

At the moment the man’s eyes held no affection for him. “How
long are you going to keep playing this ridiculous charade? It’s not fair to
the girl, Donovan.”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“You made it my concern when you asked me to keep your wife
company during your ruse as O’Rourke. You’re bride yearns for your
companionship, not mine.”

“She has yet to inform me of any yearning for my company.
Until she does, I will continue as I have.”

“Your dark Count frightens her.”

 Donovan bent to retrieve Gareth’s weapon. He straightened
and handed it to him. “The count is a fictional character created to keep
people at a polite distance. I told her that. If she does not understand, then
perhaps you might remind her of that.”

“It is you who fail to understand.” Gareth shot back. “When
you put on that costume it transforms you. The mask makes you vicious and cold.
Your voice hardens. Your body becomes a tightly coiled serpent ready to strike
at those about you without provocation.” Gareth advanced and stood so they were
eye to eye. “I realize it has served you well over the years, but if you wish
for the woman you love to trust you, then you must put away the dark count. You
must seek her company and assure her that you are not like those animals that
hurt her.”

“She told me to stay away from her.”

“No.” Gareth chided. “It was that dark creature she told to
stay away, not you.”

“How do you know?”

“I was on the veranda, outside my room. I heard her cry out
and beg you to let her be. I heard you demand your rights like a spoiled child
with a servant who will not let him have his way.”

Donovan looked away, ashamed. “I was drunk. I apologized the
next day.”

“Yet, you remain distant. You play childish games of hide
and seek with her. The girl is frightened and confused. You informed me of
these facts when you arrived. She needs solid ground beneath her feet.”
Gareth’s boot crunched the cobblestones for emphasis. “She needs you to be the
rock beneath her that remains steady and enduring as she struggles to overcome
her fear and recover her balance. How can she trust you when you are constantly
changing?”