Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (3 page)

*******

Snow swirled outside the windows as Elizabeth gazed about
their home for the last time. It took six months for Papa to lose the
townhouse. He wagered it against his debts and lost. He had a place for them,
so he said. He’d won a deed to a cottage in the country months ago and had been
holding it for such a time as this. The cottage was twenty miles from London, a
day’s ride by horseback. They were allowed one saddlebag each and told to put
their belongings in it. Elizabeth took the tattered sheet music from the old
crate where Mama’s beautiful piano-forte once stood. The Broadwood Grand
piano-forte along with Michael’s violin and most of the furniture had been sold
to pay for Papa’s growing debts.

She gazed at the front door. He didn’t come. Elizabeth had
written her grandfather to inform him of her mother’s death and asked if he
might take Michael and herself into his keeping. James Wentworth didn’t attend
his daughter’s funeral nor did he come to rescue his grandchildren. They heard
naught from him in the past months.

It didn’t matter. She’d been foolish to pin her hopes on any
man stepping in to rescue her.

They were leaving London, fleeing in the night so her
stepfather might escape the hangman’s noose. He’d been involved in some
nefarious scheme that ended in the death of a noble’s son. Elizabeth managed to
glean that much from his gin besotted ramblings. That he’d stooped to drinking
gin was another sign of their poverty, as his preference was whiskey.

At dusk, Fletcher brought two horses to the back of the
house, one for himself and one for Michael and Elizabeth to share.

He was adamant that Mrs. O’Flaherty would not be welcome in
their new home.

Standing in the empty parlor, Elizabeth cast about for any
sign of her mother’s spirit. Mama appeared frequently to her since her death.
Mama’s mouth would move, but Elizabeth couldn’t hear what her mother was trying
to tell her. She glanced about the room, feeling foolish for addressing a
ghost. “Papa’s moving us to the country. I can’t leave Granny Sheila behind as
he insists and I cannot allow Michael go with him alone. What am I to do,
Mama?”

Only the wind outside answered as she stood waiting for
guidance from a ghost who hadn’t troubled herself over her children’s wellbeing
when she’d been alive.

“The O’Flaherty’s always take care of their own!”

A chill surrounded Elizabeth. The voice was not that of her
mother, as she’d hoped. It was deep, masculine voice with a pronounced Irish
brogue. She turned to find room behind her empty. She frowned, trying to see
even the barest hint of a shadow lingering behind her. There was nothing but
emptiness and silence surrounding her.

“Come, Liz, Papa’s getting nasty.” Michael’s thin voice
called from the hall.

Smoothing the folds of her cloak, Elizabeth stepped forward.
“I’m not going with you.”

“Why?” Fear swallowed her brother’s features. At twelve,
Michael was mama’s image, with pale, delicate features, jet black curls and
large, soulful eyes that were a deep violet-blue.

“I cannot leave Sheila to starve in the streets. I’m all she
has left in this world.”

Michael was visibly frightened. His eyes pleaded for her not
to abandon him.

She didn’t want to let him go on without her, but Fletcher
was his father. Her stepfather would try to look after his own son. She had to
believe that. The Captain had Michael’s future earldom tempting him to have a
care for his son’s welfare. Michael was to inherit grandfather’s title and
lands as Kieran, their older brother, had been declared legally dead years ago.
Michael would be taken care of. Sheila would die if she spent the winter
starving in the streets.

“Get your skinny arse out that door, you useless twit.”
Captain Fletcher appeared behind Elizabeth’s brother. “The runners will be after
me, I can’t afford to linger.”

“I’m not going.” Elizabeth informed him. “Not without my
grandmother.”

“Fine, there’ll be less baggage to slow us up. Michael, get
moving.” Fletcher barked.

“No.” Michael crossed the room to stand beside Elizabeth.
“Not without my sister.”

The sharp intake of breath from the captain told them he’d
not been expecting mutiny from his charges, least of all from Michael, the
youngest and most easily cowed.

A fitting revenge Old Sheila had on the captain, Elizabeth
thought, being careful not to smile. Michael might carry the captain’s name,
but he’d cut his teeth on Sheila’s stories of the Fighting O’Flahertys of
County Galway. He had the O’Flaherty sense of honor and integrity.

Elizabeth steeled herself for her stepfather’s response. It
would be physical, and brutal.

In silent agreement, Michael locked his elbow with hers.

They were of one mind; they would go together or not at all.

Captain Fletcher slapped the riding crop impatiently against
his boot, eyeing them for a dangerous moment. “Get the witch then, quick,
before the night watch sees the horses out back.”

*******

That nagging feeling wouldn’t go away. It clung to Kieran
like stale tobacco smoke.

The shock he’d experienced months ago had been a summoning
from his Celtic ancestors. Yet the purpose behind it remained clouded. He felt
a powerful urge to return to England-- not to Ireland, where he spent most of
his childhood. He resisted, but the call was getting stronger, the dreams
became more insistent as time passed.

“You take this one, lad.” Barnaby gestured to the window
facing the street.

 Kieran looked up from the mortar bowl he’d been so intent
upon. A tall, dark haired man in a wide brimmed hat and a long leather coat was
striding down the deserted street toward their shop, undaunted by the heavy
afternoon shower. Kieran set down the mortar and pestle and wiped his hands on
his apron to remove the fine dust from them. “Who is he?”

“That’s what I hope you’ll be able to tell me.” Barnaby sat
at his desk and gave his ledgers his attention.

Kieran scowled. The old man was testing him again. While
Barnaby was in awe of his gift, Kieran considered his intuitive powers to be a
curse. He didn’t like seeing people’s pain. He didn’t like feeling it if they
happened to touch him. And he hated having ghosts pop in on him all the time,
pestering him to help them solve their problems post-mortem. He wished he could
be normal, oblivious to the unseen world, like everyone else.

“Good day, Sirs.” The stranger entered the shop and offered
them a greeting in a lilting Irish brogue. “And soft fine day it is, too, as
they say in Dublin.”

“What can I do for you, sir?” Kieran responded. It wasn’t
that the man didn’t sound Irish, he was convincing. The impression came to him
that this man was an actor, using costumes, false accents and fictitious names
as a means of protection. This man had been hurt and was hiding from the world
that had caused him so much pain.

“I need three ounces of goldenseal, two ounces of comfrey
leaves, and a bottle of Laudanum. What part of Erin do you hail from, lad?”

The stranger was perceptive. After living here for nearly
fifteen years, few people noted Kieran’s accent. “County Galway. I didn’t catch
your name, Sir.”

“O’Rourke, Donovan O’Rourke.”

“Kieran O’Flaherty.” He extended his hand. O’Rourke didn’t
return the gesture. Kieran withdrew his outstretched hand. He sensed danger in
those bonny blue eyes, a promise of death to anyone who threatened this man’s
fragile existence. “How long have you been in the Indies?”

“A few months. My master inherited his grandfather’s cane
plantation.”

The tall, lean stranger appeared casual. His hands rested
jauntily on his hips. And yet, those pale blue eyes kept moving from the street
to Kieran and then Barnaby repeatedly, as if he expected to be set upon at any
moment.

“Which plantation is it you’ll be staying at? In case we get
a delivery order.” Kieran added quickly as the steely gaze pinioned him with
malice.

“Ravencrest.” The man ground out after a moment of
consideration.

Ravencrest Plantation was a small island several miles off
the coast of St. Kitts. The owner had recently passed on. The man’s daughter
had married a Frenchman years ago, and the grandson had arrived from France to
take over the estate after his grandfather died.

The grandson was a count, a refugee from The Terror in
France.

The Count
. Kieran set the jar of comfrey leaves down
on the counter with a clumsy clank. The one everyone was talking about. Count
Rochembeau had been horribly disfigured, so they said, tortured to the point of
madness. No one had actually seen the man. His estate was an island separate
from St. Kitts. He sent his servants into the harbor city to attend his
business. The count wore a mask, so the rumors went and spent his days in his
laboratory performing grisly experiments on the unclaimed corpses the hangman
delivered to his isolated island.

This dark, dangerous soul was in his lordship’s employ?
Heaven help the fellow who crossed Mr. O’Rourke. Their end would be swift and
undoubtedly painful.

“I assume your master is Count Rochembeau?” Kieran probed as
he wrapped the herbs in folded paper and tied the pouches with string.

“I look after the man.” O’Rourke replied. “Let’s leave it at
that. How much?”

“I need to get the laudanum--just a moment.” Kieran slipped
behind the curtain. He picked up a slim, brown bottle of the heady substance
and let the cool glass rest against his cheek. Laudanum was an opium
derivative, used for pain, to calm nerves or induce sleep in heavier doses.
What did the nefarious count need it for: to manage pain or forget his past?

Returning to the shop, Kieran set the bottle on the counter
and tallied up the order. “Two pounds and ten shillings. Would you prefer an
open account? We can bill his lordship if you--”

O’Rourke tossed a bag of coins onto the counter in answer.
Kieran handed him the packets and the bottle of Laudanum. The moment O’Rourke’s
hand touched the bottle Kieran held, a wave of unbearable pain slammed through
Kieran. He felt as if his torso were being torn to shreds, just raw flesh with
no skin covering the festering wounds.

A figure moved and blurred. His face was dirty, swollen and
bruised. He stood bared to the waist, arms outstretched tight, wrists shackled.
It was O’Rourke and he was screaming. His tormentors were peeling away narrow
strips of flesh on his chest. Time disintegrated. O’Rourke was still shackled.
This time a glowing orange poker was held in front of the man’s face then
lowered ominously. A searing agony followed. The acrid smell of burning flesh
overcame Kieran as tormented screams filled the subterranean chamber.

Kieran stepped back, away from the blinding pain of this
man’s past.

Unaware of what occurred, O’Rourke nodded stoically and
strode through the door.

“What did you see?” Barnaby pounced upon him as soon as the
door swung shut.

“They tortured him, Barnaby. They burned and cut his flesh.”

Barnaby didn’t comment. Seeing Kieran was upset by his
experience, he placed a steady hand on his shoulder in fatherly concern.

“He doesn’t work for the count.” Kieran continued, bolstered
by that hand. “He is the count--the one everyone’s talking about. O’Rourke is
one of his disguises. He’s dangerous, Barnaby. He’s embraced violence, become a
highwayman, I believe.”

Barnaby rolled his lips together. “Well done, my boy. Well
done. Say nothing of this to anyone.” He cautioned, turning his attention to
the pouch on the counter. He lifted it and weighed it in his hand. Curious, he
opened it and counted the coins. “Plenty of reasons to keep his secret, lad.
There’s over ten pounds here.”

Money. With Barnaby, it was always about the money.

Disgusted by his mentor’s greed, Kieran closed his eyes and
tried to recall the fleeting impression he experienced moments ago of O’Rourke
dressed in black holding a bloody sword in his hand. He had a silk sheath tied
around his head, a mask of sorts, pushed up over his brow. Hard blue eyes
stared back at Kieran in the vision, daring him to give the warrior a reason to
run him through. Sails furled behind the man. The smell of sulfur choked the
air as black smoke billowed up ominously behind the dark clad figure.

“He wasn’t a highwayman.” Kieran murmured, gesturing toward
the empty portal where the mysterious stranger exited moments earlier.
“O’Rourke was pirate.”

Chapter
Three

Three years later, August 1798, Rural England

Elizabeth delivered the laundry packets, collected her fees
and stopped at the mercantile to purchase a bit of sugar. It was a luxury they
couldn’t afford, but it would cheer Old Sheila. And at her great age Sheila
deserved any indulgence they could give her before she passed into the
Summerland, the Celtic place of the Dead.

Today was Elizabeth’s eighteenth birthday. It was also the
Festival of Lughnassa according to the Celtic calendar. Sheila always said that
it was fortunate Elizabeth was born on the day honoring the Celtic god of the
sun, as she was the last ray of hope for the O’Flahertys.

Elizabeth didn’t believe in the old ways. She’d outgrown the
fanciful stories her grandmother told of fairies and elementals long ago, when
her mother died and her childhood ended. She pretended to believe, to keep her
grandmother happy and give the old woman a sense of purpose as she passed on her
peculiar knowledge. Elizabeth escorted the old woman out into the clearing in
the woods every full moon and watched over her as she performed her mysterious
rituals. Then she would guide the dear old woman home again. Fairytales no
longer appealed to Elizabeth, nor did the presumption that one could change
their circumstances by chanting over a handful of herbs under a full moon. She
believed in hard work, in foraging for wood to light their hearth, not
enchanted sprites or mysterious brownies who did favors for mortals in need.