Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  Once Elizabeth retired she paced about her room. The stillness in the next room screamed accusation at her for the rift between them. Seeking distraction from her treacherous thoughts, she began sorting through her wardrobe. She removed a box from the bottom drawer and spread Sheila’s belongings on the bed. Paper packages contained dried herbs. She examined cloth pouches the old woman had fashioned as charms that held mysterious scents.

  A bound leather book was wrapped in a plaid shawl. It was a history of the O’Flaherty Clan dating back to the thirteenth century, containing notes of marriages, births and deaths. Elizabeth opened it with reverence. It was passed down through the Chieftain’s family, and it was difficult to read as it was written in old English at the beginning with passages digressing into Gaelic. She found Gaelic easier as Sheila taught her the forbidden language with her letters as a child.

  She turned the pages containing recipes for healing potions, instructions for conjuring earth spirits and performing sacred rituals. She read notes on where to find wild plants with detailed sketches to aid in identification. Druid secrets were recorded within the yellowed pages; spells for healing, protection, fertility, love and revenge. As she studied the pages her fascination grew regarding the rich heritage she disregarded when her grandmother was alive.

  The clock chimed eleven by the time she wrapped the book in Sheila’s plaid shawl and placed it back in her wardrobe. She sorted through the box of cloth pouches and settled on one that smelled of earth, imagining it to be soil from O’Flaherty lands in Ireland. It would be a protection against nightmares, she told herself as she put the box away. She placed the pouch beneath her pillow and settled into the bed, careful to avoid the lumps in the old mattress.

  ******

  “Elizabeth--wake up, you must help me!”

  Elizabeth jerked awake at the sound of her mother’s insistent voice.

  Mama was beautiful, as always, a porcelain doll, fragile yet cold. Long ebony hair cascaded in waves to her waist. Her eyes were not violet-blue as they had been in life. They were dark and soulless. “I cannot endure this. You must tell that man what happened to me.”

  Just as in life, her mother was too absorbed with her own worries to care that her daughter’s heart was breaking. Liquid dripped down Elizabeth’s chin. She wiped the annoying tears away with the sleeve of her bed gown. Clutching Puck against her, Elizabeth slipped out of the bed on the opposite side. Mama didn’t appear pleased to see her, she seemed menacing.

  “You have to speak for me! You are the only one, Elizabeth. You know what he did to me. You must release me. You have to tell them what truly happened to me.”

  “No one will believe me.”

  “You must help me.” Mama insisted, drawing close. The smell of sulfur wreathed about her, noxious and vile. The air surrounding Elizabeth became ice. “And you will!”

  “Leave the child alone.” A woman’s smoky Irish burr chided from behind Elizabeth. She whirled about and nearly dropped her cat at the sight of another spirit. It was the former occupant of this very room, Maureen O’Donovan. Elizabeth recognized her from the portrait in the salon.

  Puck hissed and arched his back. His claws were like needles in her skin, assuring her she was awake as he struggled to be let free. He dropped to the floor and scurried under the bed.

  “Go away. This is my house. You have no right to be here.” Maureen’s ghost drifted forward to challenge Elizabeth’s mother.

  Mama’s face contorted into something ugly and then she disappeared.

  “It’s all right, little one.” Maureen glided to Elizabeth’s side. She extended a pale, luminous hand and Elizabeth felt a light breeze caressing her hair.

  Gareth had warned Elizabeth about their resident spirit. He told her not to be afraid if Donovan’s grandmother visited her one night. It was rumored she watched over Gareth in the night when he was a babe, and had been seen lingering over her grandson’s cradle as well. It made sense. The woman left behind a small child. That daughter was grown, and so was the daughter’s son, yet Maureen still yearned to comfort the frightened child she left behind.

  “You’re safe, darlin’. I won’t let her hurt you.”

  “Mama wouldn’t hurt me!” Elizabeth replied, edging around the apparition. She crossed the room and touched the cool knob leading to her husband’s suite. Light flickered beneath the door, illuminating the floorboards and her pale toes. She heard Donovan pacing. She wanted to go to him, to seek the comfort and protection he offered without reservation on the ship.

  Remembering his cool detachment of recent days, she let go of the handle.

  There was no comfort to be found behind that door.

  *******

  The sweat ran off of him in rivulets. Still, he pressed his opponent, determined to work the tension from his body with a punishing session of swordplay. Donovan feinted, and just as he moved in to deliver a deadly thrust, his uncle blocked him with the move he had taught the man before sailing to England. “You’ve been practicing.” He said, pleased as he dropped his defensive stance. “Whose hide have you been scratching while I was away?”

  “O’Reilly’s.” Gareth grinned. “I let him win a few times so he wouldn’t become discouraged, as you’ve done with me.” Gareth mopped his brow with his discarded shirt.

  “Oh, you think I let you have that?” Donovan taunted, knowing it was so. “En Garde, old man. I’ll send you back to Johnny in the stables with your tail dragging!”

  Gareth held up a hand, his chest heaved as he bent forward with hands on his knees. “You’ve too much energy for a man who has recently taken a bride.” He huffed.

  Gareth’s golden torso gleamed with moisture, although it was early morning. Donovan’s shirt stuck to his back, but he would not remove it and reveal the scars of the count when he was dressed as O’Rourke. His uncle’s face broke into a feral grin as he positioned himself to accept the challenge. They parried across the cobbled garden, intent only upon the clash of steel.

  “Do you think Winslow speaks the truth?” Donovan asked after a break in the action as they circled one another with wariness. “The men escaped the compound in the night?”

  “Winslow has a brutal streak, one he hides well.”

  “A man’s true nature emerges when he believes his master isn’t there to see it.”

  “Winslow displayed his temper frequently in your absence. I warned him, but the color of my skin negates any authority he thinks I have as your representative.”

  “My apologies.” Donovan deliberately turned his back on his opponent.

  “It’s is not your fault the world does not accept me as I am.”

  As anticipated, Gareth made a bold lunge. Donovan twisted on his heels and swung his blade to the right to meet Gareth’s sword, blocking his attack from behind. “Don’t attempt that move unless you are certain your opponent is unprepared to block you.” With Gareth behind him, their blades crossed to his right, Donovan stomped his opponent’s left instep. Using the sparse second’s distraction of pain and surprise in his adversary, he captured Gareth’s wrist and applied pressure on the nerve until Gareth was forced to drop his blade.

  “Ooow! That is unfair!” Gareth exclaimed as his sword clattered to the cobblestones.

  “Only a novice keeps to D’Anver’s philosophies about honor when the fight is to the death. Never allow an enemy to draw you close. Your sword should keep him at arm’s length at all times.” Donovan lowered his weapon. “Perhaps it’s time you moved on to my Italian texts.”

  “I welcome the challenge.” Gareth bowed to him as the master swordsman.

  He’s eyes caught the figure observing them from the veranda as he looked beyond and above Gareth. Elizabeth’s unbound hair cascaded in radiant waves about her shoulders like a cloak of fire, giving her the appearance of a Byzantine icon as she stood in the sunlight.

  Donovan stood, clutching his sword like a knight of old beholding a surreal vision. The allusion was not lost on him; she was th
e goddess who haunted his dreams, the object of his desire, and she was so high above him. Beautiful, divine, and unattainable. His Aphrodite.

  Gareth turned to see what captured him so. “Ah, your shy hummingbird is awake. That reminds me, as your elder it is my duty to call you to account for your ill behavior.”

  Donovan grimaced. Gareth was his elder by not quite two years, yet the man delighted in exchanging affectionate parries as uncle and nephew almost as much he enjoyed their fencing exercises or trying to best Donovan at chess.

  At the moment the man’s eyes held no affection for him. “How long are you going to keep playing this ridiculous charade? It’s not fair to the girl, Donovan.”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “You made it my concern when you asked me to keep your wife company during your ruse as O’Rourke. You’re bride yearns for your companionship, not mine.”

  “She has yet to inform me of any yearning for my company. Until she does, I will continue as I have.”

  “Your dark Count frightens her.”

  Donovan bent to retrieve Gareth’s weapon. He straightened and handed it to him. “The count is a fictional character created to keep people at a polite distance. I told her that. If she does not understand, then perhaps you might remind her of that.”

  “It is you who fail to understand.” Gareth shot back. “When you put on that costume it transforms you. The mask makes you vicious and cold. Your voice hardens. Your body becomes a tightly coiled serpent ready to strike at those about you without provocation.” Gareth advanced and stood so they were eye to eye. “I realize it has served you well over the years, but if you wish for the woman you love to trust you, then you must put away the dark count. You must seek her company and assure her that you are not like those animals that hurt her.”

  “She told me to stay away from her.”

  “No.” Gareth chided. “It was that dark creature she told to stay away, not you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was on the veranda, outside my room. I heard her cry out and beg you to let her be. I heard you demand your rights like a spoiled child with a servant who will not let him have his way.”

  Donovan looked away, ashamed. “I was drunk. I apologized the next day.”

  “Yet, you remain distant. You play childish games of hide and seek with her. The girl is frightened and confused. You informed me of these facts when you arrived. She needs solid ground beneath her feet.” Gareth’s boot crunched the cobblestones for emphasis. “She needs you to be the rock beneath her that remains steady and enduring as she struggles to overcome her fear and recover her balance. How can she trust you when you are constantly changing?”

  “Did she tell you this?” Anger filled him at the thought of Elizabeth complaining of her lot to his uncle. She was the one who demanded separate rooms and separate beds.

  “She says nothing!” Gareth insisted. “I watch and observe people, you know this. Every time you cross paths with her as O’Rourke, I see her heart crying out for a kind word from you, for some small acknowledgement, for love and acceptance. For forgiveness--for what she perceives as her failing in your eyes.” Gareth’s voice roughened, “And you just walk away, oblivious to the fragile flower you’ve crushed beneath your boots, day after day. Every day, she wilts a little more. You shame the girl with your behavior, and you shame me!” His uncle slapped his chest. “For I must lie to make her think it is business that keeps you away and not your schoolboy sulking!”

  With that, his uncle left him standing in the garden to consider his unwarranted advice.

  *******

  Elizabeth stood at the window overlooking the small kitchen garden. She was observing a maid flirting with her husband. She couldn’t hear the exchange, but she could see Sally trying to look coy as she giggled over something he said. Donovan stood with his hands on his hips and a detached smile, playing the affable Mr. O’Rourke—a bachelor—in front of the woman.

  With quick wrist action, Sally made it appear as if she’d accidentally dropped the bundle of herbs. She bent to retrieve them, giving him a view of her ample bosom. Donovan smiled and then laughed at something the vixen said, behaving as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Elizabeth held her breath, waiting for her worst fears to be realized.

  To his credit, her husband did not step forward to embrace the maid in a clandestine tryst. He turned away from blonde Sally with her overflowing bosom and strode down the cobbled path to the stables. The maid gazed after him with a yearning Elizabeth knew well.

  She turned away from the window. Her time was better spent taking inventory of the linen closet. A short time later, she entered the second floor closet and set the candle on the shelf. Just as she suspected, the sheets were showing their years. Lace edges were unraveling and small holes appeared as the fabric showed signs of disintegration due to age.

  The door closed with a whoosh, snuffing out the candle. She spun about to open it only to find that the door was locked. Nobody locked linen closets, for pity’s sake!

  Elizabeth tried the ring of keys her husband gave her. The lock was jammed, it wouldn’t respond to any of the keys, and she was on her second round of trying before she realized it wasn’t an accident, something was keeping her imprisoned in the dark closet.

  “Tell him!” Mama’s desperate voice cut through her in the darkness. “Tell that man what your stepfather did to me. I can’t rest until you do.”

  “What good would that do? Can’t you see I’m nothing but an annoyance to the man?” She retorted, weary of Mama’s dramatic petulance. “Why are you never concerned about me?”

  Mama didn’t answer. She left to go sulk somewhere else. Elizabeth pounded on the door and called out. The idea that no one might notice she was missing brought a rush of terror as she went from patient calls to panicked cries. No one came. No one heard her cries for help.

  She tried to remain calm. It was difficult as she imagined dying alone here, trapped in the dark, no one even noticing she was missing until she’d joined her mother in the hereafter.

  “Don’t be frightened.” A soft, husky voice like rustling silks whispered to Elizabeth in the cloying darkness. Maureen’s radiant form materialized and it was then Elizabeth realized she was crying, just like the other night when Maureen appeared. Ghostly fingers moved over her hair and her wet cheeks. “I won’t let her hurt you, darlin’.”

  “Mama would never hurt me.” Elizabeth asserted. “Would she?”

  Without a reply, Maureen disappeared.

  The door popped open, just like that, setting Elizabeth free.

  Chapter Twenty

  Donovan sauntered into the room behind the kitchen that served as the servant’s dining area. He plopped down on the wooden bench beside the footmen playing cards at the end of the long trestle table.

  Elias Jones set his tin mug on the table and belched. Donovan could understand why Elizabeth had hired him. Elias had a neat, clean shaven appearance and knew how to behave in a respectful manner in the presence of a lady. What she didn’t know was that Elias fancied himself a rake and had already boasted of having tupped one of the maids more than once since his arrival here. The conversation among cards each night this week had been dominated by Elias’s bragging about his secret trysts and his companion eating his every word as if it were toasted cheese and not a pile of horse shit.

  Henry Chilton was a small, unremarkable man with mud brown hair and mutton chops that met beneath his chin. He possessed wide brown eyes and a ready smile, traits that might seem appealing in a footman. By himself, he was no more threatening than an overgrown puppy. Unfortunately, Henry seemed to be under the thrall of Elias, the more conniving one of the pair.

  “You in, O’Rourke?” Henry asked, offering him a toothy welcome.

  “Aye.” Donovan rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

  Henry dealt him in. Donovan picked up the cards and arranged them in his hand. The footmen had invited him
to join their nightly game the on second day they were here. They complained to him that Giles, the middle aged footman, was a starched shirt determined to get into her ladyship’s good graces and thus shunned their manly pursuits after hours, and the fourth footman, a lad of nineteen, was too close to a Methodist to warrant an invitation to their circle.

  As O’Rourke, Donovan had been taking his meals with the new staff. He bantered with them in the back rooms whenever possible and tucked away tidbits of information about each one as they spoke openly among themselves. He didn’t like having his home crowded with strangers as a rule when he was a bachelor. Having a wife who experienced petit seizures made him doubly anxious regarding the integrity of said strangers residing under his roof. A dishonest maid could pocket milady’s necklace and make her mistress believe she had misplaced the item herself. A footman might swoop in with more dangerous intentions while Lizzie was caught in an episode of confusion. Donovan had to make certain his darling was safe in her own home.

  Elizabeth’s maid of chambers, Miss Ramirez, had only good to say of her mistress. She seemed to have developed a fondness for her lady in the short time of her employment. She exhibited a loyalty that became apparent when another maid uttered a complaint about hauling water due to milady’s penchant for bathing daily in her hearing. Chloe Ramirez was an effusive, chatty sort, the type of female Donovan found vastly annoying. As long she proved loyal to his wife he didn’t care about her other flaws.

  “Why the grim face?” Elias asked, watching Donovan study the cards he’d been dealt. “Horse kick you in the balls today?”

  Henry guffawed loudly, acting as if Elias’ remark was clever instead of crude.

  “Not me.” Donovan grinned disarmingly as he spoke, determined to ride out the uncouth jesting until he completed his mission. “The Count’s Arabian damn near gelded poor Johnny. And I doubt the lad’s even gained his spurs.”