Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (25 page)

“No, I did not.” Crisp, silvery blue eyes pinioned her from
behind the mask. “I said you are not being scrutinized as you so fancifully
imagine.”

“Excuse me, my lord. I have more tedious domestic concerns
to attend to.”

The master would not let her slip away so easily. His hand
circled her arm. At a nod from him, the three men disappeared. “You create a
villain where there is none. I apologize. I should not have yelled at you
earlier but I seem to lose all sense of reason or judgment around you.”

She didn’t want to hear any more. So, it was all her fault.
Wasn’t it always?

“I’m only doing what’s best for you, and you continually
damn me for it.”

“You’re doing what’s best for yourself, none other!”

“If that were the case I would do this more often and hang
the consequences.” His arms surrounded her and those hard lips descended to
capture her mouth in a scorching kiss that left no doubt as to where his true
interest was concerning her.

Elizabeth was shocked by his swift possession.

She didn’t react as she should, with outrage. She leaned
into his solid frame, hungry for the feel of his arms about her, starved for
some crumb of affection from him as she shamelessly kissed him back.

The count broke away and stepped back. “Your response, my
dear, is hardly in keeping with a woman who desires to be left alone.”

The ultimate cruelty came when he set her aside and walked
calmly away.

Chapter
Twenty Two

Elizabeth was awakened by an angry male voice. She gazed
about her. She’d left the home of her childhood years ago, but she seemed to be
trapped in the London townhouse again.

She was in her old room, huddled under the covers, trying to
shut out the noises coming from the room down the hall. Fletcher was drunk. He
was hurting Mama. Mama was crying, pleading with him to stop. He wouldn’t. He
seemed to enjoy her tearful pleas.

Why am I here? Elizabeth sat up. She shoved the covers away
and looked about her. Banked coals glowed in the hearth, bathing her old room
in a familiar, orange-red glow. She gazed at her hand. Her wedding ring circled
her finger. How could she be married, and still be in the room she’d inhabited
as a girl?

Where is Donovan? Surely he would not allow me to be here,
so far from his home.

“Stop it, William!” Mama shrieked. “Let go of me, you’re
drunk—“

The sound of Papa’s hand colliding with her mother’s flesh
made Elizabeth cringe.

I must leave here. I need to go home. Home--to Donovan, and
the peace of Ravencrest. Donovan didn’t return drunk in the night and start
tossing furniture-- or people-- about in a drunken rage!

She slipped from bed and opened the door just a crack,
determined to make a run for it while the pair were distracted by their old
battle. Suddenly Fletcher was in the hall, dragging Mama toward the stairs. He
positioned Mama in front of him and then Mama disappeared.

Elizabeth tried to scream. Her effort brought only strangled
sound from her throat.

The scene melted away, into another one. Now, she was the
one standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her mother’s broken
body. Huge hands seized her and slammed her against the wall. “Spying on me
again, eh?” Her stepfather’s eyes gleamed with malice. “Useless bitch, you
can’t turn me in if you’re dead!”

Elizabeth went rushing forward. She tried to catch herself,
clutching at air, only to land at the bottom of the stairs with a bone crushing
thud.

The house was plunged into an inky darkness. Elizabeth
placed a stunned hand against the throbbing pain in her side. Her body was
slick with sweat, making her bed gown cling to her skin as she struggled to
recover her wits.

The ragged sound of her breath catching and rasping in the
darkness further emphasized the stark loneliness. Reality surfaced. She wasn’t
in the London townhouse, lying at the bottom of the stairs next to her mother’s
dead body. She was in her room at Ravencrest, sprawled on the floor where the
angry spirit had tossed her while she slept. It was the fourth time this week
she’d awakened on the hard floor after dreaming about Mama’s death.

“Stop it.” She protested, fear melting into anger as she sat
up and rubbed her bruising side. Her body was collecting mysterious bruises
with each passing day—or rather, the night. This was ridiculous, being bullied
by a ghost; one who had been so timid in life.

The pale specter materialized before her. Mama had always
been a beauty. Now, her beauty was distorted by bitterness. “Tell him!” Mama
insisted. “I can’t stand this any longer, I shall run mad. You have to tell
someone what happened to me!”

The doors to the master’s suite burst open. Donovan stood in
the doorway holding a candle in one hand and pistol in the other. He came
quickly to crouch beside her.

Elizabeth started at his nearness. The man was stark naked.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she shifted her eyes to focus on the wavering candle
instead of the dark patch nestled beneath a taut abdomen. After determining she
was unharmed Donovan handed her the candle, palmed her shoulder in reassurance
and stood to confront the shadows hemming them in.

He turned about slowly, surveying the room. Elizabeth was
presented with the sight of his trim, bare backside. Her eyes traveled upward
to the peculiar marks on his back.

Scars confronted her. Hard, inflexible knots. Weals of flesh
distorted by torture.

Oh, my God! How easy it was to forget. This man had good
reason to question everything and trust no one, to put up barriers to keep the
world out. He wanted the world to leave him be so he could live his life in
peace and solitude. It made sense now, his anger at her rejection of him that
first night here. He must think she found him repulsive because of his scars. Not
so, not at all. Quite the contrary; he was beautiful, majestic, regal as a
tiger as he stood before her, ready to pounce on a perceived intruder he
believed to be threatening his mate.

Stunned by this abrupt, awkward intimacy, Elizabeth sat in a
golden circle of light provided by the candle in her hand and attempted to
distract her eyes from the admiration of her husband’s bum. The flame wavered
in her unsteady hand.

“Who is here? Reveal yourself.” Donovan crept noiselessly
about the room on bare feet, stalking slowly, pausing to inspect possible
hiding places with the gun held before him. He assessed the heavy curtains at
the windows and the ones hanging from her bed for an intruder. He stepped to
the louvered doors leading to the balcony and tested the lock. Usually she left
the doors open to allow in the cooling night breeze, but Mr. Duchamp had been
adamant about locking them earlier tonight, when he and Mr. O’Leary escorted
her to her room.

“No one is here.” Elizabeth whispered as she rose from the
floor with difficulty due to a fluid sensation in her legs. “I had a nightmare,
sir, that’s all. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“I was awake.” Donovan emerged from the shadows to stand
beside her. Naked, and clearly unashamed for it, the man exuded confidence in
his raw masculinity that she found unsettling as he gazed into her eyes. “I
heard a loud noise and then you cried out.”

“I stumbled and tripped in the darkness. Could I . . . sleep
with you, just this once?” She focused on his face to avoid the urge to gape at
his dangling parts. Sleep, yes. And take her rightful place in his bed. Yes,
she would do it without protest if he asked her. Elizabeth hadn’t the courage
to tell him. She could only hope he would allow her into his bed again so they
might work past this disturbing estrangement of recent weeks.

“No.” He crushed her tentative hope for reconciliation. “You
are safe here. I won’t get any sleep with you beside me.” It was the last
response she expected, given his reluctance to allow her to have a room of her
own in the first place.

Two weeks ago he made it clear he wanted her in his bed.

Apparently, he didn’t want her there anymore.

He turned and walked back to his room. He closed the doors,
leaving her holding the flickering candle against the surrounding gloom.

*******

Two days passed. The only difference in Elizabeth’s routine
was the presence of her guards. They followed her everywhere but remained
silent and unobtrusive, like the mastiffs who followed her about the grounds
when she snuck out alone. She tried to resent the guards, but gave up quickly.
They were respectful and patient, even when she took advantage of them by going
on a meandering walk in the neglected gardens to assess it—just because she
could, without fear of her husband’s reprisals. Yesterday, she’d sat defiantly
in her fairy bower beneath the gnarled old tree near the gazebo and studied her
grandmother’s spell book for three hours in the heat of the afternoon. The
guards had nothing to do except stand and watch her. It amused her to see them
fidget with boredom and brush the sweat from their brows due to the heat, but
cruelty was not in her nature, so she soon gave up punishing them and sent one
up to the house to have lemonade brought for them all.

Today, she had set upon a plan that would make use of their
strength. After lunch, she took up her household keys and led them up to the
third floor, to Marissa’s old room.

Despite her best intentions, Elizabeth had been reluctant to
return to Gareth’s mother’s room. It was an eerie place, fraught with mystery
and tragedy. Part of her feared being trapped in the room by an unknowing servant
seeing the door open and closing it without realizing it was occupied, or by
deliberate malice from the spirit realm. With two burly men to watch over her,
there was little fear of that.

Elizabeth unlocked the door and stepped inside. O’Leary and
Duchamp followed her.

“Ach, a queer place.” O’Leary said, noting the barred
windows and locked door.

“Yes, a sad place.” Elizabeth responded, surprised by Gus
O’Leary’s confession.

The men didn’t talk much, even to each other. Mostly they
answered her inquiries with monosyllables, particularly Mr. Duchamp, who had a
sullen nature.

“I intend to make it a more welcoming place. And you are
going to help me.”

The pair gazed at her as if she spoke in language they
didn’t understand.

“Mr. O’Leary.” She instructed, “I want you to go downstairs
and fetch whatever tools you’ll need to remove those bars from the windows and
to remove the outer lock on the door.”

The sailor stared at her with disbelief. “We ain’t footmen,
me lady—“

“Do it.” Duchamp said brusquely.

Mr. O’Leary gave an indignant huff and shuffled from the
room.

Elizabeth held the Frenchman’s gaze, uncertain if thanking
him for taking her part was the right tact. Duchamp didn’t smile, nor did his
dark eyes offer a flicker of emotion as he regarded her. He nodded, and then
his lanky body melted effortlessly into a courtly bow. In that brief exchange,
she understood; she had his unswerving allegiance, the same as her husband.

O’Leary returned with the tools. She set the men to work on
the window, directing them to try to loosen the bars on the outside from within
the opened window. Their clattering echoed about the chamber. Elizabeth
surveyed the room, wondering if she should box up the personal items for
Gareth, as they were his mother’s.

The room could be turned into a private sitting room for a
governess or a nurse. The unbidden thought brought a peculiar yearning within.
A governess—that meant children, her children. Would they have Donovan’s
crystal blue eyes and dark hair? Elizabeth never considered the idea before.
She would like to have his children one day. She yearned for his acceptance and
his love. But she lied to him. And that lie could not easily be forgiven.

The awareness of a presence nearby slowly curled about her.
It wasn’t malicious. It was a frightened, transparent blur edging about the
chamber like a hesitant mouse. “It’s all right. Let me help you.” She
whispered, confident the men would not hear with their pounding.

Marissa became a faint, wavering golden light dancing about
the room. She circled Elizabeth, almost playfully, save for the room’s
foreboding overtone. The weaving orb floated ahead of her. Following it,
Elizabeth stepped toward the full length mirror, noting the spider webbing of
cracks on the silvered glass. A shard was missing from the bottom of the
mirror. She gazed at her distorted reflection, unsure what the spirit wanted.
“What happened here?”

Amid the clanking and hammering of the men, she waited for
an explanation. None came. Instead, the wavering sphere of light guided her to
the bathing area beyond the privacy screen. Elizabeth studied the small ornate
dressing table. The mirror above was coated with heavy dust, as were the
beautiful bottles of perfumes and lotions lined up along the table. She glanced
at the copper tub in the corner and clutched the chair as she squelched a
rising scream.

A lovely dark woman was lying naked in the steaming bath,
her head tipped back, as if she’d fallen asleep. The water was crimson with her
blood. A baby was crying loudly from the bassinette in the opposite corner of
the room. She heard the sound of a lock turning at the door, and hurried
footsteps. A tall, blond man, his face a mirror image of Donovan’s, save a
moustache and goatee of burnished gold, stepped past Elizabeth and sank to his
knees next to the tub. He spoke to the dead woman with a heavy Irish brogue. He
clutched her wrist in both hands. His white shirt became smeared with blood as
he cradled the scored wrist against his heart and sobbed out his anguish while
the babe shrieked frantically in the background.

Elizabeth gasped aloud. Her head felt light, and she thought
for a moment she might do something stupid, like swoon. The feeling faded. “Why
do you remain?” She asked Marissa, “You aren’t a prisoner anymore. You’re free
now, you can move on.”