by Silver, Lily
Kieran stepped back, away from the blinding pain of this man’s past.
Unaware of what occurred, O’Rourke nodded stoically and strode through the door.
“What did you see?” Barnaby pounced upon him as soon as the door swung shut.
“They tortured him, Barnaby. They burned and cut his flesh.”
Barnaby didn’t comment. Seeing Kieran was upset by his experience, he placed a steady hand on his shoulder in fatherly concern.
“He doesn’t work for the count.” Kieran continued, bolstered by that hand. “He is the count--the one everyone’s talking about. O’Rourke is one of his disguises. He’s dangerous, Barnaby. He’s embraced violence, become a highwayman, I believe.”
Barnaby rolled his lips together. “Well done, my boy. Well done. Say nothing of this to anyone.” He cautioned, turning his attention to the pouch on the counter. He lifted it and weighed it in his hand. Curious, he opened it and counted the coins. “Plenty of reasons to keep his secret, lad. There’s over ten pounds here.”
Money. With Barnaby, it was always about the money.
Disgusted by his mentor’s greed, Kieran closed his eyes and tried to recall the fleeting impression he experienced moments ago of O’Rourke dressed in black holding a bloody sword in his hand. He had a silk sheath tied around his head, a mask of sorts, pushed up over his brow. Hard blue eyes stared back at Kieran in the vision, daring him to give the warrior a reason to run him through. Sails furled behind the man. The smell of sulfur choked the air as black smoke billowed up ominously behind the dark clad figure.
“He wasn’t a highwayman.” Kieran murmured, gesturing toward the empty portal where the mysterious stranger exited moments earlier. “O’Rourke was pirate.”
Chapter Three
Three years later, August 1798, Rural England
Elizabeth delivered the laundry packets, collected her fees and stopped at the mercantile to purchase a bit of sugar. It was a luxury they couldn’t afford, but it would cheer Old Sheila. And at her great age Sheila deserved any indulgence they could give her before she passed into the Summerland, the Celtic place of the Dead.
Today was Elizabeth’s eighteenth birthday. It was also the Festival of Lughnassa according to the Celtic calendar. Sheila always said that it was fortunate Elizabeth was born on the day honoring the Celtic god of the sun, as she was the last ray of hope for the O’Flahertys.
Elizabeth didn’t believe in the old ways. She’d outgrown the fanciful stories her grandmother told of fairies and elementals long ago, when her mother died and her childhood ended. She pretended to believe, to keep her grandmother happy and give the old woman a sense of purpose as she passed on her peculiar knowledge. Elizabeth escorted the old woman out into the clearing in the woods every full moon and watched over her as she performed her mysterious rituals. Then she would guide the dear old woman home again. Fairytales no longer appealed to Elizabeth, nor did the presumption that one could change their circumstances by chanting over a handful of herbs under a full moon. She believed in hard work, in foraging for wood to light their hearth, not enchanted sprites or mysterious brownies who did favors for mortals in need.
And wasn’t the proof of her conviction in her hand? She clutched the small packet in her fist, bought from her pay for laundering shirts for the bachelors in town. They couldn’t afford a real feast in honor of the Celtic god Lugh but tonight Granny Sheila would have sugar in her tea!
Captain Fletcher provided them with a roof over their heads and that was all they could say about the dilapidated cottage he took them to years ago on that cold December night. It turned out that Sheila O’Flaherty provided the perfect foil for the captain’s schemes. He could hide in the country without fear of the authorities ever finding him, for what connection would an old Irish woman and her two grandchildren have with a notorious gambler wanted for murdering a viscount’s son?
The captain came home a sparse few days out of each month, when his luck ran out. The arrangement gave the siblings a measure of freedom that few could boast of at such a young age. Sheila taught Elizabeth how to cook. They raised a garden and kept a few chickens to sell the eggs. They took in laundry and mending. Michael acquired odd jobs with the blacksmith and the butcher. Recently, he’d been given a position as stable boy at the Hamilton Estate up the road.
Ah, life might even be called good. Except Captain Fletcher was scheming again. As Elizabeth came of an age to be properly married, he was busy trying to secure a match for her from among his gaming associates in the hope of settling some of his debts.
Elizabeth was determined to evade his snare. She had it all worked out in her head. She’d run away before she’d agree to such an unsavory match. She would take Sheila and head for London, become a lady’s companion or a governess. Her mathematics might be atrocious as her schooling ended when mama died, but she could play the pianoforte better than most and that one talent might secure her a position tutoring wealthy merchant’s children in their homes. She could also teach the merchant’s daughters comportment and manners, prepare them for entering society since her mother had been a lady.
Preoccupied with her plan of escape, Elizabeth walked right past the fine roan stallion tethered outside their cottage without caring how it got there. Michael must have taken it for a stretch of the legs, she assumed, as she opened the front door. He often did so with Lord Hamilton’s stock, and then stopped at the house to brag a little. He was mad about horses, but what lad of fifteen wasn’t? Elizabeth untied the strings of her bonnet and hung it on the peg.
True to form, Michael was standing next to Sheila’s chair, facing the door with a pleased smirk on his thin face. “Ah, Liz, we were just discussing your tardiness!”
“I see you’ve stolen a horse again for the afternoon.” She teased, and then scolded him. “Quit preening like a lord and go get some wood so I can warm your dinner.”
“Is that any way to talk to me on your birthday?” Michael returned in a high good humor. “I shan’t give you your present.” He affected an adorable pout, dimples and all.
“You haven’t the means to buy me a present, and even if you did, I’ve told you I have need of nothing, except good companionship and pleasant conversation.”
“You’re lack of faith in me is disheartening, Mademoiselle. I’ve brought home a companion to entertain us in exchange for dinner. But after hearing your acid tongue I wager he’ll be making his excuses and heading for the door.”
A dark haired man rose from the high-back chair he’d been sitting in that faced away from the door at Michael’s nod to him. He turned to face Elizabeth with an amused smile.
“My brother doesn’t steal horses, sir, it was a jest." Elizabeth’s face grew hot.
“Liz!” Michael raised his hands. “Donovan is my friend. You needn’t worry about him sending the sheriff after your wicked tongue.”
The stranger’s smile widened. He had a complexion that had been kissed by the sun. His hair was as black as midnight, secured behind his neck with a black bow. And such blue eyes!
“This is Mr. O’Rourke. Michael invited him to dinner.” Grinning, Old Sheila made the introductions. “And this is my grandchild, sir, my darlin’ lass, Miss O’Flaherty.”
“A pleasure, Miss O’Flaherty.” The man stepped forward to make a formal bow. The parlor echoed with a distinct crunch. His gaze dropped to the small packet lodged beneath his boot. The stranger bent to retrieve it and held the packet out to her with a beguiling smile. “Your sugar, Miss, I believe you dropped it.”
“Yes, Mr.?” Elizabeth stammered, uncertain of his name.
“O’Rourke, Donovan O’Rourke, Miss, at your service.”
“Thank you, sir.” She struggled to retrieve her addled wits as she took the packet from him. “I’ll not need to break the lumps now. You’ve done that for me.” She attempted a smile.
The Irishman nodded and smiled back. Elizabeth was taken hostage by the lively interest in those dazzling blue eyes, such a pal
e shade, the color of the sky on a cloudless day.
Uncomfortable with his frank, open regard, she dropped her gaze to his boots. Tall brown top boots. She noted the unusual color, as most men wore black ones with brown trim. His were just the opposite. Her eyes ambled up long, muscular thighs molded into buff doeskin breeches that fit him like a second skin. Brown leather gloves encased hands resting jauntily on trim hips as her vision moved steadily upward. A leather work vest protected O’Rourke’s shirt from his labors. A sloppy neck linen hugged his tan neck. His cotton shirt was discolored from frequent wear, a soft ivory rather than white. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned, corded forearms that made her pulse jump like a colt kicking up its heels gleefully in the pasture. As her gaze moved to his face, the smile creasing his lips conveyed the silent message that her inspection hadn’t escaped his notice. He had the audacity to wink at her.
Flushing crimson, Elizabeth fled to the kitchen. She should be outraged by his forward behavior or shamed by her own. Instead she was at once giddy, nervous, uncertain and weak at the knees--all in the space of five minutes!
Oh bollocks, Elizabeth stepfather’s favorite swear word came to her mind. Elizabeth looked toward the parlor guiltily. She could at least think the word without getting in trouble. Granny Sheila couldn’t hear her thoughts. How I am to make it through the rest of the evening?
Elizabeth remained silent throughout the meal, not trusting herself to speak with her wits jumbled about. Michael and Sheila kept the conversation flowing with the enchanting Irishman. She found herself continually drawn to the pale blue orbs that studied her from the face of a bronzed god. She tried to be sly about her admiration of his masculine beauty, but she was caught staring by him time and again. Each time their eyes met, she blushed and looked away.
“Am I correct in assuming your father is working away from home, Miss O’Flaherty?” O’Rourke asked when she was caught on one forbidden foray.
“Ha. He’s never found work to be profitable.” Michael answered for her, and set to chewing a piece of sinewy meat with extra vigor. “Good stew, Liz. Is it chicken again?”
Elizabeth nodded and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt, keeping the truth to herself. Or so she thought until she noted the smirk on the face of their guest. O’Rourke knew it was rabbit, poached rabbit, more to the point, a crime for which she’d face serious charges if caught—and yet, her little brother had to have meat to eat.
“Our father is out seeking his fortunes. He doesn’t trouble himself much over ours.” Michael added pouring more milk that had come to them in exchange for Sheila watching the neighbor’s babe this week so the farmer’s wife could help him bring in the grain harvest.
There was a price for every morsel they ate. Elizabeth was always keenly aware of it. Tonight she felt it more than usual. Lucy, her favorite amongst the bevy of stray cats that congregated at their cottage, jumped onto Elizabeth’s lap. They couldn’t fall much lower, when having a guest made her worry where their next meal would come.
Michael poured a portion of his milk onto a chipped tea saucer and pushed it in front of Elizabeth. Lucy promptly stood up on her lap and lapped the milk from the saucer with her pink tongue, purring loudly. Elizabeth stroked the calico’s neck as she chanced a look at Mr. O’Rourke. They wouldn’t dare indulge Lucy so in Papa’s presence. It would earn them both a harsh cuff alongside the head and the cat would be thrown across the room.
Mr. O’Rourke didn’t arch a brow as he gazed serenely at Elizabeth. “Ah, hoping to provide coin to ease the burdens of his family, no doubt.” He said, gallantly dismissing Michael’s impertinence as easily as he had the cat’s presence at the table.
“Easing no one’s cares but his own.” Sheila’s fist slammed down with such force the sugar bowl danced to the edge of the table and shattered when it met the floor. It christened the rough boards with tawny granules. Lucy ran out the door, her tail bristled. “He’s out drinking and gambling away every last ha’penny, while his son here mucks out stables and my darlin’ lass is reduced to taking in laundry so we can eat. And their mama was the daughter of an Earl!”
“Pray excuse her, sir. She forgets herself.” Elizabeth jumped up to fetch the broom, and then knelt to brush up the mess before it attracted pests.
“Perhaps I might be able to assist you. Lack of coin isn’t one of my flaws.”
Elizabeth started at the sound of that lush, rich voice beside her. Mr. O’Rourke was crouched behind her. He took up the broom pan from her and angled it so she might sweep the sugar and shattered porcelain into it. It was a simple gesture, yet her heart beat a swift tattoo at not only his nearness but his eagerness to help her in such a menial chore. She had to gain control of her wild emotions and remind him that she was not an easy mark.
“I’m not in the habit of accepting money from strange men under the guise of charity.” Elizabeth rose and tossed the contents of the broom pan into the pail at the kitchen door. She turned on her heel to confront the man. “If you wish to assist us you might see if your employer has need of a scullery or maid of all work. I’m not particular, as long as its honest employment.”
Those crisp blue eyes widened. “Miss O’Flaherty, you misunderstand my intentions.” He gestured broadly toward the table. “Surely you don’t believe I’d make an illicit offer to you in front of your grandmother and your brother?”
Oh, wasn’t he the quick and clever fox? Assuming perfect innocence while implying she was the one with improper thoughts. Well, perhaps she was, at that.
“Have you not shared this delightful stew with me?” He continued, with the veracity of a preacher warming to his sermon. “Not expecting coin or other forms of compensation? You did it out of the goodness of your heart, did you not?”
Flustered, Elizabeth crossed her arms before her and ceded his point with a terse nod.
“Well, is it wrong for me to wish to share a portion of my own bounty with such generous friends?” He replied, and his warm smile dissolved the remains of her anger.
*******
Mr. O’Rourke dropped by frequently in the following weeks, nearly every day.
He sat and listened patiently to Old Sheila ramble on when Elizabeth was busy tending chores. Seeing the tonic the Irishman had on her grandmother’s spirits, Elizabeth didn’t mind sharing their meager fair with him.
His offer of assistance was never voiced again. Instead, they began finding coins in the strangest places; under the tea kettle, in the pocket of the apron left hanging on a peg in the kitchen, or in the bottom of a basket. Granny Sheila nearly broke a tooth one morning when she bit into a coin that had been cooked in their breakfast oats.
O’Rourke entertained them with tales of life in the West Indies. He spoke of hurricanes, fierce pirates and shark attacks to entertain Michael at dinner. With Elizabeth and Sheila he boasted of brilliant sunsets, exotic flowers and birds that made up the wild landscape he likened to paradise. He was attached to a French nobleman who had fled France during the Terror and owned a sugar plantation near St. Kitts. As the count’s agent, O’Rourke was in England negotiating with Lord Hamilton on the purchase of some fine breeding stock for his master’s stables, which is where he met Michael. He insisted on being called Donovan, and had such an easy manner he made it seem as if they had been friends for ages instead of mere weeks.
He held Elizabeth’s hand as they strolled in the August twilight each evening after dinner, just the two of them. On a particularly warm night, Donovan attempted to point out the constellations. He claimed it was easier to find them in the Indies, as the skies were so cloudy here from the factories. To encourage his efforts, Elizabeth took him on a familiar path deep into the woods. They stood in the center of a small clearing ringed by oak trees Sheila called The Sacred Grove. The old woman believed that it was guarded by nature spirits, imbued with magic.
Elizabeth gazed up at the expansive sky. “The fireflies are dancing among the flowers, the crickets are
singing lullabies to their little ones and the trees stand by as ancient sentinels, guarding this sacred place from the prying eyes of the outside world. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Aye.” Donovan whispered in a voice that slid down her spine like warmed honey. He leaned close, his head dipped and his lips brushed her mouth in a brief, gentle caress. It happened so fast, and it was quite unexpected. Elizabeth remained still, her head inclined upward, encouraging him to kiss her again. She was not disappointed. The second time he lingered, coaxing her lips to join his in an intimate dance of lovers. His kiss brought a pleasant tingle to her lips and made her insides swell. She felt all soft and fluid inside, like jelly that hadn’t set properly. Donovan was the one to pull away. He stepped back and looked up at the stars as if nothing unusual had happened while she stood reeling in amazement at the delightful and all too brief kiss she experienced for the first time.
He pointed out the North Star, the beacon for gaining one’s bearings on the high seas, and then a cluster named Sirius, after the Greek dog, he told her. His rich voice trailed on as Elizabeth tried to find her bearings in this uncharted sea of sensual pleasure his kiss evoked.
One week later, Elizabeth cleared the table after the evening meal. Michael wasn’t home yet, but he often worked late at the stables. She set the remains of the stew near the fire to keep it warm. That boy could eat a Christmas goose and still claim to be starving. She wiped her hands, removed her apron and helped Granny Sheila to her favorite chair in the parlor. After a short time, the old woman’s snores overwhelmed Donovan’s enchanting deep Irish brogue.
