by Silver, Lily
“She doesn’t know me.” Donovan sat forward on the chair, elbows on his splayed knees, cradling the drink between his palms. “It’s been a week, Jack.”
“Her memory is affected.” The blond captain sat across from him, a bright grin breaking the bronzed terrain of his face. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”
Donovan studied the carpet between his splayed knees. He set his glass on the table untouched. “She remembers her captivity—rather—she vaguely recalls being held captive by men intent on harming her, but she doesn’t remember me--at all.”
“A little confusion is normal after a knock on the head, even I know that.”
This was more than a little confusion. Elizabeth believed she was sixteen years old, not eighteen. She couldn’t remember him because in her mind she’d never met him before she’d awakened in his bed last week. She slept most of the time since then. Each time she awakened she asked him who he was. When he told her, she responded with shock and outraged denials. He tried not to let it bother him too much, as she forgot everything he told her in a short time.
Jack picked up the untouched drink and shoved it at him. “Here, one drink won’t muddle your reasoning.”
Donovan swirled the amber liquid in his hand. As Jack continued to eye him, he downed the glass in one gulp and exhaled sharply as the fiery libation spread warmth through his insides.
Nodding with satisfaction, Jack poured himself another portion, took a sip and murmured, “I’d give my soul to be in your place, to have Amelia here with me. And if she were a mite confused I’d count myself fortunate and start wooing her all over again.”
Jack’s fiancée, a merchant’s daughter from Boston, had accompanied her father to the east to purchase silks years ago. Their ship was taken by Barbary pirates. Her father escaped and sent word to Jack that Amelia had been sold to an Arab prince. He authorized Jack to empty his bank account for a ransom. Jack arrived with the funds for her release, only to learn that his beloved had been executed one week earlier for defying her captor.
Half mad with grief, Jack turned to piracy. They crossed swords on the Indian Ocean as rival corsairs. Donovan shot Jack in the leg during their skirmish. Jack kept fighting with the spirit of a Viking berserker, propping himself up on a barrel and artfully deflecting his opponent’s blade, all the while assaulting Donovan with that wide, brilliant grin--until he passed out from loss of blood. Donovan removed the bullet and weaned the sailor from his opium addiction. They formed an alliance, becoming The Raven and Black Jack, and made their fortune terrorizing ships in the East Indies.
Donovan turned his empty glass about in his hands. He wished he could be like Jack and toss back a bottle now and then to forget. There were risks for those seeking forgetfulness at the bottom of a bottle. His body would forever bear the marks of such carelessness. He could have stayed home and studied medicine at Harvard College in America. But no, as a lad of seventeen he wanted to be free of his overprotective mother and her smothering, so he felt it necessary to put a sea between them. If he hadn’t been perpetually drunk during his time in Paris, he might have noticed his uncle’s seditious bent and distanced himself from the man before the King’s Guard came to his uncle’s chateau to arrest them both.
What a sorry pair they made, Jack and himself. They often debated who had saved whom from madness in the East. The truth was they had somehow managed to save each other.
Chapter Eight
That strange man was sitting in the chair beside her bed again. He was reading, unaware Elizabeth was awake and studying him. Shoulder length black hair was secured in a neat queue. He wore a clean linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up at the elbows. A neatly tied stock hung from his neck, secured by a ruby pin. A black silk vest shot with gold and green threads remained unbuttoned. Black breeches hugged muscular thighs, disappearing beneath gleaming Top boots. His hands were neatly manicured. A signet ring circled one finger but she could not make out the crest in the dim light. It was obvious the man was a gentleman, not a sailor.
She tried to remember who he was and why she was here with him. There was the vague impression that he had rescued her, yet how she came to be in that dark hold in the first place and needed his rescuing was a mystery to her. “Excuse me, Sir?”
Pale blue eyes gazed up from the book. Hair as dark and shiny as a raven’s wing swirled in elegant swathes about a face that had been lightly kissed by the sun. What mischievous pooka had enchanted this handsome man to make him take an interest in her affairs?
“Do you need to use the privy closet?” He set the book aside and started to rise.
“No!” Elizabeth flushed scarlet, all the romance of the previous moment effectively doused as she recalled he’d been carrying her to that small closet frequently during her illness. “I-I just needed to ask you a question, sir, that’s all.”
He sat down, hunching forward slightly, elbows resting upon splayed knees, his large hands laced together before him. “Go ahead.” He sighed with an air of resignation.
“You’ve been very kind to look after me, sir. I’m afraid I don’t recall your name.”
“Dr. Donovan O’Rourke Beaumont, Count Rochembeau, at your service, my lady.”
“You’re a doctor and a nobleman? How can that be?”
“My father was the younger son of a French Count. Being the younger son and not the heir, he went off to make his fortunes in the American colonies. He bought a plantation in the Carolinas and married the feisty Irish lass who stole his heart. My mother christened me with both her parent’s surnames so I might never forget I’m half Irish.” He spoke in a languid colonial drawl with just the hint of an Irish burr in it, a mixture she found alluring.
Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile. He smiled back, and her insides did a peculiar little twist to be the recipient of such bounty.
“I went to France to study medicine, and lived with my uncle, the former count. My uncle died without heirs, bestowing upon me the ancient title of Count Rochembeau. So, I’m American by birth, a count by default, and a physician by choice.”
She nodded at his explanation. “I owe you a great debt for rescuing me, my lord. My grandmother will be very worried. She’s quite old and frail. We must send word to her.”
Her caretaker reached forward, took her hand and cradled it between his own. “Your grandmother passed on some weeks ago.”
“No!” She protested as her throat closed around a hard stone that suddenly lodged there. She squeezed her eyes shut to contain the moisture gathering before it spilled out onto her cheeks. The large hand encompassing her own tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to convey his compassion, enough to say he understood her grief. She opened her eyes. Releasing a strangled sob, she swiped at the tears escaping down her cheeks with the lace sleeve of her gown. “Sheila loved me, more than my own mother.”
“Yes.” Something flickered in her caretaker’s eyes. “Sheila loved you very much. That’s why she made me promise to take care of you after she died.”
“Well, I do have a brother, sir. Michael Fletcher. Have you attempted to contact him?”
“Ah, Michael’s a good lad.” He patted the hand he had firm possession of, and took to stroking her captured limb in a manner that seemed far too intimate. “He’s in London, preparing to enter St. Paul’s Academy in the spring.”
“And just w-who is p-paying f-for that?” She huffed, enraged by his strange claim and frustrated by her inability to speak clearly.
“Your grandfather. I was planning to, but the earl insisted upon it in the end.”
Elizabeth sat bolt upright in the bed and jerked her hand from his grasp. “Lord Greystowe? The Earl wouldn’t care if Michael and I were d-drowned in the Th-thames as infants! H-he disowned my m-mother—h-h-he-he-“
“Easy, lass!” He rose to stand over her. “You’re getting upset and there’s no need. Michael is fine, and I’m going to take good care of you, just as I promised Old Sheila.”
“I wa
nt to go home.” She tossed back the covers and swung her legs over the bed.
Strong hands circled her shoulders, preventing her from rising. “You’re not leaving this bed. You suffered a severe blow to the head that nearly killed you. That’s why you can’t remember the past two years of your life.”
Two years? What a queer world she’d awakened to; Sheila was dead and Michael was at a school for rich boys? And she was in the keeping of a stranger. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the West Indies.”
“But . . . I don’t know anyone in the Indies!” She whispered above the load roar in her ears. The room seemed hot and confining, like a prison cell.
“That’s where I live, darlin’, on a beautiful island.” He sat down on the bed, facing her, his arm resting along her thigh. She could feel the weight of his hand on her leg, the heat of him even with the blanket between them. “We can go riding in mornings and picnic on the beach in the afternoons. You can collect sea shells and swim in the ocean.”
“I don’t know how to swim.” She managed in a voice that sounded high and tight to her ears. Fisting the blanket in her hands, she gazed about the room for some portal, some magical means of escape that would take her back to Sheila, Michael, and all that was familiar to her.
“It’s all right. I’ll teach you.” The count caressed her cheek with a light forefinger.
Elizabeth grew still. His caress, his nearness, his manner were too familiar. “Are you—are you my legal guardian, s-sir?”
He studied her for a torturous moment, as if debating the answer in his mind. “I suppose in a manner of speaking, I am.” He confided, then paused before adding, “I’m your husband.”
She gasped in outrage. “That’s impossible—“
“It’s the truth.” He countered, his intense blue eyes softening in commiseration. “I would never trifle with you on such an important matter, my dear.”
Elizabeth stared at the man, unable to think as the frightening absurdity of it washed over her. Married—it was so permanent. “I’m too young to be married, I’m only sixteen.”
“You are eighteen, Elizabeth. The year is seventeen ninety-eight, not ninety-six.”
Elizabeth nibbled her lower lip, her mind working furiously for a way out of this mess. Married, yet tainted—there was the rub. “You don’t have to keep me, sir.” She spoke rapidly, desperate to barter her release. “You can have the marriage annulled. No one would blame you after what happened—I can take care of myself, I’ve been doing it for most of my life. I’m strong--I can find work, and-and, you could remarry—someone who isn’t tainted—“
Two long, lean fingers pressed against her lips to stop her impulsive rambling. She shivered, recognizing the steely resolve in those bonny blue eyes.
“There will be no annulment.” The voice that had been velvet became stone. He removed his hand from her lips. “You are my wife, not a horse to be traded at the market. And you insult my integrity by suggesting I should cast you aside for what someone did to you. What happened is not your fault. You must never believe for a moment that it is. I should be the one begging your forgiveness. It’s pointless when I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”
An awkward silence stretched on after his emotional outburst. Elizabeth didn’t understand why he should feel her abduction reflected badly upon him.
Recovering quickly, he rose from the bed and took to tugging the covers up about her with jerky movements. “Lie back and rest.” He commanded in a clogged timbre, as if his throat ached and he found it painful to speak. He turned away from her and stalked to the door.
“Wait, might I ask one question, sir?”
Turning on his heels to face her, an ebony brow sliced upward at a dangerous angle.
“How long have we been married?”
“Not quite a month.”
“And, how long have I been ill?”
“That’s two questions.” He warned, taking a step nearer the bed. “You were abducted after the wedding ceremony, while I was detained elsewhere on business. So, the answer to both questions is the same; we’ve been married and you’ve been ill for over three weeks.”
Elizabeth blinked. What seemed a sparse few days in her mind had been nearly a month?
She rose up on an elbow as more questions rose to the forefront. “But how—“
The count’s eyes narrowed. “I told you to lie down and rest quietly, and that is precisely what you are going to do.” With that, he left the room.
Elizabeth experienced a pang at his retreat. She felt safe when he was near. She felt an inexplicable panic whenever she awakened and found herself alone in this strange place. Deep down, she knew he would not hurt her; he’d protect her if need be, with his very life.
Perhaps that was significant; she felt safe with him, trusted him on a purely instinctual level. He had been kind to her. He was wickedly handsome. And young--she was fortunate in that respect. She could have awakened to find herself married to some foul smelling . . .
The count strode into the room with a purposeful mien. He held out a parchment.
Elizabeth took the sheet from him. It was a certificate of marriage—dated two years into the future. Dr. D. O. Beaumont, Count Rochembeau is joined in the bonds of holy matrimony to Elizabeth Grace O’Flaherty, on September the fifth, Seventeen Hundred and Ninety Eight.
There it was, in permanent black ink. She belonged to this man, like his horse or his cane plantation. He could do with her as he pleased and none could interfere, the law was on his side. She dropped the parchment and shrank back, into the corner of the bed.
“There is no need to be frightened, Elizabeth.” The count soothed as he sat down on the bed and gently took her hand in his. “I know you’ve been hurt. You needn’t fear me. I’m not like those men who hurt you. I’m a gentleman, and a gentleman does not abuse those in his keeping. I’ll not expect more of you than you’re able to give. I’ll give you time . . . to heal.”
Elizabeth quelled the rising panic as she listened to his persuasive timbre. He spoke on, of separate rooms at his estate if she wished, of taking things at a leisurely pace and allowing her to come to know him as her friend before they pursued the intimacy of lovers. She felt herself relax by degrees. His voice, his words were compelling as he spoke in that soft, deliberate tone.
As she listened, her mind latched onto a detail that might be her salvation in all of this: he didn’t know she was still a maid. He said she’d been abducted after the wedding, which meant it was before the wedding night. That being the case, he couldn’t know her heavy courses prevented her from being abused by her captors. He assumed she’d been molested and he was offering her a celibate marriage based on his assumption.
Good Heavens! She’d be a fool to set him straight now.
Elizabeth mumbled her gratitude for his kindness to her. She slumped onto the pillows, feeling as if she’d escaped a harrowing fate--and that by inches. Her limbs were shuddering. Her insides felt like a great, looming cavern infested by gnawing fear.
“Just rest, my sweet. All this agitation isn’t good for you.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. She was surprised at the weariness pulling at her. The count continued to sit on the bed, his hand stroking her forearm in slow, patient circles. The gesture was comforting as she lay quietly as he bade, closed her eyes, and let the world go by.
Chapter Nine
The waters were murky and turbulent beneath the moonless October sky.
Donovan leaned against the rail on the forecastle deck nursing his tobacco and watching smoke rings float into the night. The melody of an overworked fiddle carried up from the main deck as the men laughed and bantered while sharing their rum rations.
Ignorance had its benefits. His medical texts described a plethora of symptoms in patients with head injuries, everything from mild dizziness, disorientation and impaired coordination, the abrupt loss of vision or hearing and speech impediments to limb paralysis and full blown grand mal
seizures. Lizzie’s speech difficulties manifested only when she was fatigued or agitated. They diminished with enforced rest, so he attributed that symptom to anxiety, not brain damage.
He ran a hand along the tense muscles of his neck and gazed into the dark horizon.
So far, there had been no presentation of grand mals, but he was noticing petit seizures occurring with alarming frequency now that she was awake for longer periods. Lizzie took to staring into space, as if in a trance. She wasn’t aware of their occurrence and she emerged from the odd spells with verbal prompting, so he was trying to not worry overmuch.
Donovan exhaled a wreath of smoke and studied the fluid reflections of light dancing upon the surface of the water from the ship’s lanterns. Lizzie seemed more alert than usual this afternoon. She kept asking him questions, her mind voracious for answers after weeks of lethargy. That was a good sign, a ray of sunlight amid the shadows of uncertainty.
He tossed the stub of his cheroot into the sea and gazed out at the dark horizon.
A movement from behind caught him off guard. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol.
It was Jack, coming to join him at the rail. Donovan dropped his hand from his belt. He turned his back to the sea, stretched his arms out along the railing, and enjoyed the crisp breeze blowing through his hair. Since their retirement from piracy Rawlings lost his wealth to gambling, including his ship. Donovan asked his friend to captain of The Pegasus. The position benefited them both. Jack would have a ship to sail and Donovan could rest easy knowing his cargo would reach the markets unhindered. Who better to guard a treasure than a former pirate?
Jack looked surreptitiously about them. “We need to talk, in private.”
“Come to my cabin.” Donovan replied, fiercely aware of the passage of time. Lizzie was asleep, and his valet was looking after her, but it pained him to be away from her for too long.
