by Silver, Lily
The sunlit cabin faded. She was plunged back into the suffocating dark prison cell.
Captain Sully loomed over her, a fat gargoyle grinning from ear to ear as he stroked his obscene member, making it grow longer and harder before her eyes. Elizabeth had never beheld such a disturbing sight before. Sickened with paralyzing fear and shame, she shrank into the shadows to escape his lewd display. The captain stopped fondling himself. He seized her by her hair and dragged her from her refuge . . .
“My lady?” A familiar, high, nasal voice spoke nearby and the revolting image faded.
She was snatched back from the frightening abyss, returned to the luxurious cabin suite. Her husband’s valet was crouched near her, studying her with frantic eyes.
Elizabeth was panting. Her short, quick breaths reverberated in the chamber. She was shivering yet sweat misted her skin, beading above her lips and along her brow. She feared she was about to be sick from the foul memory of what happened after her captor dragged her from her hiding place. She closed her eyes and placed a shaking hand over her mouth, as if to ward off that vile intrusion yet again. “It didn’t happen!” She whispered frantically.
It didn’t happen-- it was just a dream, a very bad dream. It didn’t happen.
A slender hand rested on her shoulder. Startled, she opened her eyes. The valet mumbled an apology and dropped his hand. “Do you wish for me to find his lordship?”
“No.” She said quickly. “No, I’m fine, please, just stay with m-me.”
Pearl nodded. He seemed to be considering fleeing to find his master and sending the man to deal with his wife’s bout of panic in his stead. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulder in an uncertain shrug. “You have no need to be afraid, mistress. My lord killed them that hurt you. No man will be given the opportunity hurt you again, he’ll see to that, I promise.” He smiled slightly at her, offering encouragement. Suddenly the soulful brown eyes lit up. “Why, you’re safe as a chick nestled beneath its mother’s wing in The Raven’s keeping!”
“The Raven?” She repeated, unable to follow his odd implication.
“Aye, The Raven, that was his lordship’s pirating name.”
Pirate? The word froze in her throat and cooled her skin. No. The count was a gentleman, a nobleman not a lawless scoundrel who preyed on the weak and ravaged innocents.
“Do not fear him.” Pearl assured her as he took in her stricken features. “My lord has retired from his pirating days. He is a respectable planter now.” His expression changed from pride to apprehension. “I was forbidden to speak of it with you. I beg you, do not mention it to him, Mistress. He’ll be very angry if you do.”
Nodding, Elizabeth promised to not betray the valet.
Pearl resumed his position on the floor without another word. He seemed to be trying to ignore her as he picked up his instrument and began strumming again.
Watching him, Elizabeth digested the verification of her husband’s violent past. So, her intuition was correct. Elizabeth believed she didn’t possess the gift of second sight, but Sheila was dead and the old woman insisted her gifts would pass to Elizabeth when she was gone. Was that why she suddenly possessed odd insights and knowledge about people around her, namely the count and Pearl, that she hadn’t been able to ‘see’ before? She trusted her husband because she could sense a deep, genuine concern for her radiating from him. And she knew, despite his gentleness toward her, that he was a very dangerous man if provoked. Now she had proof.
“Have you been with his lordship for a long time?” She asked the distracted valet.
“Nearly six years.” Pearl murmured as he concentrated on his finger movements and continued to play the enchanting music of his homeland.
“Did he acquire the scars on his chest during his exploits in the east?”
“No, Madame, it was done to him before then, when he was in the Bastille.”
“The Bastille—he was in the Bastille?” Elizabeth nearly choked on the words. Her husband spent time in a French prison? He’d neglected to mention it when he spoke of studying medicine in Paris. Nor had he mentioned pirating in the east. “What was his crime?”
“There was no crime” Pearl replied calmly. “My lord lived with his uncle, the former count, during his university days. His uncle was arrested for conspiring to assassinate the king. My lord was taken to prison with him, suspected of being his accomplice. They tortured my lord, but he knew nothing, he was an innocent, a youth caught in circumstances beyond his understanding or control.”
Pearl’s words made Elizabeth think of Michael. He yearned to go to Italy and study with the masters so he might become a famous painter one day. Elizabeth imagined her brother, a naïve adolescent, staying with people he did not know in a foreign land. He could easily become a victim of circumstances, just as her husband must have been. “How did he escape?”
“His lordship was to be executed in the public square with the other conspirators. A few days before the execution the peasants rose up, they seized the Bastille and set all the prisoners free. His uncle died not long after, leaving him all his earthly wealth. After burying his uncle, my lord traveled east, to Greece, Arabia, India, and Ceylon. After a few years of adventure, he returned to the west and settled into life as a cane planter.”
A few years of adventure, indeed. That was a neat and tidy version of the tale. Elizabeth grew quiet as she pondered the mysterious and intimidating man she now belonged to.
The count returned half an hour later. He removed his coat and draped it over the desk chair. He withdrew a pair of pistols from his belt and placed them on the desk. Elizabeth watched him disarm himself with a horrid fascination. A sheathed dagger remained strapped to his right thigh as he strode to the sofa and leaned over the back of it to plant a kiss on her brow.
Oh dear, this was new. He’d never kissed her before, not that she remembered. And he didn’t ask her first. He just took—well, it was in his nature, wasn’t it-- being a pirate?
“What’s wrong, my sweet?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“My name is Donovan.” He insisted yet again in a wearied tone. He leaned so close she could smell the tobacco on his breath. “As my wife you’ve no need to address me so formally.”
“Yes, Donovan, sir.” She parroted, anxious to keep this pirate turned planter appeased.
Lean fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to meet startling blue eyes that seemed sharp enough to tear into her very soul. “Donovan.” He corrected as he had often in recent days.
“D-d-donovan.” She repeated, her heart wilting beneath his scorching gaze.
The master’s hand dropped to cup her shoulder. “Why are you so distressed?”
“Forgive me, my lord!” The valet stood suddenly and clumsily. “She was asking questions, sir. I beg a thousand pardons--it just slipped out!” He hung his head dutifully.
Elizabeth glanced up at the austere man beside her to gauge his response. He was looking at her, not his servant. And his expression was no longer pleasant. “What did you tell her?”
“He didn’t tell me anything!” She lied quickly. She didn’t want the poor man to be punished, even if he was dumb enough to confess his indiscretion without it being suspected. “I asked him how we met— that’s all—he wasn’t sure—“
“I see.” Sharp blue eyes pinioned the servant. “Pearl, what did you tell Elizabeth that has so obviously distressed her?”
“About the Bastille, O Great One, and that you were once a pirate known as The Raven.”
The hand on her shoulder tightened, and then it lifted and coiled into a fist. “Get out.” He hissed. “I’ll deal with you later!” The door slammed behind the valet’s retreating form.
The count stalked to the window, his hands tight fists at his sides. He took in the valet’s elaborate incense burner on the floor, scowled his fury at it and opened the window. He made a wide sweeping gesture with one hand in an effort to wave the noxious smoke out of the cabin.
&nbs
p; A pirate, it made sense now. The strong undercurrent of danger simmering beneath his skin now had a purpose, a name. A cut-throat pirate had taken her to wife. Had he killed? Surely. What kind of pirate would be unwilling to shed blood? A weak one, an unsuccessful one, and this man was not weak. Power emanated from his aura. He had only to walk into a room to gain command of it. Others deferred his command, recognizing that invisible force of will.
Elizabeth cradled her hand over her stomach. She pressed the palm flat in a futile attempt to calm the twisting serpent as it coiled beneath her fingers. Why was he angry? Did he think she’d betray him? Did her knowing he had been a pirate make her a liability to the man in his new life? Oh, dear---she hadn’t thought of that. Would he maroon her on an island so none could learn his secret? No. The madhouse was a more civilized solution.
“You’ll disappear forever, and no one would ever be able to find you . . .”
The serpent coiled beneath her hand, and her head started to churn and buzz.
God, not that. . . . The West Garden Madhouse.
The count paced before the window and then stood for several moments with his back to the room. He turned abruptly. His eyes were twin blue flames of fury. “Why do you look at me like that?” He accused. “I’ve not sprouted horns or a tail in the past five minutes!”
She understood now why Pearl confessed his offense so easily. It was horrible being the object of that unnerving blue glare. “Don’t send me away. Please. I’ll be good, I promise.”
The count’s anger melted into turbulent confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I won’t tell anyone you’re a pirate. Your secret is safe, I swear it!” She pleaded like a street urchin caught picking pockets groveling before a powerful magistrate. She didn’t care how she sounded, as long as it stayed his hand. “You’ve no need to send me to the madhouse!”
The madhouse incident. How could she have forgotten it?
“No one will find you.” The cruel voice taunted. “You’ll disappear forever.”
Elizabeth’s vision blurred. She choked as a bitter taste rose in her throat. She fought the rising swell of nausea as the room shifted and changed. Fletcher kept her subdued in a painful grip while they waited in the outer foyer for an audience with the superintendent of the West Garden Madhouse. “You’ll disappear, just like that other Irishman’s brat. They’ll wonder what happened to you, but no one will ever find you.”
The front door opened. Fletcher’s grip loosened for a mere second. Elizabeth slipped out of her stepfather’s restraining grasp, determined to gain the door and run all the way home. She ran headlong into the skirts of Lady Beverly, her mother’s friend from the Methodist Society.
“Elizabeth?” Lady Beverly gasped. “Your mother was to meet us here to minister to the poor unfortunates. Is she ill?”
“Yes!” Elizabeth lied. Mama was hiding in her room until the bruise on her porcelain face faded. “She’s sick. She had Papa bring me here to minister in her stead.”
“Such a brave little girl. The Good Lord will reward you.” Lady Beverly smiled down at her with kindness. “Thank you for bringing her, Captain. We’ll see that she gets home safely.”
Papa had no recourse but to relinquish her into Lady Beverly’s care. He couldn’t proceed with his plans to leave Elizabeth there, for mama would surely hear of this from Lady Beverly. With a brusque nod to the woman, he strode, red-faced, towards the street door.
The skirts of her angelic redeemer disappeared. Elizabeth was caught in the perturbed gaze of the dangerous man who now controlled her life. He had crossed the room during her odd mental lapse and was standing over her. He glanced at the outer door as if it, too, had offended him, and then his calculating eyes returned to her. “Where did you get the outrageous idea that I would send you to a madhouse!” He demanded rather than asked. Before she could answer, he fired another question. “Has that idiot surgeon been here prattling nonsense while I was out? I instructed Pearl not to allow him to see you, and by God, if he’s neglected his duties due to his hashish indulgences I’ll have the skin flogged from his useless hide.”
“No! Pearl didn’t admit anyone while you were out. I had questions--and I was afraid to ask you.” She hated the panicked wobble in her voice. Her chest ached as if she wore a corset that had been laced too tightly and she feared she was about to disgrace herself by crying into the bargain.
Elizabeth sucked in her breath and closed her eyes. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them. It was too much. She was trapped between two nightmares, the present one colliding with a long forgotten incident from the past. Papa had actually said he’d get rid of her, “Just like the other Irishman’s brat.” He’d been behind Kieran’s disappearance, Sheila knew that, and she believed her grandmother when no one else did. Fletcher made her older brother disappear forever. Had he killed Kieran or did he hire someone else to do it for him?
Lost in the tormented memory, she was distantly aware of being lifted and then settled across the count’s lap and cradled against his solid chest. “Lizzie, look at me, let me see your eyes. Tell me what’s happening. Can you hear me, Darlin’?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes. The count’s face was grim. “It was a bad memory, from childhood. It just came—so suddenly.” She explained, not liking the fear she saw in his features when up until now he had always been her source of calm.
“Tell me.” He insisted. “Tell me what frightened you just now.”
“It was my ninth birthday,” She began in a shaking voice, explaining the incident to him as best she could remember it. “Fletcher told my mother he was taking me to the zoo. He took me to the madhouse instead. He intended to leave me there under a false name. One of mother’s friends came, and he was forced to let me go with her to help hand out blankets to the insane, as he couldn’t explain why else he would be there with me.”
“That is reprehensible.” He admitted. “You must have been terrified.”
“I forgot about it.” She admitted in a thin voice. “Until, just now.”
“Because you thought I might do the same. But listen to me now, sweet girl.” He said in a firm, insistent tone. “Even if my behavior in the past month is all you have to go on, you should know I would never treat you so cruelly.”
“But I don’t know you!” She retorted, anger and frustration rising to the fore. “You say I’ve been with you for a month—I can barely recall the last two days. And a few days is not enough to determine a person’s true character, not when he goes about threatening to flog anyone who crosses him!”
That was it, the final unraveling of her thinly held self-possession.
Elizabeth was overcome by frantic, frightened, throat-shredding sobs.
Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth didn’t remember falling asleep, or being carried into the small bedchamber. She’d been weeping bitterly and then everything went black. She touched her cheeks, unaccustomed to the sensation of dried tears making the skin feel tight over her bones.
It was evening. The lanterns had been lit in the outer suite. She sat up in bed. A rectangle of light fell across the mattress from the larger room. It was quiet in the suite; too quiet.
The count had been indulgent regarding her fear of being alone in his cabin, but she learned at an early age that indulgences were rare where men were concerned and like promises, they were not enduring. Eventually, he would consider her an annoyance and his kind indulgences would cease. He seemed to be nearing that point this afternoon.
She rubbed her eyes, feeling stupid for her irrational bout of weeping. She didn’t want him to think she was a spineless twit who was easily cowed. That had been her mother’s mistake. She’d just have to show this count she did indeed possess a backbone.
She rose from the bed to peer cautiously into the larger suite. Relief filled her. The count sat at his desk, calm, strong and so wickedly handsome, like a dark hero in a gothic romance.
His eyes lifted from the ledger. �
��You’re awake. I was just about to check on you again.” He was at her side before she could blink. His arm went about her waist, and she had the distinct feeling of being herded toward the sofa. Once there, he urged her to sit. He took a seat on the opposite end, leaving a discrete space between them.
Elizabeth turned about to face him. She drew her knees to her chest, adjusted her gown for modesty, crossed her ankles, and then hugged her knees. Satisfied with her barrier against probing eyes, she regarded her opponent with a mask of wide eyed innocence.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon. I didn’t mean to frighten you, Elizabeth.”
Rule number one in any engagement was to not let the enemy know he’d succeeded in his efforts to unnerve you. “May I have a drink of water? I’m terribly thirsty, my lord.”
His lordship seemed taken aback by her request in the midst of his apology. He didn’t even correct her deliberate formal address. “Of course, you must be parched.”
When the count returned with a goblet of sparkling water, Elizabeth fairly inhaled it. Holding the empty glass out to him, she asked for another just as he started to sit down. He took the glass from her, stalked to the sideboard, and returned with her refilled glass. This time, he sat close and pulled her bare foot onto his lap. He took to alternately stroking and massaging it, running light fingers over her toes and across the top of her foot.
She sipped her water, quelling the urge to retract the limb, which would be taken by her opponent as a sign of surrender or unease.
Yet, Elizabeth had never experienced the singular sensation of a man fondling her bare foot before. She squirmed against the pleasure of his finger lightly tracing her arch. His free hand cradled her heel, retaining firm possession as he continued to explore its contours with his fingertips. He gazed at her sweetly, as if men played with their wives toes every evening.
Elizabeth studied her glass, intent on weathering the storm.
He gently unfolded her bent leg, extending it across his lap. He did the same to her other leg, adjusted her gown, and let his arm drape lightly across her knees, his palm flat on her outer thigh. Elizabeth was astonished at how easily he uncoiled her from her defensive posture.
