Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (5 page)

He pointed out the North Star, the beacon for gaining one’s
bearings on the high seas, and then a cluster named Sirius, after the Greek
dog, he told her. His rich voice trailed on as Elizabeth tried to find her
bearings in this uncharted sea of sensual pleasure his kiss evoked.

 One week later, Elizabeth cleared the table after the evening
meal. Michael wasn’t home yet, but he often worked late at the stables. She set
the remains of the stew near the fire to keep it warm. That boy could eat a
Christmas goose and still claim to be starving. She wiped her hands, removed
her apron and helped Granny Sheila to her favorite chair in the parlor. After a
short time, the old woman’s snores overwhelmed Donovan’s enchanting deep Irish
brogue.

He smiled from his seat across the room. “Shall we go for a
walk, my darlin’ lass?”

Once outside, he took her hand, a familiar gesture as he led
her to the wooded glen. He stopped in the center of The Sacred Grove. It wasn’t
yet dark. The sky was pink above them. He gazed down at her with eyes that were
serious for the first time since she’d met him. “I sail in a fortnight. Come
away with me, Lizzie. I want you to be my wife.”

Elizabeth was struck mute by his declaration. Knowing he was
leaving England soon, she’d been careful not to read more into their
relationship than it was; a brief summer romance to cherish when her life
returned to a struggle of survival once more.

But he just asked her to marry him, not to remember him
after he was gone. “I can’t leave Sheila.” She explained. “She’s suffered
several episodes with her heart. We don’t expect her to last through the
winter, sir.”

“We’ll take her with us.” Donovan murmured, lowering his
head. Elizabeth melted beneath a kiss that was sweet yet demanding. The mild
taste of tobacco teased her as his tongue expertly courted her own. The new
sensation of his tongue inside her mouth was shocking but oddly pleasing. She
leaned into him, her arms winding about his tall, solid form and surrendered to
his masterful kiss. She longed only to lose herself in his embrace.

He drew back abruptly, as if scalded by her touch. His
breathing was labored. He raised his head to the stars. “Lizzie, my sweet girl,
you’re in my blood. Come away with me. I’ll take care of you. And Sheila and
Michael, as well. I promise.”

“Your employer wouldn’t approve.” She reasoned, trying to
still her singing blood. “He wouldn’t pay for our passage to the Indies. And
Sheila wouldn’t survive the arduous journey.”

“I have plenty of coin. I’ll ensure your grandmother’s
comfort during the passage. And you will never work another day, I promise.” He
lifted her chaffed hand to his lips and lightly kissed the center of her palm.

Elizabeth cooed and shivered as delicious warmth settled low
in her belly. She knew now why the young women in those novels could claim to
be about to swoon.

“Gretna Green is a few days journey by horse. We can leave
tonight and come back for Sheila and Michael after it’s done. Come away with
me, darlin’. I swear you’ll never regret it.”

“I’ve known you but three weeks, Donovan.”

“Long enough.” He said with confidence. “Let’s talk to
Sheila.” He began leading her down the wooded path to the house. Once there, he
led her in through the kitchen door. “We’ve planned this. Sheila agrees with
me, Lizzie. You’ll see--”

“She’ll see about what?” A voice snarled as they entered the
kitchen holding hands.

“Papa, you’re home. This is Mr. O’Rourke, he’s been--“

“--home, yes, just in time to catch you carrying on like the
village whore.”

“Sir--” O'Rourke began, stepping toward Fletcher with his
hands up in a conciliatory mien. “If you’ll listen to what I have to say, I
believe we might come to an agreement—“

“Get out of my house.” Fletcher snatched up the knife from
the carving board.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, when you aren’t in your cups,
sir.” O’Rourke reasoned, stepping back a pace. “We can talk like reasonable
men.”

“Come back and I’ll send for the sheriff. I’ll see you
hanged for molesting my girl.”

 Donovan’s gaze moved to Elizabeth. He seemed uncertain, in
light of Papa’s threat.

“Just go.” Elizabeth whispered. “Let me talk to him. He’ll
calm down if you leave.”

It was a lie, but her goal was to get Donovan away before
Fletcher stabbed him with that knife. She knew the captain was more inclined to
do that than set the sheriff after him.

Donovan turned toward the door. He paused at her side and
whispered, “Meet me at dawn, in the clearing.” With that, he stepped into the
night. She knew what he meant. He expected her to run away with him to
Scotland, come morning.

First, she had to survive the night. Instinct told her to
run out the back door and hide in the woods until Papa passed out, as she had
done many times before. The cottage was silent as they listened to the sound of
O’Rourke’s horse trotting toward the village—to safety.

“I’ve heard tales in town, about how that swaggering Mick
comes here every night to eat and to lay out his prospects of bedroom
privileges--”

“Mr. O’Rourke has not behaved improperly. He asked me to
marry him tonight, Papa. He asked me to go with him to Gretna Green.”

“Hah! Aren’t you the ignorant little slut?” He laughed in
that frightening timbre. “Gretna Green is a lie, a convenient place where men
despoil stupid chits like you. Oh, promising marriage all the way, to be sure!”

“I don’t believe you. Donovan is not like that.”

“You don’t believe your pa? Tell me, girl, have you ever met
a woman who ran away to Gretna in the middle of the night? No, you haven’t,
because they never come back. They’re ruined, coaxed into giving up their
maidenhead to some conniving prick like him, and then left to rot by the man
once he’s had his way with ‘em.”

Elizabeth remained silent, having learned it was best not to
provoke him further when he was in this mood. The crickets chirped beneath the
steps. The soft summer breeze rustled through the trees outside the open kitchen
door. The captain gulped down the last remains of his bottle and eyed her with
speculation.

“So, you’ve been playing the little slut while I was away.” He
moved close and grabbed her arm with iron fingers. His foul breath choked her.
“Fixing to present me with some Irishman’s brat, just like your mother; spread
your legs for some penniless Mick and snub the fine English gents I’ve brought
here wanting to wed you proper.” His fist rose up to punctuate his words.
Elizabeth was caught off balance by the sudden blow. She pulled herself up from
the floor, only to find he’d slid his belt from his waist and was wrapping it
about his fist to use as a whip. “There’s a stubborn streak I failed to beat
out of you when you were a girl.”

 “Lay a hand on her and I’ll blast ye straight to hell where
you were spawned!”

Fletcher took one look at the old woman in the doorway, her
hands trembling as she tried to hold the heavy pistol aimed at him, and
laughed. A thunderous crack rent the air as the ball went whistling past
Elizabeth’s head and into the door jamb behind her.

Fletcher’s face registered surprise, and then outrage.

Elizabeth moved to put herself between him and her
grandmother. The captain spun about. Catching Elizabeth, he shoved her head
first toward the stone hearth. A searing pain snatched her back from the
shadowy mists. She was lying on the floor, her hand inches from glowing embers.
Jerking her stinging fingers from the blistering heat, she struggled to her
feet, determined to protect Sheila from Fletcher’s wrath.

 It was too late. Sheila lay crumpled on the floor, her eyes
closed. Seconds ticked by with the beating of Elizabeth’s heart.

Fletcher slowly turned his attention back to her. “I’ll kill
the old hag if I catch you so much as speaking to your precious Donovan again.
Understand me, girl?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Elizabeth hurried to the village in the grey light of dawn.
She hoped to bring the parson’s wife to have a look at Old Sheila as they
hadn’t any funds for a doctor.

Donovan emerged from a wooded copse after she rounded the
bend. He held the reins of his horse in one hand. “Did your stepfather do
this?” He asked, eyeing the welt on her cheek.

“Certainly not! I tripped and fell against the well handle
as I was going to the privy after dark.” Elizabeth forced a smile, “I should
have taken a lantern, but the moon seemed light enough, and here you have it, a
nasty bump.”

Donovan dropped the reins and seized her hand. “Come with
me, Lizzie—I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

“No!” Elizabeth jerked her burnt fingers free and glanced
with uneasiness toward the cottage that was not quite hidden by the curve of
the road. Papa had been asleep when she slipped out, but should he awaken and
see her talking to Donovan . . .

Elizabeth straightened her spine. She was well versed in
lies, in denying the truth and the pain that went with being Captain Fletcher’s
stepdaughter. “I cannot run away with you.” She said, being careful to mask her
mangled emotions. “My stepfather has expectations that I marry well, our very
survival depends upon it.”

 “Are you implying that if I had money he’d change his
tune?”

 Elizabeth’s heart opened, just a tiny bit. And then reality
destroyed the brief illusion. “No, Donovan. He would still refuse your suit.”

“Why?” His fluid body became tense and alert. He was
offended by her statement.

“Because you are Irish. He hates the Irish--even more than
he hates Yankees. Mostly, he’d refuse your suit because he knows I would wish
for his approval. I’m forbidden to speak with you again, sir. There will be
dire consequences if he finds me with you even now. If you care for me—if you
care for Sheila—I must insist you make no further attempt to contact us during
your stay in England, Mr. O’Rourke. Now, let me pass, sir.”

Donovan glanced in the direction of the cottage and muttered
a low curse. The soft blue eyes that were full of merriment had hardened to a steely
gray. His features became severe, almost feral as he stared at the cottage in
the distance. He appeared at once dangerous as he hovered over her on the
lonely road, his clothing wrinkled, his hair askew and his face unshaven from
spending the night in the woods like a highwayman waiting to rob an
unsuspecting traveler.

“As you wish, Miss O’Flaherty.” He muttered coolly as he
stepped aside, allowing her to continue on her way.

Donovan watched Elizabeth march away from him with her back
stiff. He turned his gaze back to the cottage barely visible at the turn nearly
a quarter mile away. Lizzie wouldn’t let him help her. She was afraid to be
seen talking to him, was she?

That drunken sot was likely the cause of her fear, and the
bruise on her cheek.

Well then, perhaps it was time to let The Count step in and
take control of the situation.

Chapter Four

At the elegant hotel, Captain William Fletcher was welcomed
into the well appointed suite by his host’s solicitor, Mr. Jamison. Their
previous meeting had been at the law office during the day. Tonight, Fletcher
was meeting the reclusive count face to face to finalize the arrangement between
them for Elizabeth’s hand in marriage.

“His lordship will be with us shortly.” Jamison assured him.
“Don’t let the dim lights alarm you. His lordship’s eyes are sensitive to light
and he prefers the shadows, given his unfortunate appearance.”

Fletcher took a seat near the hearth. A goblet of fine
claret was handed to him with silent deference by the white gloved footman. Ah,
the good life. He had it, until that senseless twit he married made him lose
his temper. With his name connected to the murder of a viscount’s son, he
couldn’t go to the bank to collect the quarterly allowance for the children’s
keeping. He couldn’t go anywhere in London these days, lest someone recognize
him and turn him in to the law.

This Frenchie didn’t know his reputation was mired in horse
droppings. The count was one of many nobles turned refugee due to the upset in
France. The man was rich, disfigured and looking to purchase a bride with which
to produce an heir. He owned a plantation across the sea and planned to leave England
as soon as he acquired said female.

Ah, yes, fortune was definitely on the upswing!

The door opened, and the count emerged. The lawyer rose and
Fletcher followed suit.

“My Lord, this is Captain William Fletcher, the stepfather
of the young lady you had me inquire about. Captain Fletcher, may I present Le
Comte de Rochembeau.”

Fletcher stared at the apparition dominating the chamber,
rendering it even darker by his mere presence. His host’s mutilated face was
covered by black silk scarf. Only his lips and chin were visible beneath the
dark silk. The skin just beneath the fabric appeared angry and swollen. Tiny
holes had been cut into the cloth, yet all one could make out in the dim light
was the eerie shifting of light behind the eyeholes of the dark sheath.

“My lord.” He made a bow, recalling his manners. The mute
specter nodded and gestured to the chair. Fletcher sank into it quickly, the
better to hide his knocking knees.

The count sat in a chair next to the door he just emerged
from--a dark corner devoid of illumination--and gestured with a wave of his
hand for his solicitor to begin.

“His lordship wishes to know if you’ve had sufficient time
to consider the agreement.” Jamison asked, unaffected by the veiled creature
staring at them from the gloom.

“Aye, its fine, I’ll sign.” He had been warned not to stare,
but couldn’t restrain himself. The dark sheath hiding the man’s face made him
uneasy. It reminded him of an executioner’s mask. The count was a sizeable man,
with inky black hair that swirled about his broad shoulders in wild disarray.
Unable to hold that disturbing silvery gaze, Fletcher focused on his host’s
attire; gleaming black Top boots, black breeches, and a silk dressing gown of
blood red. The gown was opened to reveal a mass of scars riddling his chest
that were long and precise. Compliments of the revolution, along with his
ruined face, Fletcher guessed.