Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (14 page)

“Yet, you aren’t certain.” Elizabeth pointed out. She let go
of his arm and walked slowly along the deck with her hand skimming the rail as
she tried to summon a memory that would validate the strong suspicion in her
mind. “I fear she may have been murdered.”

Silence punctuated her statement. She turned to face the
count, wondering if he’d heard her or if the wind had carried away her
confession. He hadn’t followed her. He stood several feet away, leaning forward
with his forearms braced on the rail. He looked at her as if she’d said
something outrageous, which was often the case these days due to her head injury.

“That’s enough sun for one day.” He held out his hand,
waiting for her to come to him.

Elizabeth ignored him. She gazed out at the sea,
concentrating, trying to force a spark of memory to burst forth. Thoughts of
Fletcher and his constant threats against the old woman brought a gloom to the
otherwise sunny day. She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself as a sick,
suffocating dread crept closer. A wave of inexplicable terror claimed her as a
long shadow inserted itself across the plank decks between the count and
herself--the shadow of a man.

“Good afternoon, my lady.” An elderly man in a stark black
suit stood close enough to touch Elizabeth if he wanted. Oh, he wanted to, very
much. Elizabeth could feel the hunger.

Instinct overtook reason. She ran the sparse few feet
separating her from her husband.

The count’s arm wrapped quickly about her, drawing her tight
against his solid frame. She heard a click and looked down. Her husband had a
pistol leveled at the intruder. “That’s close enough, old man. What the hell
are you doing, sneaking up on us?”

A sailor swooped down from the rigging and landed on the
deck with a thud beside the count. He unsheathed an enormous dagger. “Trouble, mon
ami?”

“Only a little.” The count said, holstering his weapon. “I
see you still have my back.”

 “Always.” The Frenchman’s grin widened. “Say the word, my
lord, and he’s fish bait.”

 A third man was fast approaching from the deck above.
Elizabeth moaned and pressed tighter into her husband’s powerful, muscular
body. It was happening again, she thought with desperation as her heart
squeezed into her throat and she quelled the urge to scream.

“I have you.” The count whispered, wrapping both arms around
her once more.

“Linton, Duchamp!” The blond man bellowed. His face was
mottled with fury. “Did you misunderstand my orders about staying below? They
were inclusive of the entire crew.”

“I was in the crow’s nest, Cap’n. My lord drew his pistol, I
sensed trouble.”

“You were looking for a fight, Mr. Duchamp, as usual. Put
the weapon away, you are upsetting the lady. What is your excuse?” The captain
rounded on the old man.

“Blame an old fool’s curiosity, sir. When I heard she was
coming out on deck, I just had to have a peek at our little countess.” Mr.
Linton’s eyes darted to Elizabeth. “My prayers have been answered. The Good
Lord has granted you a miraculous recovery, my dear.”

The captain frowned into the distance, grim faced,
attempting to contain his rage.

The count cradled Elizabeth firmly against him. Every muscle
in him seemed taut as a cat preparing to pounce. She looked up into his face,
searching for reassurance. There was none. His expression was impassive, like
chiseled stone. His eyes had transmuted from pale blue to a stark wintry grey
as he glared at the old man who dared to approach them.

Mr. Duchamp sheathed his weapon as ordered, but he continued
to glower at the intruder.

The old man edged closer. “There’s no need to be frightened,
child.” His voice oozed over her like sweet, thick poison. “I wanted to tell
you I’m here for you, my dear. If there is anything troubling your tender
spirit, anything at all, I’m at your service, my lady.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” She responded.

“Reverend?” He attempted a blush, and failed in pretending
humility. “I’m the ship’s surgeon, my lady. T’was I who nurtured you through
the worst of your illness—”

“You’ve seen her, now take yourself off.” The count
interjected.

The physician bowed in deference. As he rose, he extended
his hand toward her.

Elizabeth did not want to touch that hand. It was gnarled,
resembling a claw. The others were watching and the thought came that she must
be shaming her husband with all this cowering and shivering in front of his
men. She swallowed, determined to be gracious as she’d been taught by her
mother, as was expected of her as the wife of a count. She reached out.

The moment Dr. Linton’s hand touched Elizabeth’s skin, an
onslaught of unspeakable images washed over her mind, and then darkness
smothered the scream rising in her throat.

*******

Kieran opened his eyes. He was in his bed, upstairs. He’d
been in the shop, packing orders to be delivered about town. A wave of
inexplicable terror had claimed him and then horrifying visions slammed into
his mind with rapid succession.

It was that girl again. She’d formed a mental bond with him
when she was trapped in that dark cell. Confronted by appalling perversity
again, she transferred the disturbing images to him as her mind simply shut
down. He sat up and rubbed his forehead. “How long was I out?”

“An hour.” Barnaby leaned forward in the chair nearby. “What
did you see, lad?”

“Sails, the mast of a ship.” Kieran said evasively. He
wanted to go take a hot bath, scrub his skin with a brush. Hell--he wanted to
scrub the sickening images from his mind. “I was looking up, someone was
holding me and then everything went black.”

“I don’t like this.” The old magician muttered. “This is a
linking spell. It’s gaining more power over you each time this happens. I’ll
get the cards.”

Barnaby returned moments later and handed Kieran the tarot
deck. Kieran shuffled the deck and began laying the cards out on the bed in the
proper order.

“A predominance of swords.” Barnaby remarked. “The
two—things hidden; the three--a broken heart; the nine--night terrors. Oh dear,
all of that, plus the eight?”

Kieran stared at the eight of swords. He hated that card;
the dark haired woman reminded him of his mother. She was bound and
blindfolded, encircled by eight swords stuck upright in the ground about her.

“Who was that man holding our little lady when she passed
out?”

“You saw it, too?” Kieran asked, realizing he wouldn’t be
able to fool the old man.

“Just a fragment, when I touched you. That man looked
familiar.”

“Mr. O’Rourke, her husband, I think.” He rubbed his brow.
“It came and went so fast.”

“He’s grown more powerful, I see.” Barnaby said, studying the
tarot spread.

Kieran’s gaze dropped to the King of Swords; it signified a
man of keen intellect, he could be a powerful ally or a daunting opponent. “I
fail to understand what all this has to do with me? Why am I being assaulted by
his wife’s nightmares? I’ve never even met the woman!”

Barnaby tapped the last card in the spread, the six of cups.

“It’s not possible!” Kieran protested. A boy was passing a
cup to a younger girl. It was obvious the pair were brother and sister.

“The cards do not lie.” Barnaby reminded him. “O’Rourke’s
bride is a relative, perhaps distantly removed, but a blood relation
nonetheless, one who shares your Druidic ancestry. She formed a metaphysical
link with you while in great distress and as the ship they are on draws near, that
link is becoming stronger. This is why you’ve been having visions and dreams
lately.”

Kieran wasn’t having dreams. He was having nightmares,
because of that girl on the ship. “You have to do something, Barnaby. You have
to make it stop. I’ll go mad.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” The old man’s words left him
cold.

*******

It took a moment to reconcile herself to her surroundings.
Elizabeth was in her husband’s cabin, lying on the bed. The last thing she
remembered was looking up to see billowing, white sails flapping against a
brilliant blue sky. She’d been on deck with his lordship and then,  
No, I
don’t want to remember that horrible man!
She didn’t think it possible to
feel any dirtier, but the memory of his touch made her skin crawl. Her hand
flew to her mouth. She made a mad dash for the necessary closet and emptied the
remains of her lunch into the sea. She crumpled to the floor in the tiny
closet, her brow beaded with moisture and her limbs quivering sporadically. She
hugged her knees to still her limbs, and tried to make sense of the jangled
images that assaulted her mind before she passed out.

“Lizzie, my sweet, what are you doing on the floor?” The
count peeked into the closet. “Ah, casting up your accounts, I see. Are you
finished?” She nodded and took his outstretched hand. He pulled her to her
feet. With an arm about her waist, he walked her back to the small bedchamber
and guided her to sit on the bed.

“Do you remember what happened?” His manner was casual as he
stood beside the bed and dipped the cloth into a basin on the nightstand, and
then wrung it out.

“I swooned.” She bristled at the confession. Silly, weak
women swooned. She did not. “I assure you, my lord, I’ve never fainted before
in my entire life.”

“A swoon lasts a few moments. You’ve been unconscious for
over an hour.” Donovan sat on the bed and brushed her face with the cool cloth.
“Was it heat sickness? We are in warmer climes.” Elizabeth made a face at his
assessment. “Oh, I’ve seen it take down grown men among the new indentures, so
it’s not a sign of weakness, my pet.”

“It wasn’t the heat; it was that disgusting old man! He’s
not a doctor. He’s running from the law—I saw it all when he touched me—he’s
trying to—“The storm clouds gathering in her husband’s eyes silenced her attempt
to explain her disturbing vision.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall,
desperate to calm her trembling limbs. Oh, God, he’ll never believe me! No one
would. They would think her mad.

“He’s trying to do what, Lizzie?” Donovan asked.

“Nothing.” She gasped, finding her lungs starved for air. “I
was confused, sir.”

Chapter
Thirteen

“Lady Beaumont, you do me a great honor.” The captain of The
Pegasus made a gallant leg before Elizabeth as they entered his suite. It was a
mirror copy of Donovan’s.

 “Captain Rawlings.” Elizabeth gave him a demure smile. “It
was kind of you invite us to dine with you. And who is this gentleman?” She
fixed her gaze on the towheaded boy at the captain’s side, feeling less
intimidated by the lad while in the forced company of two men this evening. She
didn’t want to come but Donovan was adamant that the invitation to dine with
the captain could not be refused without appearing rude as the man was his
friend and partner.

“This is my nephew, Peter MacCafferty, Madame.” The boy
bowed awkwardly before her as prompted. “That was very well executed.” The
captain noted. “But mind you don’t stare so. Forgive him, Ma’am.” Placing his
hand on the boy’s shoulder, Rawlings confessed, “Living the life of a sailor,
he’s a bit rough around the edges.”

Elizabeth couldn’t stifle a giggle as the captain’s nephew
rolled his eyes and made a face that betrayed his thoughts about such stiff
formality among the adult set. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. MacCafferty.” She
smiled at the lad. “Would you mind terribly if I called you Peter?”

“Everyone calls me Peter. I don’t think I’d remember to
answer otherwise, ma’am.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.” She agreed, unaccustomed to
being addressed as Madame Beaumont after being Miss O’Flaherty all of her life.
“You may call me Elizabeth. If the Queen stops by for tea, we’ll make every
effort to impress her, of course. Until then, we’ll do fine without all that
stiff formality, don’t you agree?”

“I like her!” Peter informed the count. “Want to see my
kittens, Elizabeth—“

“Lady Elizabeth.” Rawlings gave the lad a quelling look.
“Remember our discussion about manners--”

“You have kittens? I’d love to see them.” Elizabeth put in
quickly, hoping to deflect his ire from the boy. “After dinner, of course. I’m
famished.” She gave the captain a sweet smile.

“Yes, yes, quite.” The blond captain murmured, giving her a
generous grin as he gestured to the table glittering with crystal, silver and
fine china in the candlelight.

 The captain possessed a sunny personality, putting her at
ease quickly with his kind eyes and his penchant for spinning a good yarn.
Donovan remained silent and pensive. She didn’t understand his sullen mood when
he insisted they must dine with the captain in the first place.

Rawlings confided to her that they had been adventurers in
their youth. The word pirate never came up. In fact, the word was carefully
avoided as the man insisted they earned their fortunes as merchant sailors in
the East. As the captain spoke, the impression rose before her of a pair of
masked buccaneers dressed in black, terrorizing all they encountered on the
seas.

Perhaps it was that second glass of wine. Perhaps it was the
curious gleam in the captain’s eyes as he embellished his tale. Whatever the
cause, Elizabeth couldn’t control her tongue. “And you wore black scarves over
your faces. Was it to protect your delicate complexions from the harsh sun,
Captain?” She asked sweetly, dimpling at the man.

 The captain’s fork stilled in mid-air, he regarded Donovan
with uncertainty.

“I’m afraid she has you, Black Jack.” Donovan quipped,
smiling for the first time that evening. “Lizzie has the extraordinary ability
of being able to see beyond the masks people wear. She gets it from her
grandmother O’Flaherty, isn’t that right, my love?”