Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (36 page)

Donovan snatched the whip from Winslow’s hand and slapped
the coiled serpent across the man’s torso repeatedly as Fletcher crouched on
all fours and tried to protect his head with his chained hands. Donovan
relished each jerk and grunt of pain as the dirty shirt became soaked with
crimson.

Tossing the whip aside, he hauled Fletcher to his feet and
shoved his raw back against the stone wall. Fletcher groaned. “I should kill
you for what you did to her.” Donovan snarled through clenched teeth, barely
able to contain his rage. His hands closed around that grimy throat. “Another
word about my wife and I’ll strap you to my surgery table, bleed you, boil the
flesh from your carcass and hang your bones next to those of your old friend,
Dr. Linton.”

At last, the hard, hate-filled eyes widened with horror.

“Oh, yes, we discovered your mole during the passage. His
skeleton is in my laboratory, waiting to be strung together and put in a
display case, a personal trophy you might say. I also have Captain Sully’s
skull. I use it for a paper weight. Care to join you’re old chums, Fletcher?”

“Y-y-you’re mad!” Fletcher croaked.

“Perhaps.” Donovan conceded, releasing his hold on the man
and stepping back. Fletcher sank to the ground, coughing and wheezing. “Pray I
am not. According to English law allowing the purchase of criminals for
indentured servitude, your sorry ass belongs to me.”

“I’m a free man!” Fletcher bellowed. His face was florid
with renewed rage. “You kidnapped me and you have no right to keep me here.”

“Men are kidnapped all the time, are they not?” Donovan held
out his arms in an expansive gesture. “Some by their own government, forced to
sail the world for King and Country. And nothing, short of a pirate, I’m told,
can save them.” Donovan turned on his heel to Gus. “Isn’t that what happened to
you, Mr. O’Leary?”

“Aye.” Gus replied. “Pressed onto a naval vessel bound for
Ceylon, I was, until pirates attacked the ship I was on and set me free. I’ll
be forever grateful to that pirate, sir.”

Donovan gave O’Leary a gallant bow in acknowledgement of
said gratitude before continuing his argument with his prisoner. “Why, I’ve
even heard tales of little boys being ripped from the bosom of their families
to become victims of the spiriting trade.” He turned to Fletcher as he
delivered his final riposte. “I recently met a man who survived that brutal
fate. His name is Kieran O’Flaherty. Would you care to meet him, Captain
Fletcher?”

“I didn’t . . .” Fletcher began and stopped as Donovan
removed the curved dagger from the sheath he had strapped to his thigh and
stepped toward his prey.

“Oh, you did.” Donovan countered, directing his men to move
in with his weapon.

Gus, Ambrose and Winslow converged upon Fletcher, holding
him fast. Donovan stepped forward, his blade aloft between his face and
Fletcher’s. Holding his victim’s chin securely in one hand, he spat on the man’s
face and scraped his cheek with the blade, giving him a much needed shave as he
spoke. “You kidnapped an earl’s heir and sold him to white slavers eighteen
years ago, a crime punishable by transportation, at the very least. Add to that
the hiring of thugs to kidnap a countess—my countess!” Donovan’s eyes widened
at the last and his blade deftly sliced the man’s cheek, drawing blood. “And
I’m certain a hanging would be your future. That is, if you wish to pursue the
legal avenues. Say the word, captain, and I can arrange to have you brought
before the local magistrate before the day is out.”

“No!” Fletcher’s eyes betrayed his panic at the suggestion.
“No—I—I—“

“Ah, I thought not.” Donovan said with a wry grin. “Could be
a bit tricky for you, what with stepchildren still alive and able to testify
against you, despite your efforts to the contrary.” He spat on his dagger and
wiped the blood and stubble on Fletcher’s soiled shirt.

“So, you brought me all this way to kill me, is that it?”

“No.” Donovan slipped the dagger into the sheath strapped to
his thigh. “That would be a kindness you don’t deserve. As you recall, I paid
off all your notes a few months back. In return, I’ll have eighteen years hard
labor for all the years you tormented my wife.”

Fletcher’s distress grew at the prospect of a lifetime of
forced labor.

“Where do you want him kept,” Winslow asked. “In the
compound, with the others?”

“No. Chain him up with the pigs.” Donovan replied. “He’ll
sleep with the pigs in the prison yard. He’ll eat from their trough. During the
day, he’ll work the fields with the others, but keep him in leg irons. And no
machete for this one or any other tool he could use as a weapon. And no rum
rations. He’s the most dangerous when he’s drunk.”

*******

Donovan rode along the winding roads as the sun lowered in
the sky.

He couldn’t stop thinking of all the things he longed to do
to Fletcher now that he had the man in his power. His blood was seething and
boiling in his veins, his mind whirling at all the wicked possibilities; he
could use him for target practice or make him flush out the poisonous snakes
hiding in the uncut cane. They lost at least one man every season to a venomous
snake bite while cutting the stalks.

The one thing Donovan could not do was go home. Elizabeth’s
intuition would find him out. She’d be frightened by the violence seething in
his soul. He’d spent the past days trying to surround her with calm. He
couldn’t go to her until he gained control of his turbulent emotions.

As the sun melted into the sea, he guided his mount down the
path to the beach and allowed Zeus to cantor across the sands. They raced along
the white sand, through the crashing waves toward the rocky promontory that
reached into the ocean. When they reached the rocks Donovan turned his mount
and galloped back down the shore.

By the time he’d repeated the invigorating race up and down
the shoreline two more times Zeus’ sides were heaving. Donovan dismounted and
allowed the Arabian to sample the foliage growing along the embankment. He sat
down on the sandy rise a few feet from the horse, braced his forearms across
his bent knees and allowed the steady boom of the crashing surf to surround him
as he attempted to calm his heart in the growing twilight.

 He continued to struggle with his primitive emotions as he
made long strides from the stables to the house. He ambled about his
laboratory, searching for a distraction. His eye caught the report lying open
on his desk, the investigation on O’Flaherty’s background. He picked it up with
renewed interest as he sank into the overstuffed chair behind his desk.

Twenty minutes later, Kieran O’Flaherty entered the
laboratory at his summons. “Sit, Kieran.” Donovan gestured to the seat opposite
his desk. “Would you care for glass of port?”

“No sir.” The sparse, tall redhead edged around the newly
arrived crates of scientific equipment stacked near the door. Emerald eyes took
in the specimens lining the walls with a mixture of awe and trepidation.

Donovan watched the man survey his collection of preserved
animals, birds and reptiles with mild amusement. Scientific classification had
been his hobby since childhood, much to his mother’s chagrin, as he preferred
to spend hours cloistered in his attic laboratory as a lad rather than in
parlors under her enforced attempts to socialize him. His adult studies
included human specimens. He had organs preserved in glass jars of salt brine
and vinegar. A human brain was on the shelf behind him, compliments of the
hangman in Basseterre. Donovan extracted it from a cadaver that came to him in
exceptional condition, despite the typically destructive processes of
execution.

“You wished to speak to me, sir?” O’Flaherty slid into the
chair opposite his desk.

“Yes.” He replied, pouring himself a glass of port and pausing
to offer his guest a glass. Kieran declined his offer. “Are you sure? It’s very
smooth, well aged, from Portugal.”

“I don’t imbibe in spirits, my lord. It tends to muddy my
perceptions.”

Donovan sat back in his chair and extended his long legs beneath
the desk. He cradled the goblet of ruby liquid between his fingers. “Ah, yes.
You make your living using your peculiar perceptions.” He took a sip of the
fine port and slumped lower in the chair, determined to be comfortable. “You
are reputed as an adept in the metaphysical realm, according to my reports.”

O’Flaherty swallowed convulsively. “Reports? You had me
investigated?”

“Not all of us possess the gift of second sight. My agent
merely questioned the locals to verify your claims.” He took a sip of his
drink, and watched Kieran’s reaction. “My wife is very precious to me. I could
never allow another man near her without scrutinizing his background,
particularly not one who has the potential to engage her heart. A long lost
brother is no trifling gift to present to such a fragile soul.”

Nodding, O’Flaherty conceded Donovan’s point, yet he was
rankled, all the same. “Barnaby’s position in the city is precarious. The wrong
inquiries could cast suspicion—“

“--Yes, he could be driven out of town due to his dealings
in sorcery and necromancy.” Donovan finished with impatience. “And a bit of
larceny, given his advertisement promising, let me see, how does that go? Ah,
yes discrete and efficient resolutions for those troubled by spirits—prices
negotiable.” He quoted the handbill in his file, lifting it to wave at his
guest.

“It was never my choice to be involved in such practices. I
was purchased for my peculiar gift as a child so Barnaby might use them for his
purposes, namely, to make money.”

“You are no longer a child.” Donovan pointed out. “Your
indenture must be paid by now. If not, I’ll settle the account. Why do you stay
if you disapprove of his dealings?”

Kieran shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “He’s
the only family I’ve known for nearly twenty years.”

“Did you ever consider contacting your maternal
grandfather?”

“To what end?” Sharp green eyes met Donovan’s. At last, that
Fighting O’Flaherty spirit surfaced. “He disowned my mother for marrying my
father against his wishes.”

Donovan digested that tidbit quickly. “Did your father have
contact with Wentworth?”

“Yes.” Kieran hissed the word with pent up fury. He sat
forward in the chair, his arms braced on his thighs, hands clenched together as
if to try to contain the rage that radiated from within. “Mama was crushed by
his refusal to reconcile with her. Father wrote the man more than once,
attempting to heal the breach out of love for my mother. Wentworth refused to
accept their marriage. He damned my father as an uncivilized pagan and my
mother as an ungrateful child. So you see, even before my abduction, I had no
expectation of eliciting Lord Greystowe’s support or his affection.”

Donovan lifted a cheroot to his lips and leaned close to the
candle to light his tobacco. After pausing a moment to coax the cigar to
ignite, he continued, “I met with Lord Greystowe after my wedding. He expressed
deep regret at being a stranger to his grandchildren. When your mother died,
Fletcher disappeared. Wentworth had agents searching for your siblings for
years. That is hardly in keeping with a man who wishes to remain aloof from his
grandchildren.”

“My father would never forgive me if I went crawling to that
cold English lord!”

“I’ve been to Ireland, O’Flaherty. I’ve seen the effects of
British rule. My stable boys are casualties of that brutal system. Their
parents died during an outbreak of Scarlet Fever. The boys were turned out of
their tenant cottage, forced to pick pockets to survive. Johnny, the oldest,
attempted to pick mine. Instead of handing him over to the authorities I
offered him a job, a means to honestly provide for his brothers as my stable
hand.”

“The lad is hardly fourteen.” O’Flaherty’s look clearly questioned
Donovan’s sanity.

“Johnny is seventeen. Under my supervision, he looks after
the stock. I brought the boys here three years ago. Danny was ten. Gavin wasn’t
yet seven. Gavin survived the fever that took their parents but he’ll never be
able to work as a laborer. With training, and my sponsorship, he could become a
clerk in a law office. My point is that Gavin deserves more than being left to
starve in the streets, Mr. O’Flaherty, yet starve he did, under British rule.”

“You are a philanthropist, my lord.” O’Flaherty remarked.
“You collect the broken and discarded of society. You give them a sense of
purpose and dignity.”

 Donovan stamped out his tobacco, disturbed by the man’s
bold assessment. No doubt, he was a great asset to his employer due to his
intuitive abilities. “We were discussing you.” He directed the conversation
back to a comfortable path. “With your father dead and the O’Flaherty lands
under British control, your tenants would be laboring under an English
landlord, more than likely, an absentee one. If you were reinstated as your
grandfather’s legal heir you would be in position to purchase your ancestral
home and regain your place as leader of the Clan O’Flaherty, and fulfill your
father’s legacy by being a fair and just landlord.”

Kieran crossed his forearms, layering one over the other in
front of his chest, a clearly defensive posture. “That’s a very mercenary
perspective, my lord.”

“A pirate can do noble deeds. A priest can commit great
evil. If you believe you are being noble by not claiming your rightful
inheritance when you could be using Lord Greystowe’s money and influence to
help your father’s people, you are entertaining folly. More to the point, you
allow Fletcher to win by default. His son will inherit everything, just as he
intended when he sold you into indentured servitude all those years ago.”

Donovan straightened his posture, honing his last arrow.
“Who knows what kind of earl Fletcher’s son will be? I grant you he’s young.
Yet, he’s had his father’s influence all his life and now he will be guided by
your maternal grandfather, a cold man who turned his back on his only child
years ago over her choice in a husband, as you pointed out.”