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

  She entered the sacred grove, the place where Granny Sheila held her strange rituals, and where Donovan kissed her under the stars and asked her to come away with him.

  It was all ashes now, just like the nursery rhyme. She was alone.

  Sheila was dead and Donovan had sailed to the Indies without her.

  Elizabeth sank down in the wet grass, uncaring of its effect on her gown. Her life couldn’t get any more damp or muddied at present. She still had Michael, but Michael was no longer a child needing her to take care of him. Their roles had changed. Without her to support, he wouldn’t need to muck out stables. He could go off on a grand adventure by himself.

  The wind caressed her hair, brushing a stray wisp from her brow as Old Sheila so often had. “Not alone.” It whispered. Elizabeth grew still, desperate now to believe in the nature spirits and elementals her grandmother spoke of when she was alive.

  “Time to go, time to break free--free--free!” She glanced up at the branch above her. A chickadee gazed down at her with snappy black eyes. “Time to go, time to break free--free--free!” A queer foreboding came over her as she listened to the wisdom of the bird. Sheila was gone. There was no need to stay at the cottage. She could leave. It was time to leave, time to break free of Fletcher’s influence. In doing so, she’d also be freeing her brother.

  A trampling of brush came from behind. She turned to find Michael glaring at her. “Liz, are you daft? We’ve been waiting for you to return from the village for over an hour.”

  “I’m waiting for whoever Papa fleeced this time to leave. Why aren’t you at the stables?”

  “I was retrieved by the coachmen in that fancy rig out front.” Michael informed her with an exuberance that puzzled her. “No more mucking out stables for me. I’m going to be a gentleman, and you, Liz, you’re to become a countess!”

  *******

  Elizabeth stood in the foyer of the church, her knees shaking and her chest tight, clutching the bouquet of white roses her bridegroom generously provided. Her heart was numb.

  She had no idea whom she was marrying at the church. An exiled count. A nobleman with a scarred body and a disfigured face. It didn’t matter whose name she would bear.

  What mattered was Michael. By accepting the Frenchman’s offer Elizabeth knew she was saving her little brother. As her husband’s legal ward, Michael would have all the advantages wealth could provide. He’d be away from Fletcher and his scheming. He’d finally be safe.

  The organ was drowning out all thought and feeling as the minister’s wife did her best to hide the missed notes. Elizabeth stood frozen in the entry arch, gazing at the bizarre scene as if watching a play. The minister was waiting. So was the mysterious French nobleman who paid her stepfather’s debts in exchange for her hand. Fletcher stood beside Michael.

  They were waiting for her to join them at the altar.

  Elizabeth stood still, rooted to the floor at edge of the aisle, clutching the flowers in her gloved hands, staring at the men waiting for her to step toward them in pace with the music.

  The captain’s face grew mottled and strained. He took a step into the aisle. He was coming for her—coming to drag her to take her place beside the hideous creature they’d summoned from Hades to be her bridegroom.

  Elizabeth could barely contain the razor sharp panic slicing through her, and the urge to run screaming from the church. The captain’s eyes narrowed with unspoken threat and he moved as if to come after her.

  The slender foreigner in the white tunic and turban left the count’s side and caught the captain’s arm. The Indian raised a hand to Fletcher, and then came gliding elegantly toward her.

  “Miss?” He spoke in a soft, conciliatory mien as he took her arm and laid it gently on his crisp white cotton sleeve. “My master bade me to give you a message if you began to falter. He said please forgive the disguise, t’was necessary to fool the dog Sirius and put him off the scent. He said to trust him just as a sailor trusts the North Star to steer him through the turbulent seas.”

  Elizabeth gasped aloud. Donovan had talked about the constellations, of sailors using them to guide their ships home using the North Star and Sirius while they were courting.

  The air tasted a little less thick and oppressive as she joined the dark figure at the altar. He was dressed in unrelenting black, except the white linen shirt beneath his velvet vest and frock coat. Elizabeth studied the profile beside her, anxious to see some semblance of the man she loved. She’d been too distraught at the cottage to truly look at the ghoul her stepfather presented to her as her imminent bridegroom. Black hair hung wild and loose about his shoulders. It seemed thicker than Donovan’s, and it lacked his smooth sheen.

  Oh, but that face. The cheeks beneath the leather mask were deep red. Angry blotches of raised, rough skin were visible beneath the shroud. And his mouth was not curled upward in a teasing smile as Donovan’s would be. Rather, it was set in a grim line.

  “Miss O’Flaherty.” The minister prompted, and she started at the reminder of her surname, realizing she was supposed to be repeating her vows after the minister. Elizabeth cleared her throat and repeated the words being leveled at her from the dour faced preacher.

  Before she was prepared for it, the ceremony was over. Someone had removed her glove and there was now a ring on her finger, a huge emerald. She couldn’t remember having it placed there. She stood staring at the gem, perplexed, commiserating with Persephone at being tricked into marrying Hades. Too soon, she must take her place as his bride in the underworld.

  “Elizabeth.” The gravel edged, commanding voice of the man beside her was not the kind Irish burr of the man she adored. “I have a schedule to keep. The tide waits for no man.”

  She glanced up at him, unable to connect this brusque, frightening creature with the jovial Mr. O’Rourke who had courted her so sweetly. The man before her was rigid with impatience and although his face was concealed, she could feel his displeasure.

  Captain Fletcher came to her side, his eyes gleaming as he observed her trying to regain her composure before the creature beside her: the bridegroom he had chosen for her. The dark, masked apparition dominated the atmosphere like a suffocating cloud of black smoke.

  “There now, you be the brave girl I know you can be.” Fletcher said as he leaned in to give her a noisy peck on the cheek. “Take heart, I hear he’s only half mad.”

  Elizabeth gasped. The floor shifted beneath her feet and she stumbled, searching for purchase as the ancient stone chamber seemed to close in upon her.

  She welcomed the darkness clouding her surroundings.

  “Lizzie, sweet Lizzie, wake up.” Donovan’s rich, soothing voice rumbled pleasantly down her spine, sending comforting warmth through her.

  The bed swayed rhythmically beneath her. The jangle of harnesses and the sound of steady hoof beats echoed around her as her world slowly came into focus. She was reclining at an awkward angle against something warm yet hard.

  “Elizabeth. Open your eyes, Sweetheart.”

  She obeyed, beholding a beautiful yet ghastly sight. “Donovan? It is you. Oh, but what happened to your face?” She was cradled across his lap, her legs curled against his hip on the seat beside him. They were in a carriage, a very costly one with red velvet squabs.

  And yet, his face was all red blotches and appeared to be cracked and peeling.

  “It’s the whites of eggs, oatmeal, and a little stage rouge thrown in for color.” He replied, grinning. His hair was wild and full, an untamed black halo about his mottled face. He lifted the leather mask from the seat and allowed her to take it and examine it. “Convincing, wouldn’t you say? As was your swoon, although that wasn’t an act, was it, darlin’?”

  “I never swoon.” She stated, irritated with herself for such a weak display.

  “It’s your wedding day.” He teased, his eyes alight with amusement. “It’s expected.”

  “You—” She gasped, shaking the mask at him. “Oh, no—you shouldn’t
have done this. It’s against the law to impersonate a noble—if they find out--“

  “Shhh, love.” He extracted the leather mask from her. “I rightfully possess the title of Count Rochembeau. It may not be worth much in France due to the revolution these days, but I assure you, it still holds a great deal of power and respect in the rest of the world.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” Elizabeth wanted to smack his hideously lovely face. She wanted to hug him and cry into his neck like a ninny. Instead, she glowered at him, refusing to give in to her jangled emotions. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was?”

  “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 s
topped 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.