Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  Sheila picked up the knife and sliced her palm open. She made a fist and let the blood drip over the twisted braid. “By the power of three, bound by blood; my blood, Shawn’s blood, and Kieran’s blood—O’Flaherty blood--you’ll wander this earth a restless spirit until those who know the truth are willing to speak for you and set the wheel of justice turning to avenge your murdered soul.” The blood soaked braid was placed in a leather pouch. All that was needed to seal the spell was fresh dirt from Angela’s grave. She would have that tomorrow, at the burial.

  Next, Sheila considered her charges, Elizabeth and Michael. Orphans, they were. They needed someone to claim them, take them away from Fletcher, but who would come for them?

  Not the Earl of Greystowe, their maternal grandfather. The haughty ass hadn’t come to visit his grandchildren for over a year. As for the O’Flahertys, none were left to come to their aid. Her own three sons died together on the same day, the Fighting O’Flaherty’s as they came to be called far and wide. Elizabeth and her younger brother, Michael needed a protector. Yet lacking family to provide for them Sheila was going to have to conjure a guardian. The old woman nibbled on her lower lip, considering the situation from all angles before she worked her magic. Elizabeth would be fifteen in two months time. That was still too young to wed.

  Sheila drummed her fingertips on the small table. Girls were married young in her day, often at fifteen; even fourteen wasn’t unheard of among the cottagers. But that was in Ireland fifty years past. In England today a lass typically didn’t marry until she was at least seventeen, with the preference being eighteen in polite society after a girl had made her proper come out. Ach, there was no hope for it. She’d just have to cast the spell and leave it to the ancients to bring the bridegroom to them at the proper time.

  The man would have to be noble in spirit. Heaven knew there were plenty of jackasses out there claiming noble birth who hadn’t a thimble full of integrity between them. He must possess a strong sense of honor like a knight in one of Michael’s storybooks. He should be sensitive so as not to crush to her grand-daughter’s tender spirit, and yet possess a will that outmatched Elizabeth’s in order to master the headstrong girl and prevent her from rushing headlong to her own ruin. More to the point, he would have to be someone Elizabeth could fall in love with or the stubborn lass wouldn’t accept her knight when he came forth as summoned.

  The old woman stroked her chin. T’was no easy enchantment to fashion together, it was as complex as an apothecary’s formula. What would Elizabeth find appealing in a man?

  Ach, the girl talked incessantly about the dark heroes from those cryptic romances she devoured. A Dark Hero? Yes, a dark and mysterious man would be just the thing to capture her grand-daughter’s fancy; a man tested by life’s trials, mature beyond his years, responsible, honest--and yet cunning as the devil in order to surmount Fletcher’s trickery.

  Sheila placed one of Elizabeth’s baby teeth and a lock of her hair in a pouch, along with the fresh rosemary and rose petals from the garden. Remembering Michael, an innocent lamb caught in his father’s web of intrigue, same as them all, she added one of his tin knight figures to the bag. She held the pouch in her hands and began chanting;

  “Bring a Dark Hero, faithful and true,

  With hair black as midnight, and eyes bonny blue.

  Send a Dark Hero, one we can trust;

  With a will forged in iron, yet, tempered and just.

  Send Elizabeth a champion with the soul of a Celt,

  With a heart full of love, a sword on his belt.

  Bring a Dark Knight to fulfill all her desires.

  With a soul that’s been purified;

  Through blood and through fire.”

  Chapter Two

  The Island of St. Kitts, The West Indies 1795

  The jolt moved through him as swift and sure as a lightning strike.

  Kieran O’Flaherty sat up in bed, panting, uncertain of his perceptions. The boundaries he put in place should have kept the spirits away. A body could go mad listening to all the spirits roaming these islands. The cruel slave trade ground out a steady supply of confused, angry ghosts needing help crossing to the otherworld.

  It wasn’t a ghost, he decided after carefully evaluating the atmosphere about him. It was an ancient Fetch sent out by someone with a keen mastery of the occult arts. Powerful magic had been wrought this night. It knew him by name and it called to him from beyond the moonlit harbor of Basseterre on the island of St. Kitts. It had called to him from across the sea.

  There came a familiar scratching noise at his door, and then Nickolas Barnaby, the man who had purchased his indenture years ago, poked his head inside Kieran’s small room. “Do we have a visitor, lad? I sensed something odd creeping about the house.”

  “Just a misguided element from an ancient spell, nothing to worry about.”

  “Have a care, boy. Old magic is the most powerful.” With that dour warning, the ancient apothecary left Kieran alone in the darkened chamber.

  A faint ringing disturbed his thoughts. Kieran slipped into his shoes and headed for the stairs. Once in Barnaby’s service, he learned quickly to sleep with his clothes on, as a goodly portion of their business was conducted after midnight. The face at the back door was pale with fear. “It’s my first wife; she won’t stay away from the new one. I need you folks to do something about it.”

  Kieran let the man into the back of the shop. “How long has she been deceased?”

  “Six months.” The man looked about him nervously as he spoke. “You got to do something to make her go away. Money isn’t a problem.”

  Jeremiah Townsend was frightened. His first wife died suddenly and the second one was in her bed before she was cold in the ground. Kieran’s gift didn’t tell him that, local gossip was the culprit. What Kieran did pick up was a strong feeling of guilt. “Before your first wife died, was there any reason to suspect that you were having an affair?”

  How dare you! The words were in his eyes, but Townsend didn’t give them voice. “I’ve plenty of money, I need you to make her stop scaring Mary; it ain’t her fault Prudence died.”

  “Are you certain?” Kieran asked.

  Townsend opened his mouth to speak, and then smashed his lips together as he gazed anxiously about the room. “Mary was my mistress, true. Begged me to leave Pru. I couldn’t do it. I told Mary that. I said the only way we could be together as man and wife was if--”

  Kieran remained silent, allowing Townsend to turn the idea over in his mind.

  “If Prudence died--but I didn’t mean it like you think. I didn’t tell her to do nothing’, I was just stating facts, nothing more.”

  “We understand.” Barnaby oozed with sympathy behind Kieran. “It’s a job, banishing an angry spirit, it’s difficult, but it can be done.”

  “Name your price.” Townsend responded, falling easily into to the old man’s snare.

  After Townsend left, Barnaby rushed about the downstairs shop, collecting the ingredients for a banishing spell they would need to assist their newest client.

  “Why do you do this?” Kieran asked. “That woman was murdered. Her spirit seeks justice. Binding her with a banishing spell won’t serve justice.”

  “Justice?” Barnaby paused in his gathering. He turned to Kieran, his bony fingers twining his snowy goatee. “Justice is not our business, lad.” Realizing he still wore his red silk nightcap, the old man removed it and brushed a stray wisp of white from his eyes. “We’re here to help those troubled by restless spirits. Lawyers don’t quibble over whether a client is guilty; they just worry about him paying the bill. Justice, my boy? Leave that sorry business to God.”

  *******

  Snow swirled outside the windows as Elizabeth gazed about their home for the last time. It took six months for Papa to lose the townhouse. He wagered it against his debts and lost. He had a place for them, so he said. He’d won a deed to a cottage in the country months ago and had been holding it for such a ti
me as this. The cottage was twenty miles from London, a day’s ride by horseback. They were allowed one saddlebag each and told to put their belongings in it. Elizabeth took the tattered sheet music from the old crate where Mama’s beautiful piano-forte once stood. The Broadwood Grand piano-forte along with Michael’s violin and most of the furniture had been sold to pay for Papa’s growing debts.

  She gazed at the front door. He didn’t come. Elizabeth had written her grandfather to inform him of her mother’s death and asked if he might take Michael and herself into his keeping. James Wentworth didn’t attend his daughter’s funeral nor did he come to rescue his grandchildren. They heard naught from him in the past months.

  It didn’t matter. She’d been foolish to pin her hopes on any man stepping in to rescue her.

  They were leaving London, fleeing in the night so her stepfather might escape the hangman’s noose. He’d been involved in some nefarious scheme that ended in the death of a noble’s son. Elizabeth managed to glean that much from his gin besotted ramblings. That he’d stooped to drinking gin was another sign of their poverty, as his preference was whiskey.

  At dusk, Fletcher brought two horses to the back of the house, one for himself and one for Michael and Elizabeth to share.

  He was adamant that Mrs. O’Flaherty would not be welcome in their new home.

  Standing in the empty parlor, Elizabeth cast about for any sign of her mother’s spirit. Mama appeared frequently to her since her death. Mama’s mouth would move, but Elizabeth couldn’t hear what her mother was trying to tell her. She glanced about the room, feeling foolish for addressing a ghost. “Papa’s moving us to the country. I can’t leave Granny Sheila behind as he insists and I cannot allow Michael go with him alone. What am I to do, Mama?”

  Only the wind outside answered as she stood waiting for guidance from a ghost who hadn’t troubled herself over her children’s wellbeing when she’d been alive.

  “The O’Flaherty’s always take care of their own!”

  A chill surrounded Elizabeth. The voice was not that of her mother, as she’d hoped. It was deep, masculine voice with a pronounced Irish brogue. She turned to find room behind her empty. She frowned, trying to see even the barest hint of a shadow lingering behind her. There was nothing but emptiness and silence surrounding her.

  “Come, Liz, Papa’s getting nasty.” Michael’s thin voice called from the hall.

  Smoothing the folds of her cloak, Elizabeth stepped forward. “I’m not going with you.”

  “Why?” Fear swallowed her brother’s features. At twelve, Michael was mama’s image, with pale, delicate features, jet black curls and large, soulful eyes that were a deep violet-blue.

  “I cannot leave Sheila to starve in the streets. I’m all she has left in this world.”

  Michael was visibly frightened. His eyes pleaded for her not to abandon him.

  She didn’t want to let him go on without her, but Fletcher was his father. Her stepfather would try to look after his own son. She had to believe that. The Captain had Michael’s future earldom tempting him to have a care for his son’s welfare. Michael was to inherit grandfather’s title and lands as Kieran, their older brother, had been declared legally dead years ago. Michael would be taken care of. Sheila would die if she spent the winter starving in the streets.

  “Get your skinny arse out that door, you useless twit.” Captain Fletcher appeared behind Elizabeth’s brother. “The runners will be after me, I can’t afford to linger.”

  “I’m not going.” Elizabeth informed him. “Not without my grandmother.”

  “Fine, there’ll be less baggage to slow us up. Michael, get moving.” Fletcher barked.

  “No.” Michael crossed the room to stand beside Elizabeth. “Not without my sister.”

  The sharp intake of breath from the captain told them he’d not been expecting mutiny from his charges, least of all from Michael, the youngest and most easily cowed.

  A fitting revenge Old Sheila had on the captain, Elizabeth thought, being careful not to smile. Michael might carry the captain’s name, but he’d cut his teeth on Sheila’s stories of the Fighting O’Flahertys of County Galway. He had the O’Flaherty sense of honor and integrity.

  Elizabeth steeled herself for her stepfather’s response. It would be physical, and brutal.

  In silent agreement, Michael locked his elbow with hers.

  They were of one mind; they would go together or not at all.

  Captain Fletcher slapped the riding crop impatiently against his boot, eyeing them for a dangerous moment. “Get the witch then, quick, before the night watch sees the horses out back.”

  *******

  That nagging feeling wouldn’t go away. It clung to Kieran like stale tobacco smoke.

  The shock he’d experienced months ago had been a summoning from his Celtic ancestors. Yet the purpose behind it remained clouded. He felt a powerful urge to return to England-- not to Ireland, where he spent most of his childhood. He resisted, but the call was getting stronger, the dreams became more insistent as time passed.

  “You take this one, lad.” Barnaby gestured to the window facing the street.

  Kieran looked up from the mortar bowl he’d been so intent upon. A tall, dark haired man in a wide brimmed hat and a long leather coat was striding down the deserted street toward their shop, undaunted by the heavy afternoon shower. Kieran set down the mortar and pestle and wiped his hands on his apron to remove the fine dust from them. “Who is he?”

  “That’s what I hope you’ll be able to tell me.” Barnaby sat at his desk and gave his ledgers his attention.

  Kieran scowled. The old man was testing him again. While Barnaby was in awe of his gift, Kieran considered his intuitive powers to be a curse. He didn’t like seeing people’s pain. He didn’t like feeling it if they happened to touch him. And he hated having ghosts pop in on him all the time, pestering him to help them solve their problems post-mortem. He wished he could be normal, oblivious to the unseen world, like everyone else.

  “Good day, Sirs.” The stranger entered the shop and offered them a greeting in a lilting Irish brogue. “And soft fine day it is, too, as they say in Dublin.”

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Kieran responded. It wasn’t that the man didn’t sound Irish, he was convincing. The impression came to him that this man was an actor, using costumes, false accents and fictitious names as a means of protection. This man had been hurt and was hiding from the world that had caused him so much pain.

  “I need three ounces of goldenseal, two ounces of comfrey leaves, and a bottle of Laudanum. What part of Erin do you hail from, lad?”

  The stranger was perceptive. After living here for nearly fifteen years, few people noted Kieran’s accent. “County Galway. I didn’t catch your name, Sir.”

  “O’Rourke, Donovan O’Rourke.”

  “Kieran O’Flaherty.” He extended his hand. O’Rourke didn’t return the gesture. Kieran withdrew his outstretched hand. He sensed danger in those bonny blue eyes, a promise of death to anyone who threatened this man’s fragile existence. “How long have you been in the Indies?”

  “A few months. My master inherited his grandfather’s cane plantation.”

  The tall, lean stranger appeared casual. His hands rested jauntily on his hips. And yet, those pale blue eyes kept moving from the street to Kieran and then Barnaby repeatedly, as if he expected to be set upon at any moment.

  “Which plantation is it you’ll be staying at? In case we get a delivery order.” Kieran added quickly as the steely gaze pinioned him with malice.

  “Ravencrest.” The man ground out after a moment of consideration.

  Ravencrest Plantation was a small island several miles off the coast of St. Kitts. The owner had recently passed on. The man’s daughter had married a Frenchman years ago, and the grandson had arrived from France to take over the estate after his grandfather died.

  The grandson was a count, a refugee from The Terror in France.

  The C
ount. Kieran set the jar of comfrey leaves down on the counter with a clumsy clank. The one everyone was talking about. Count Rochembeau had been horribly disfigured, so they said, tortured to the point of madness. No one had actually seen the man. His estate was an island separate from St. Kitts. He sent his servants into the harbor city to attend his business. The count wore a mask, so the rumors went and spent his days in his laboratory performing grisly experiments on the unclaimed corpses the hangman delivered to his isolated island.

  This dark, dangerous soul was in his lordship’s employ? Heaven help the fellow who crossed Mr. O’Rourke. Their end would be swift and undoubtedly painful.

  “I assume your master is Count Rochembeau?” Kieran probed as he wrapped the herbs in folded paper and tied the pouches with string.

  “I look after the man.” O’Rourke replied. “Let’s leave it at that. How much?”

  “I need to get the laudanum--just a moment.” Kieran slipped behind the curtain. He picked up a slim, brown bottle of the heady substance and let the cool glass rest against his cheek. Laudanum was an opium derivative, used for pain, to calm nerves or induce sleep in heavier doses. What did the nefarious count need it for: to manage pain or forget his past?

  Returning to the shop, Kieran set the bottle on the counter and tallied up the order. “Two pounds and ten shillings. Would you prefer an open account? We can bill his lordship if you--”

  O’Rourke tossed a bag of coins onto the counter in answer. Kieran handed him the packets and the bottle of Laudanum. The moment O’Rourke’s hand touched the bottle Kieran held, a wave of unbearable pain slammed through Kieran. He felt as if his torso were being torn to shreds, just raw flesh with no skin covering the festering wounds.

  A figure moved and blurred. His face was dirty, swollen and bruised. He stood bared to the waist, arms outstretched tight, wrists shackled. It was O’Rourke and he was screaming. His tormentors were peeling away narrow strips of flesh on his chest. Time disintegrated. O’Rourke was still shackled. This time a glowing orange poker was held in front of the man’s face then lowered ominously. A searing agony followed. The acrid smell of burning flesh overcame Kieran as tormented screams filled the subterranean chamber.