Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (8 page)

He tracked the small fishing vessel along the southwestern
coast of Wales since dawn. When they ignored his signal, he fired a warning
shot over the prow. The sloop responded by widening the sails in an effort to
flee. They could not outrun his schooner, it was lightest, fastest craft of the
times. As he was flying the Union Jack, not pirate colors, he took their
unwillingness to communicate as a sign they had something to hide.

Through the cover of cannon fire from his larger Merchantman,
The Raven maneuvered his schooner alongside the smuggler’s sloop. He didn’t
wait for the grappling hooks to be secured as he dropped to the deck and began
hacking a wide path through the befuddled crew. A portly man emerged from the
hold. Raised, angry red scratches marred one cheek, confirming The Raven’s
suspicions; an unwilling female was on board and had attempted to fend off this
filthy cur. The man wobbled with inebriated shock as he took in the stream of
armed men flooding his vessel. “Who are you?”

The Raven slipped his blade beneath the captain’s ribs,
disarming him with the sure promise of disembowelment if he so much as moved.
“Did our employer neglect to inform you I was coming? T’was made clear to me, a
split by three.”

“Fletcher didn’t say nothin’ bout splitting the cut by
three! The deal was him and me.”

“He sent me to make sure you were following orders. Where’s
the girl?”

“I follow captain’s orders, always have, since Ireland. A
body’d be a fool to cross him. Ruthless prick, even when he was under military
orders.”

“Where is she?” The Raven pressed his blade into his
victim’s gelatinous paunch.

“In the hold, and there she stays, ‘til that rich cove what
owns her delivers the coin!”

The Raven gestured to the opening in the deck. His Indian
servant and several men took his cue and disappeared down the hole.

“Sent you to steal her from me, did he!” The captain was
fairly frothing at the mouth, furious but unable to lunge without impaling
himself on his adversary’s blade.

“Perhaps.” The Raven shrugged. “How much did he offer you to
steal the wench?”

The captain remained silent. With one steady pull of his
blade The Raven sliced through layers of flesh. Not deep enough to do any real
damage, just enough to make his victim bleed; make him panic. He stopped at the
throat, holding the captain like a fish on a hook.

“Five hundred pounds.” The captain offered in a hoarse
whisper, aware that a careless movement of his Adam’s apple could cause the
sword to pierce his windpipe. “Three hundred to be split between the crew and
two hundred for me--for services rendered.”

“What services?”

The seaman remained tight-lipped.

The Raven was not going to play this game. He withdrew a
pistol from his belt and pulled the trigger. The captain howled and slumped to
the deck cradling his shattered foot. “Answer, if you want to keep the rest of
your toes.”

“Wanted her ruined—broken and scared when we returned her to
her husband—them be his words, mate, not mine. Wanted me to rough her up, make
certain there’d not be another heir popping up later on to compete with his
son’s claim to the family fortune.”

“Did you? He said you couldn’t do it! Said you were weak,
limp, his words, not mine!”

“Oh, I shagged the bitch, make no mistake, scared her real
good, just like he wanted. I earned my cut and I ain’t sharing it with the
likes of you. Who the hell are you?”

“We have her, sir!” His Indian servant called out as they
carried the unconscious woman’s battered form to the waiting vessel.

Dr. Linton approached him as he stood over his prey. “I’ll
need to examine her to determine if she’s been damaged by these brutes--”

“Don’t touch her.” The Raven warned, blood pulsing
dangerously in his temples at the thought of any man touching his prize.

“She needs tending, my lord, there is a great deal of
blood—“

He removed the second pistol from his belt and cocked it. “I
said don’t touch her. I’ll kill you if you do. Is that understood, doctor?”

“Yes, sir.” The surgeon backed away with raised hands.

The Raven crouched over a dead body. He snatched a scarf
from the limp neck and began wiping the blood from his steel. He lifted it and
turned it about to inspect the blade under the glare of the noonday sun. The
razor edge winked at him. Cold, hard steel; there was nothing like it for
settling scores. It could be as precise as a surgeon’s blade; sever tendons,
penetrate organs, or remove a man’s most offensive part. A devious smile burst
forth from his lips as his eyes moved to the man crouched at the rail.

He pushed the black scarf that hid his face onto his brow
and returned to his captive.

“Who are you?” The captain asked a third time in a voice
weak from loss of blood. The man squinted against the glare of the sun as he
gazed up at the unmasked face of his executioner.

The Raven poked the captain in the throat with the tip of
his blade, forcing the swine to look him in the eyes before he killed him. “I’m
the rich husband.”

Chapter
Seven

Donovan gazed at his bride now safely bundled in his bed.
Her head was wreathed in bandages instead of a lace veil. Her eyes were ringed
in purple. She had two cracked ribs and her shins were a mass of bruises that
pained him to look at. Rat bites marred her hands and feet. He applied a paste
of golden seal to them and clean linens to stave off an infection.

The most worrisome injury was the contusion on the back of
her head. Five days had passed, yet his sleeping angel refused to wake up. As a
physician he knew the longer she remained in this unnatural slumber, the less
likely it was she would recover. She might awaken as a beautiful, living doll,
incapable of cognizant thought---or she might never awaken at all.

A cough echoed in the small room. He jerked his head up. It
was that idiot doctor again. Damn it, if the old fool wasn’t pestering him
about bleeding Elizabeth, he nattered on about the need to examine her to
determine if she’d been molested by her captors. The dried blood on her inner
thighs, coupled with her captor’s confession, seemed quite conclusive in his
mind.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, my lord.” Linton moved
noiselessly around the bed, reminding him of an alligator gliding silently in
the Carolina swamps. The doctor was a thin, nervous man sporting a full head of
gray hair, wire spectacles and a neatly groomed goatee. “I’m going to have to
insist that we try the bleeding, sir.”

Donovan stood. At six foot and then some, he towered over
the doctor. “She’s lost a great deal of blood already, you idiot. The last
thing she needs is another man to cause her pain.”

“The pain might bring her about.” Linton argued. “Come now,
trained in the Far East as you were, you’re not familiar with modern medical practices.
Why, even a medical student understands the benefits of a good bleeding.”

 “Put that lancet away, doctor, unless you want me to sink
it in your throat.”

Dr. Linton stared blandly up at him, deluded in the belief
that a younger physician would give way to age and experience if pressed. So,
no one bothered to warn the new ship’s surgeon about crossing him. Apparently no
one cared enough about Linton to do so. Few men could comprehend that a
consequence of surviving torture was the peeling away of that thin veneer of a
civilized gentleman, exposing the primitive beast beneath.

Donovan no longer feared that beast; he learned long ago to
embrace it.

Without further warning, he snatched the lancet from his
opponent and pressed the sharp point beneath Linton’s jugular. Linton sidled
back with alarm and quickly exited the cabin.

“Imbecile.” He muttered, closing the door with a defining
thud. He knelt beside the bed, lifted a limp, bandaged hand and pressed it
against his cheek. Tears breached the barricade of his tightly closed eyes
before he could stop them.

After depositing Elizabeth on his Galleon at the London
docks, Donovan journeyed to Lord Greystowe’s estate to confront the cold
English lord and inform him that in spite of his callous neglect, his
grandchildren would be well provided for from this point on. The meeting didn’t
go as he anticipated. The old earl broke into tears at the news that his
grandchildren were alive. He’d been out of the country when his daughter died.
The note Elizabeth sent to his estate was set aside unopened until his return,
a year later. The earl hurried to London only to find the townhouse belonging
to his daughter had been sold. He hired investigators to find his
grandchildren, but Fletcher had gone aground like fox, taking the children with
him. The old Earl was relieved to find they were safe, and demanded Michael be
placed in his keeping immediately. Donovan couldn’t refuse the old man. Michael
was his heir and would . . .

A soft moan brought him back to the present. He rose and sat
on the edge of the bed. “Elizabeth, wake up.” He shook her gently. “Come now,
you have to wake up, dearest!”

Those enchanting turquoise pools fluttered open. Elizabeth
stared up at his face for a few brief seconds, and then she started screaming.

His valet burst through the door from the outer suite with
Dr. Linton following. The invasion of men sent Elizabeth fleeing into the
corner. She braced her bandaged hands against the walls and regarded them all
with the eyes of a cornered doe.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, you’re too weak.” He held his
hand up to warn the others back. “Come, Lizzie, bed rest is what you need.”

“M-m-my n-name is . . . E-liz-a-beth!” She insisted, in
slow, halting speech. “M-mother doesn’t allow anyone t—t--to call me Lizzie.
She says its w-what you call a sc-scullery maid.”

“Well, Elizabeth, are you hungry?” He coaxed, relieved that
she could speak at all after what she’d come through. “I can have the cook warm
some milk and put in a pinch of nutmeg. Or perhaps hot chocolate would be more
to your liking?”

“H-h-how is it t-that you have s-such things h-here? W-we’re
at s-s-sea.”

Cognitive reasoning. The tightness lessened about his chest
a little more. “I’m a wealthy man. We have goats in the hold, chickens, apples,
cheeses, hams, all manner of delightful things. I can have the cook prepare you
whatever you desire.” He rose and extended his hand to her. “First, let’s get
you back into bed, Sweetheart.”

Her eyes scanned his black attire. “H-he sold me, didn’t he?
Papa sold me to you!” Moisture welled up in her purple ringed eyes. Pressed
into the corner, barefoot, wearing a bed-gown, she gave the heart-wrenching
impression of little girl ready to burst into terrified tears.

“No, lass, it wasn’t like that.” With careful movements so
as not to startle her, he edged close. She froze. He inclined his head to
examine her eyes. Her pupils were unequal, a sign of disorientation. “Don’t you
remember me? I bought up all Fletcher’s notes in exchange for your hand in
marriage. I’m your husband--”

“No—it isn’t true!” Elizabeth shrieked. She darted from him
as if he were the very devil sent to claim her soul. His valet and Dr. Linton
blocked the doorway, so she scurried around the bed and crouched in the
opposite corner, her breath reduced to quick, short gasps as she cast panicked
eyes at the three men hemming her in.

Donovan realized the sooner the other men left, the better
his chances were of calming her. “Pearl, bring warmed milk and buttered toast.
Dr. Linton, there is no need for you to be lurking about my suite. I’ll summon
you if I need you.”

She continued to stare at the open door after the men
retreated. The quaking of her limbs continued, but rather than over-breathing
Lizzie didn’t appear to be breathing at all.

He rounded the bed and crouched beside her, attempting to
put himself at the same level so as not to appear so intimidating to the poor girl.
“It’s all right, Elizabeth.” He held out his hand. She didn’t take it. He
didn’t expect her to. He was just trying to get her past her terror.

She turned her gaze to him. The fragile look in her eyes
burned like acid in his chest. He couldn’t stand the inches between them. He
sat down on the floor, stretched out his long legs and gently but firmly pulled
her out of the corner and settled her on his lap.

He cupped her bandaged head, guiding the weaving orb to rest
against his shoulder and continued to talk to her in a reassuring timbre.
Elizabeth melted against him, too weak to resist. She was soft and warm in his
arms. The thought nibbled at him that he really should put her back in the bed.
He was loath to relinquish this sacred moment after days of watching her linger
between this world and the next.

Elizabeth shivered, from fear rather than cold, he surmised,
but she didn’t fight his careful embrace. “My Sweet Girl.” He whispered,
battling the urge to plant fevered kisses across her dear face. “I won’t let
anyone harm you. They’d have to come through me to get to you. They’d have to
kill me, and I’m not so easy to kill.” He inclined his head to gauge her
reaction.

She seemed bewildered. “Y-you rescued me?”

“I did.” He affirmed, offering a tender smile. “You are
safe, Elizabeth. I promise.”

She licked her cracked lips as relief softened her tense
features. “C-could you t-t-take me home, sir? I-I’m sorry. I don’t remember
your name.”

“Yes.” He whispered, stroking the cheek that wasn’t marred
by cruel bruises, anxious to banish her tears. Never mind if it was a different
home than the one she meant. He just wanted her to feel safe in his keeping. “I’m
taking you home, lass.”

Lizzie sighed, weariness evident in the sound. She placed
her small, bandaged hand on his chest. Nestling against him, she closed her
eyes, content to sleep in his arms. It was a simple gesture, yet priceless,
revealing a trust he didn’t deserve. His eyes stung. His throat closed up as he
fought the desire to crush her against him in a painful mixture of grief and
gratitude that she was alive, warm and safe in his arms.