Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) Page 4

  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.

  “You realize the offer includes your son, Captain.” The solicitor’s voice jarred him, reminding him that he was gaping at his host. “He’s to be educated and brought out as a gentleman. You do understand that this contract rescinds any future claim you have to the boy?”

  That part stung, but there was naught to be done for it. He couldn’t make Michael into a gentleman, not without Angela’s money and society connections. He’d made a mistake when he pushed her down those stairs years ago; he hadn’t thought things through properly. He was the son of a butcher who clawed his way up the ranks as a soldier to become a captain and then tricked a widowed heiress into marrying him while he was stationed in Ireland. Now, his son would inherit the Wentworth fortunes when the old earl popped off, and he had no means to polish the boy for the title, save this queer fish he had dangling on his hook.

  “I understand.” Fletcher replied, sneaking a rueful glance at his sinister benefactor.

  “The magistrate has granted us a special license. His lordship signed the papers before the official today. As soon as you sign them, Miss O’Flaherty becomes the count’s legal wife. The ceremony will be merely a formality to satisfy the inherent female need for pageantry, as is the case with most arranged marriages. Any further questions, Captain?”

  “How did you know I had a stepdaughter of marriageable age, my lord?”

  “You may be surprised to learn that his lordship moves in the same circles as you.” The lawyer answered for the count. “There has been much talk in them regarding the girl and your attempts to auction her off indiscriminately--for a hefty sum.”

  True, he’d talked to many in the past months who he thought might be in the market for fresh breeding stock. Angela’s ugly duckling had grown into a beautiful swan. If not for that Irish witch sleeping next to the girl with a loaded gun, he’d have sampled her wares long ago.

  “We will collect her Friday.” The Frenchman spoke at last in a harsh, grating tone. “I will attend the ceremony and then escort her to London. Jamison will take over for me there and see my lady is settled on The Pegasus before it sails with the evening tide. I must head north as I have pressing business to conclude before leaving England’s shores. I will rendezvous with my ship and my lady outside the channel, within two to three days. By then, she will have had time to recover her nerves and accept her circumstances, Oui, Monsieur?”

  “Aye, my lord.” That was good thinking. One look at him and the chit would try to bolt as soon as she left the church if she stayed on land for even one night. Once she was at sea there would be no escape from the dark lord and his passions. “And you’ve paid off all of my debts?”

  “My Lord purchased all of the notes you specified. Your only debt now is to him.”

  Fl
etcher signed the documents giving Count Rochembeau his stepdaughter’s hand in marriage and also the one making Michael the count’s legal ward until he reached his majority.

  Jamison took the documents. “We will destroy the notes we purchased on your behalf and deposit two thousand pounds in your name into the bank of your choice as soon as the girl is transferred into his lordship’s keeping.”

  “I thought you’d give me my settlement tonight. I need coin to provide a wedding feast.”

  “The ceremony will be simple with only your family in attendance.” Jamison countered. “Afterward, the countess will be settled onto his lordship’s ship. So, you see, there will be no need for a feast.”

  He’d been outfoxed. Sure, his debts were paid, but they promised him two thousand pounds, free and clear. He couldn’t walk into a bank to collect it. He might be arrested.

  Ah, so the count was leaving his bride unattended while he concluded his business, was he? Well, perhaps he could line his pockets before all was said and done. Fletcher smiled. He knew a few scoundrels on the docks who owed him since their military days, men without a conscience who wouldn’t quibble about how evenly the purse was cut between them.

  Chapter Five

  On Friday morning, a foggy, damp day by all accounts, Elizabeth delivered her laundry packets in the village. She trudged through the muddy ruts on the way back to the cottage, her skirts soaked to the knees. She didn’t care. Sheila wasn’t there to chide her for her carelessness. Sheila was dead. She died three days after Fletcher drove Donovan away, having never awakened again. Elizabeth kept her eyes on the road as she walked, not the beautiful countryside she’d come to love during their exile.

  Oh, Bollocks! A coach and four was parked at the cottage. It meant only one thing; Papa cheated another noble at cards. They had undoubtedly tracked him here and now she would have to endure the victim’s crude insults along with her stepfather. Having been an unwilling participant in that scenario more than once, she pondered the wisdom of going home or going off into the woods until the arrogant fellow took himself off. The choice wasn’t difficult.