Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  “It was never my choice to be involved in such practices. I was purchased for my peculiar gift as a child so Barnaby might use them for his purposes, namely, to make money.”

  “You are no longer a child.” Donovan pointed out. “Your indenture must be paid by now. If not, I’ll settle the account. Why do you stay if you disapprove of his dealings?”

  Kieran shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “He’s the only family I’ve known for nearly twenty years.”

  “Did you ever consider contacting your maternal grandfather?”

  “To what end?” Sharp green eyes met Donovan’s. At last, that Fighting O’Flaherty spirit surfaced. “He disowned my mother for marrying my father against his wishes.”

  Donovan digested that tidbit quickly. “Did your father have contact with Wentworth?”

  “Yes.” Kieran hissed the word with pent up fury. He sat forward in the chair, his arms braced on his thighs, hands clenched together as if to try to contain the rage that radiated from within. “Mama was crushed by his refusal to reconcile with her. Father wrote the man more than once, attempting to heal the breach out of love for my mother. Wentworth refused to accept their marriage. He damned my father as an uncivilized pagan and my mother as an ungrateful child. So you see, even before my abduction, I had no expectation of eliciting Lord Greystowe’s support or his affection.”

  Donovan lifted a cheroot to his lips and leaned close to the candle to light his tobacco. After pausing a moment to coax the cigar to ignite, he continued, “I met with Lord Greystowe after my wedding. He expressed deep regret at being a stranger to his grandchildren. When your mother died, Fletcher disappeared. Wentworth had agents searching for your siblings for years. That is hardly in keeping with a man who wishes to remain aloof from his grandchildren.”

  “My father would never forgive me if I went crawling to that cold English lord!”

  “I’ve been to Ireland, O’Flaherty. I’ve seen the effects of British rule. My stable boys are casualties of that brutal system. Their parents died during an outbreak of Scarlet Fever. The boys were turned out of their tenant cottage, forced to pick pockets to survive. Johnny, the oldest, attempted to pick mine. Instead of handing him over to the authorities I offered him a job, a means to honestly provide for his brothers as my stable hand.”

  “The lad is hardly fourteen.” O’Flaherty’s look clearly questioned Donovan’s sanity.

  “Johnny is seventeen. Under my supervision, he looks after the stock. I brought the boys here three years ago. Danny was ten. Gavin wasn’t yet seven. Gavin survived the fever that took their parents but he’ll never be able to work as a laborer. With training, and my sponsorship, he could become a clerk in a law office. My point is that Gavin deserves more than being left to starve in the streets, Mr. O’Flaherty, yet starve he did, under British rule.”

  “You are a philanthropist, my lord.” O’Flaherty remarked. “You collect the broken and discarded of society. You give them a sense of purpose and dignity.”

  Donovan stamped out his tobacco, disturbed by the man’s bold assessment. No doubt, he was a great asset to his employer due to his intuitive abilities. “We were discussing you.” He directed the conversation back to a comfortable path. “With your father dead and the O’Flaherty lands under British control, your tenants would be laboring under an English landlord, more than likely, an absentee one. If you were reinstated as your grandfather’s legal heir you would be in position to purchase your ancestral home and regain your place as leader of the Clan O’Flaherty, and fulfill your father’s legacy by being a fair and just landlord.”

  Kieran crossed his forearms, layering one over the other in front of his chest, a clearly defensive posture. “That’s a very mercenary perspective, my lord.”

  “A pirate can do noble deeds. A priest can commit great evil. If you believe you are being noble by not claiming your rightful inheritance when you could be using Lord Greystowe’s money and influence to help your father’s people, you are entertaining folly. More to the point, you allow Fletcher to win by default. His son will inherit everything, just as he intended when he sold you into indentured servitude all those years ago.”

  Donovan straightened his posture, honing his last arrow. “Who knows what kind of earl Fletcher’s son will be? I grant you he’s young. Yet, he’s had his father’s influence all his life and now he will be guided by your maternal grandfather, a cold man who turned his back on his only child years ago over her choice in a husband, as you pointed out.”

  Kieran’s face hardened. When he did manage to speak, it was in a tight staccato voice. “I didn’t come here to seek your help in securing the Wentworth fortunes. I came to see my sister. After days of being detained as your unwilling ‘guest’ and entertained with constant frivolities by your kinsmen, I have yet to receive proof my sister is well. When will I be allowed to see her, my lord?”

  Donovan took a leisurely sip of his port and regarded his brother-in-law calmly. “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Elizabeth placed a ribbon in her page and set aside The Romance of the Forest.

  She was captivated by the heroine’s ordeal; snatched from the safety of the convent by her nefarious father, locked in a room in an abandoned farmhouse for days, and then foisted upon strangers in a passing coach in the middle of the night--strangers running away from the law. The fugitives had just set up camp for the night in an abandoned Abbey deep in the forest. The heroine in the novel kept eyeing the eerie ruins with trepidation, but Elizabeth kept looking at the clock, distracted by her husband’s prolonged absence.

  She tugged the silk shawl about her shoulders and wandered out onto the porch. Puck trailed after her, his plaintive meows a reminder of his devotion. She picked him up, cradled him against her neck and was rewarded by his steady purring.

  It was silly to fret over Donovan’s absence, her mind admonished, yet her heart whispered a different song. Their closeness was so new, so fragile. She had to do something to keep his interest. She couldn’t bear it if he retreated to callous indifference toward her again.

  There seemed one option—seduction.

  The trouble was, she had no idea how to go about seducing a man.

  She paced to the corner of the veranda and wandered along the main porch abutting the front of the house. Donovan wanted her. His desire was unmistakable as they lay each night in the forgiving darkness. His organ would swell against her, but he merely held her. He didn’t try to make love to her. His desire was not the problem. It was convincing him to act on it.

  Elizabeth turned about as a noise startled her from behind.

  Donovan came tromping down the porch toward her, looking quite perturbed into the bargain. “Where the devil have you been?”

  “I might ask the same of you.” She returned, resenting his demanding tone.

  “I had a complication to deal with. Come inside. You know how I feel about you being outdoors alone.” He took her hand and began leading her in the direction of their chamber as if she were an errant mare wandering from her paddock.

  For pity’s sake, I’m on the second floor! Elizabeth managed to still her tongue before she blurted her thoughts aloud. While his overprotective tendencies could be quite endearing at times, there were other times where she found it exceedingly exasperating, and stifling. He acted as if he expected someone to swoop in and steal her away from him at any moment if he weren’t careful. He was being ridiculous, irrational. She wanted to tell him so.

  Alas, her objective this night was not to argue with him but to encourage him to make love to her. She set Puck loose once they reached his suite, contemplating her next move. She didn’t know how to be coy and seductive, having never studied the art as most girls her age would have before entering polite society.

  “I see you found a book to occupy your time.” He noted, glancing at the bed.

  A rush of warmth bloomed in her chest as she remembered his gift, a veritable library. “Yes, a delic
iously horrid Gothic tale by Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  “Ah, and what happens when the tale takes root in that fertile imagination?” Donovan gave her a rare teasing grin as he circled about her with his hands on his hips, adopting a playful mien. “Will my lady be starting at every sound tonight, disturbing her poor husband’s sleep over melodramatic tripe?”

  “No. I’ll sleep safe and sound in my big, strong husband’s arms.”

  “Oh, will you?” Mirth illuminated his pale eyes as he stepped close.

  “Yes, after he makes love to me, of course.” She replied, smiling up at him.

  Donovan regarded her with wariness. He stepped back a pace.

  Had she offended him? Perhaps he believed ladies should not bring up the subject of sex with their spouses. Her mother would certainly believe so. Well bred ladies never spoke of such vulgar subjects, her mother would be quick to point out.

  “Don’t look at me with wounded eyes.” He returned, “You’ve been ill. There is no need to rush the fences.”

  “Rush the fences? We’ve been married for three months.”

  He stood resolute before her, unyielding in his silence.

  He was rejecting her, again? The hurt rose up, threatening to spill out onto her face in the form of tears. She blinked them back, resolved to avoid weeping at all costs. She’d wept enough in his presence for two lifetimes in the past week, she would not weep or even give the appearance of tears while asking him to bed her.

  “Why do you push me away?” She asked after recovering her composure. Even so, she was not faking the squeak that crept into her voice.

  “I’m not pushing you away, Lizzie. I’m waiting, just as I promised you I would.”

  “I only want to make things right between us.” It was the truth. She wanted to make up for all the time she’d lied to him and kept him away. She wanted to make him happy.

  Donovan’s eyes softened. He dropped his arms, made as if to reach for her, and then seemed to change his mind about touching her. “Sweetheart, there is nothing wrong.”

  “Isn’t there?” She shot back. “I’ve been your wife for three months and I’m still a maid!” It was galling, trying to get through to this man. Elizabeth wanted Donovan to love her as his wife. She wasn’t living in dread of it any longer, or trying to connive her way around it. He should be pleased, damn the man. He should not be arguing the point with her!

  “And this bothers you?” He waved his hands expansively as he spoke. “Not long ago, as I recall, my romantic overtures were rejected quite vehemently.”

  Elizabeth hissed her outrage. How dare he bring that up! It was an embarrassment. And there was nothing romantic about the incident. “Sod off, you arrogant coxcomb!”

  “Ah, there’s the spirited girl I fell in love with.” Donovan quipped, laughing at her fury.

  Elizabeth slapped her hand over her mouth. She’d slipped into using one of her stepfather’s crude retorts, a lingering problem due to her head injury. She spoke her thoughts aloud when upset or made an impertinent or vulgar remark. And he---the impudent rogue—was always amused by her faux pas instead of outraged, as any proper gentleman would be.

  Elizabeth wanted to scream at the man. He seemed to enjoy their verbal sparring and tended to encourage her to cross words with him. Did he find it invigorating? Amusing? Perhaps it was preferable to him after the torrent of tears he’d endured of late.

  Again, she had to guide her mind away from their debate and back to her objective. “I was a ninny back then. I’m not afraid of you anymore, Donovan, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not afraid, I-I’m ready—“

  “Well, I’m not.” He cut in before she could inform him of her change of heart.

  His bold declaration left her with dampened enthusiasm. Honestly! She was offering herself to the man again--and he was brushing her offer aside--again.

  He stood with his hands across his chest, reeking impatience. “I’ve had a hell of a day. I’m tired, I’m dirty. I need a bath and a drink.”

  Elizabeth had no reply. As she stared at him, incredulous, he moved across the room and jerked the bell pull.

  *******

  Damn it. Donovan sat in the steaming tub behind the dressing screen. It wasn’t a lie. He was tired, dirty, and furious.

  He did not intend to touch her after just leaving her ‘undead’ brother--after coming close to beating her wretched stepfather into a bloody pulp at the indenture compound. He was full of rage and frustration—anger, hatred.

  She was a maid and yet she had been traumatized by her encounter with the smugglers. It was a precarious situation, requiring him to be at his best so he could gently ease her past her fears. He would not risk frightening her again and perchance putting her off lovemaking forever. He’d come too far, worked too hard to regain her trust.

  Donovan scrubbed his scalp and massaged the back of his head with his fingers.

  He was not making love to her. Not tonight. Not when so much was at stake.

  *******

  Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, her knees apart, her gown ruched up, exposing her legs in an inelegant pose. She couldn’t believe the argument that had just taken place.

  What man would refuse the very thing he’d been lusting after for months on end?

  She could hear the splashing on the other side of the screen. Obviously, he felt the need to relax after his long day on the plantation.

  A drink? He needed a drink. That was new. Something nasty must have happened while he was out today. Donovan wasn’t the type to drink much. He told her so himself. She saw him drunk but once—and that turned ugly rather quickly.

  The man had a trying day. Perhaps that was why he’d snapped at her; he had more important things on his mind at the moment than appeasing his lust.

  That was new. Elizabeth assumed all men were like animals when it came to their sexual need, showing little more restraint than a dog determined to hump someone’s leg to appease its instincts. She underestimated him. Donovan was a scientist. He thought too much. He thought out everything precisely before acting upon it. He was probably sitting in the tub this moment dissecting their conversation, trying to see some hidden meaning in her words.

  “Oh, Bloody Hell!” Elizabeth whispered. How could she get him to consummate their vows so she could move past her fear of the unknown? Yes—in truth, she was afraid of the sordid business. She wasn’t afraid of Donovan, but the idea of enduring all that pawing and mauling and humping was unsettling. Donovan didn’t need to know that. Once the consummation part was over, she could stop being uneasy about it. Stop feeling guilty. The mystery would be gone and then she could devote herself to making him happy.

  What more could she do to push him forward? She tried talking to the man, and that ended in an argument with both of them sulking at opposite ends of the room.

  Elizabeth looked down at her bare feet and her exposed legs. Hmmm? Men liked to see a bit of flesh. An exposed ankle, she’d been told, could send a man into raptures.

  Well, then, she’d give him something to look at, a bit more than ankles.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Elizabeth held her breath, waiting. She was unclothed beneath the sheets.

  Donovan had come around the privacy screen dressed in his robe. He had a goblet in his hand as he meandered about the room, appearing deep in reflection. He stopped at the veranda doors and stood with his back to her, examining the night sky.

  She watched him, uncertain if he would climb into bed or go out on the veranda with the drink he needed so badly and brood over his day.

  Well, he would come to bed at some point, no sense trying to push the situation. She was determined to just lay still and let him come to her.

  It was half an hour before Donovan came to the bed. He lifted the covers, and she felt the bed dip as he climbed in.

  “What is this?” His voice was not happy. As she opened her eyes she could see Donovan’s disposition was not improved by his long soak or his
drink.

  “I was warm.” She explained, receiving a grunt from him as he slid in next to her wearing his small pants as an imaginary shield over his masculine parts. It did not conceal them but rather emphasized the contours as the fabric fit snuggly over him even without arousal.

  “Stubborn little mare.” Donovan murmured in rebuke. Still, he did not reach out to snuff out the candle or turn his back on her. He simply stared, long and hard, taking in every inch of her flesh as if it were a strange new specimen he’d never examined before. Oh, he had examined her, from head to toe, but that was back when she’d been riddled with bruises, hardly enticing.

  Elizabeth watched his face as his eyes lingered over her breasts, her belly, and then moved lower to the patch of deep red hair between her thighs. She glanced below the waistline of his small pants. Yes, indeed. That part of him strained the thin fabric that held it in check.

  Say something, anything. Elizabeth thought in sudden desperation, directing her command to herself and to him. It was awkward, his staring, this silence, this waiting.

  His hand covered her hip, draping over it, tracing the curve in a slow, leisurely fashion.

  “Elizabeth.” He murmured, stroking her hip slowly, and tracing the outline of her thigh with a firm yet gentle hand. “Sweet Lizzie, you’re so pale and so lovely.”

  She blushed. It was ridiculous to feel reticent when she’d deliberately stripped and crept naked into his bed, yet, Elizabeth felt the heat flood her neck and her face.

  Donovan reached up to cradle her cheek. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

  Elizabeth pulled her gaze from his taut abdomen. She looked into those pale, penetrating blue orbs that seemed to see into her soul. “Yes. I want you to love me as your wife.”