Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (7 page)

“Your fear helped convince Fletcher you were marrying
someone you didn’t know. Had he the slightest inclination that it was me
beneath the disguise, he could have made trouble for us.” The lightness left
Donovan’s eyes as he reflected on his words. “As it is, we must get you aboard
my ship before he discovers my signature on the marriage contract and cries
foul.”

“Where is Michael? I was told ‘the count’ would be Michael’s
legal guardian. Surely he’s coming with us . . .?” She paused, confused by all
that had happened since she left the Sacred Grove this morning. “We are still
going to the Indies, aren’t we?”

Donovan sighed. “Yes, we are going to the Indies. I own a
plantation near St. Kitts, as Count Rochembeau. And yes, Michael is under my
protection, but he’s staying in London. I’ve set him up in a suite at the
Carlton Hotel and hired a tutor to help him prepare to enter St. Paul’s Academy
after Christmas. He has a great deal of catching up to do before then, years of
schooling to make up for if he’s to enter in January. Mr. Jamison, my lawyer
here in London, will look in on him regularly to make certain that Michael has
everything he needs.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.” She stated, tears stinging
her eyes at this sudden parting.

“We’ll visit him in the spring. There are no schools in the
Indies. All of the planters send their sons to England to be educated at St.
Paul’s and then on to Eton.”

The reality of not seeing her little brother for months
brought panic. Michael had been her responsibility, for so many years.
Protecting Michael had been like breathing. What would she do without him?

“What’s this?” Donovan’s voice was gentle as he cupped her cheek
with his palm. “Lizzie, don’t cry. I’ve hired a tutor to look after him.”

“A stranger.” She retorted in a thick voice. “The captain
won’t leave him alone. He’ll come after Michael. He’ll bully him into giving
him money. Michael has to be protected.”

Donovan’s hideous oatmeal, egg and rouged face crinkled when
he frowned. Intelligent sapphire eyes studied her. “Trust me, Cherie.” He
whispered, brushing the moisture from her cheek with light fingertips. “Michael
will be fine, I promise.”

The intensity burning in his eyes made her want to believe
him.

He leaned closer and she closed her eyes, knowing what was
to come, surrendering to it. Donovan’s lips brushed over hers in a gentle
caress. She reached up and cradled her hands on either side of his face,
kissing him back, daring him to set caution aside and kiss her like a proper
bridegroom. He didn’t back down from the challenge.

Chapter Six

At sunset that same evening, Elizabeth stood before tall
windows in a richly appointed cabin watching the city of her birth diminish as
Donovan’s ship left the harbor.

She turned from the window and gazed around the main room.
The master cabin boasted two rooms and a privy closet that emptied into the
sea--a convenience the first mate pointed out to her with pride earlier. A gold
brocade settee faced tall galleon windows festooned with red velvet curtains. A
Turkish carpet in deep red and gold hues covered the plank floor. Elizabeth
wandered about the luxurious room, pausing to caress a bronze tiger statue on
the desk, admire an oriental vase and study the watercolors depicting oriental
landscapes on the wall.

She glanced at a paneled door leading to an adjoining room.
Opening it, she discovered it was little more than a closet housing an enormous
bed with a silk coverlet and stacks of lush pillows instead of the crude sailor’s
bunk she expected to find there.

Six weeks. A honeymoon voyage with Donovan. Remembering the
potent promises of passion inherent within his kisses in the coach, she blushed
and then smiled. She was a little uncertain about the mysteries of the marriage
bed, being a virgin, but she trusted Donovan. He loved her. He proved it with
this wild scheme, riding in like a knight in a fairytale to rescue both her and
her little brother from the evil dragon. She had nothing to fear from his love.

Ah, but he wouldn’t be here tonight. He promised to meet her
beyond the English Channel, once his business affairs were settled. Three days.
It might as well be a lifetime.

Exhaustion pulled at her. Elizabeth removed the pins from
her hair and busied herself by brushing it and then plaiting it. Finished with
the chore moments later, Elizabeth slipped out of the elegant coral silk gown
and into a bed gown that had been laid out earlier in anticipation of her
needs. She didn’t have a maid. Donovan had been smug as he explained that he
would serve her in that capacity during the voyage.

He seemed convinced that helping her dress and brushing out
her long hair every day would be a treat--for both of them. She’d give it two
days, and then he’d be letting her attend those chores herself. Sheila often
cursed as she tried to rake the tangles out of Elizabeth’s hair, and had
threatened to take a scissors to the mess if she didn’t hold still.

Dismissing the notion of her husband’s assistance in the
dressing room, Elizabeth held out her arms, admiring the billowy sleeves of her
bed gown that gathered at her wrists with an elegant flourish of lace covering
her hands. She caressed the crisp cotton fabric, pleased by the feel of it
beneath her fingers. There hadn’t been any new gowns, for sleeping in or
otherwise, not since Mama died and they’d been plunged into poverty. Mindful of
the expense of new clothing, she bent to retrieve the silk dress from the
floor. She folded it carefully and placed it on the chair in the corner, and
then crawled into the feather bed and snuffed out the candle.

A gut wrenching pain brought Elizabeth awake in the
darkness. That invisible swordsman had just paid her an unwelcome visit while
she slept. That damnable villain, and in her mind it had to be a male phantom
responsible for such pain, was thrusting his sharp blade into her lower belly
and out through her back. She was relieved that Donovan was not here, as she’d
be mortified to have to explain her painful courses to a man. She cradled her
belly and tried to ride out the fresh wave of agony. She should get up and find
some toweling, but it was difficult to leave the cozy bed. She curled into a
ball and hugged a pillow as the cramping intensified.

A sharp cry came from out on the deck, followed by agitated
shouts and loud thumping noises. Heavy boots echoed on the planks outside her
cabin. Donovan wasn’t supposed to return for at least two days.

What on earth were those men doing out there, yelling and
making such a terrible racket?

It sounded like they were fighting. She sat up, confused and
frightened by the sounds.

The outer door burst open. Light moved and wobbled about the
murky darkness beyond her closet door. Several men with torches filed into the
small chamber and surrounded the bed.

Elizabeth screamed. She was roughly seized by two men. She
kept on screaming, writhing, squirming, and fighting them--to no avail as her
wrists were bound in front of her and she was dragged from the bed and out into
the dark night.

Once on deck, she was hefted over the rail and into the
waiting hands of other men on a smaller craft that was tied alongside the
count’s ship. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lantern light, she saw she was
surrounded by a tight circle of men. They groped at her bottom and her breasts,
and laughed at her outraged cries. They pushed her back and forth between them,
like a toy. She screamed with every fiber of her being. She scratched at them
with her tethered hands and shrank away from those rough, pinching hands,
hoping to awaken from this nightmare.

The crack of a pistol rent the air. The men stopped
tormenting her. One of their comrades slipped to the deck with his chest
blooming crimson. She looked about for her rescuer, hoping Donovan had returned
during the melee. A portly, unkempt fellow waved his pistol in the air.

“Stand away from the Countess.” He bellowed. Stepping
closer, he grabbed her forearm and pulled Elizabeth toward the hole in the
deck, while placing himself in front of her with his pistol leveled at the
crowd who had tormented her moments ago. He pointed to the ladder and gestured
for her to descend into bowels of the ship. Frightened, confused, and grateful
for his interference, she did as he instructed, climbing down the ladder. He
jumped down behind her, rather than climbing as she had done. Once there, he
took her wrist and pulled her along by behind him until they came to a small
cell with iron bars. He shoved her inside. “There, now. You’ll be safe here. My
apologies, Miss.” He said, freeing her bound wrists with a knife. “My men don’t
know how to treat a fine lady.”

Her first thought was to thank him. She caught herself. This
man might have prevented her from being ravished, but he wasn’t helping her
escape, he was locking her up. Elizabeth rubbed her chaffed wrists and
concentrated on summoning the courage to demand her release, and manage not to
sound frightened into the bargain.

Before she could form the words to chastise his actions, she
was abruptly flattened beneath him on the dirty floor as he attempted to take
over where his comrades left off. With her arms free of the bonds, Elizabeth
fought hard, determined to wriggle from beneath his considerable bulk. She hit
him with her fist and then clawed at his face, aiming for his eyes, but
succeeding only in scratching his cheek. A fist slammed against her temple,
stunning her with an explosion of bone shattering pain. As she tried to recover
her senses, her assailant grabbed her ankles and pried open her legs. She
kicked and twisted, to no avail. His hands were iron shackles. Crawling
upwards, he pinned her legs beneath his knees, unbuckled his belt and yanked up
her bed gown.

“God’s tooth--what’s this!” the dirty sailor swore, drawing
his crimson hand from between her thighs. “No wonder that spook left you alone.
You’re a disgusting mess!” He sidled away from her and stood, wiping his bloody
fingers on his yellowed shirt.

Thankful for the first time for something she’d considered a
curse, Elizabeth scrambled back into the shadows, away from him. “Who are you?
Why have you abducted me?”

“Cap’n Sully’s the name. I could have left you up there to
deal with my men.” He cocked his head at her like an old dog. “I’m thinkin’ you
ought to be more accommodatin’. Oh, but you’ll warm to me, won’t ye, girl?
After you’ve spent some time down here; with the rats.”

*******

The apothecary shop was bustling with activity. Six
customers waited for assistance and Barnaby was in a conference with a client
for the Midnight Bell. A searing pain in the back of his skull made Kieran
O’Flaherty drop the jar in his hand. The sound of shattering glass echoed in
his ears as the shop faded from his perceptions.

He was backed into a corner in a dark, dirty place, curled
into a tight ball. His knees were instinctively drawn up to protect his
abdomen. Someone was trying to kick him to death. The attack waned. The owner
of that lethal boot huffed and wheezed in the semi-darkness. Kieran braced
himself for another onslaught. None came.

Gazing about, Kieran surmised he was in the bowels of a ship,
in a dirty cell lit by a single tinned lantern. He was seized by the hair---it
seemed he had handfuls of the stuff—and was roughly dragged from the corner
he’d been huddled in. The stench of unwashed flesh assaulted his nostrils as
something vile was pushed at his face. He clamped his mouth shut, refusing to
cooperate, only to have his head slammed against the bulkhead.

Waves of blinding pain made him too weak to resist any
longer.

He must have blacked out. He was alone in the cell, huddled
in the corner on moldy straw. He was linked to a young woman, seeing through
her eyes, feeling her pain, tasting the bitterness of her fear. He was inside
her mind. Fetid water wicked up the material of her thin gown, and the cold
seeped through to her very bones. Kieran felt sick and disorientated from the
oppressive pain in his skull. Bursts of light flashed in front of his eyes and
the taste of dirty pennies was in the back of his throat. He heard the sound of
labored breathing as the girl struggled to contain her horror at what had been
done to her. There was a furry sensation on the back of his neck. Kieran jerked
convulsively, his gut seizing with revulsion. Every nerve along his spine
tightened. He reached up to slap it off. Another creature ran across his bare
foot. The girl, whose mind he had been linked with, slapped at the vermin and
screamed.

She kept right on screaming long after the rats had scurried
into the darkness . . .

 “Kieran!” Barnaby’s face slowly formed in front of him.
“You had another vision.” His mentor clarified, for the benefit of the patrons
surrounding them with concern.

“Aye, a vision.” Kieran muttered, feeling sick and exhausted
from the experience. The shop was silent. A burly footman offered him a hand.
Kieran was pulled up from the floor. He nodded his thanks, limped to the back
room and sagged against the wall. He’d never experienced anything like this in
all his life. He’d just been inside the mind of a young woman while she was
being assaulted.

“Go upstairs, lie down.” Barnaby insisted with the voice
that brooked no refusal. “You look like you’ve just escaped the lower regions
of hell!”

“I did.” Kieran mumbled. “But that poor girl is still
trapped there.”

*******

To the bewildered smuggler crew, the dark, cloaked figure
leading the charge over the rail appeared to be a giant black bird swooping
down on its prey. Hence, he’d come to be known as The Raven, a bird associated
with dark omens and death in ancient myth, a name he made synonymous with death
to any who dared cross his path on the Indian Ocean.