Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (35 page)

Perplexed, she slid from the bed and moved across the room
to investigate. She knelt before the broken looking glass and traced her
fingers over the painted letters on the board. It was a craftsman’s mark,
painted under the mirror on the board behind, to identify the maker.

“Lizzie?” Donovan put the book down and rose from his chair
beside the bed, just realizing she’d slipped away from him while he’d been
reading. “What are you doing?” He was at her side in a trice, crouched on his
haunches beside her and talking to her as if she were a little girl, a very
beloved little girl. “Here, now. Don’t fuss with this. You’ll cut yourself.
We’ll order a new full length mirror to replace this one. Come, back to bed.”

“She told me it was there.” Elizabeth muttered, ignoring him
as she finally realized what Marissa had been trying to show her last week. She
turned to look at Donovan. “I have to go upstairs. I need the keys.”

Donovan was peering at her with concern. “No dearest. You
need to go back to bed.”

“I know where it is!” She insisted, rising and moving behind
the dressing screen to retrieve her robe. She slipped it on. Donovan followed
her about the room with a frown. “She asked me to help her. She can’t leave
here unless I do. I have to help her.” She looked into her husband’s eyes for
the first time in days as she spoke. “We need the keys, my lord.”

Donovan merely stared at her, as if trying to judge whether
she were delirious or lucid. “Who are you talking about?” He asked in a
cautious tone.

“There are spirits in this house.” She said quietly, knowing
he wouldn’t believe her.

“Yes.” His response startled her. “And one has contacted
you, asked something of you?” Elizabeth was stunned. He was agreeing with her?
“You believe me?”

“I’ll always believe you, Lizzie.” His reply, while
reassuring, was also disturbing. He sounded as if he were indulging a child’s
fantasy. Perhaps in his mind, he was.

Regardless, she had a duty to help Marissa find peace. She
held out her hand. “We need the key to Marissa’s room.”

Moments later, Elizabeth and Donovan stood in the small,
luxurious room hidden on the third floor. The box of Marissa’s personal
belongings was still on the bed where she’d left it last week. She’d been
packing up everything, intending to give it to Gareth when she finished.
Captain Rawlings’ visit had interrupted her labors. She’d had the argument with
Donovan, and the seizure, and hadn’t been able to return here since.

Donovan looked uncomfortable in the room, as most people
seemed to. There was a deep, pervasive sadness, as Marissa had taken her own
life here. He stepped to the window and took to inspecting the rough marks along
the frame where the men had pried away the iron bars that had made this a
prison cell instead of a servant’s room.

 Elizabeth went behind the dressing screen and knelt at the
shattered cheval glass mirror. She began picking away at the glass, piece by
piece.

“Be careful.” Donovan came around the screen, anxious to see
what she was up to. He crouched beside her. “You’ll cut yourself. Let me.” He
pushed her hands away from the slim wedges of glass and then gazed about the
room. Spotting a discarded cleaning cloth left behind from her earlier visit,
he snatched it up and used it to protect his fingers as he began to pull the
glass wedges out of the mirror frame and set them on the floor, one by one.

After pulling several long, sharp shards away from the
frame, they could see a folded parchment wedged up between the broken glass and
the support board. Donovan pulled it out, and unfolded it.

He quickly scanned it and then gazed at her with awe. “Do
you know what this is?”

“A promise.” She replied. “Marissa was bound by guilt for
leaving her baby to fend for himself after she died. She was the only one who
knew of the existence of this promise. She hid it to keep his legacy safe until
Gareth could claim it, but then weeks later, she killed herself.”

“She took her own life?” Donovan seemed surprised by
Elizabeth’s claim. “We were told she died of Childbed Fever.” He shook his
head, gazing about the room with distaste. It was apparent he knew the reason
for the lock outside the door and barred windows. “It makes sense. No one
should be forced to live at the mercy of another’s perverse whims.”

Donovan looked at the paper again, apparently shocked by its
existence. He gazed tenderly at her. “My sweet, clever girl. This is an
amendment to my grandfathers’ original will. It gives Gareth one-third
ownership in the plantation. Two thirds is to be retained by my mother’s
offspring, namely myself and my descendants, but Gareth is to receive a
generous income from the estate as this document acknowledges him as the
natural son of Richard O’Donovan. My grandfather never told my mother about
this. He didn’t tell any of us.”

“Do you intend to honor it?” She asked. She was not certain
if this was good or bad, from his perspective. Donovan would be giving up part
of his own income.

“Of course.” He was quick to assure her. “Most of my wealth
has come from sources outside this estate. I have my uncle’s holdings, the
wealth he managed to smuggle out of France before the Revolution, and I will
inherit Belle Reve Plantation in the Carolinas when my mother is gone. Gareth
deserves more than a paltry few hundred pounds every year as an allowance. The
will my Grandfather left with us stated Gareth was to be allowed to reside here
on the estate for the rest of his days and receive support from the family,
like a poor relation. With this, he’ll have a secure future.”

*******

The days passed with an eerie tranquility. Elizabeth offered
stiff competition for Puck in the number of naps she needed to get through the
day. Much as it galled her, she knew Donovan was right; she was exhausted. The
strain of the past months had taken its toll. She felt like a cleaning rag that
had been used too vigorously and then tossed in the corner.

Chloe’s prediction proved true. No longer alone in the
night, her mother’s spirit did not harass her, and there were no more
disturbances in her room as the week progressed.

Donovan was sweet and attentive. Her mind could not fathom
such pure, unswerving devotion. He was absent off and on during the day, just
like on the voyage. He left her for short periods with Chloe while he conferred
in his study with his new steward, Mr. Duchamp, or rode out with the man to
inspect the estate.

At the end of the week, she sat cross-legged on the bed with
her kitten nestled in the cradle made by her legs. She’d just emerged from a
warm bath. Puck was purring contentedly and gazing up at her with drowsy eyes
after having worried her damp, dangling braid as a kitten possessed. His ears
tightened and his eyes grew perturbed at the voices and loud thumping noises in
the hall. Male voices could be heard in her former room, along with the sound
of heavy objects being hefted. Setting Puck aside, Elizabeth rose and moved to
the adjoining door.

“Mum?” Alice, her new maid, trailed after her. “Tell me what
you need.”

She waved Alice to silence as she opened the door just
enough to peer inside. Two footmen were stepping into the hall while a third
man remained with her husband.

“—he’s outraged.” Mr. Duchamp gave a sinister laugh. “Claims
it’s all a mistake, says he should be your guest, not your prisoner. You’d
think he was royalty for all his braying.”

“Keep him in chains.” Donovan instructed, “I’ll ride out to
meet him in little while.”

Duchamp spoke again and then left via the hallway door.

Relieved that the brooding fellow had left, as his presence
always unsettled her so, Elizabeth pushed the door to her former room open.
Dressed in black, save the white linen shirt with the sleeves casually rolled
up to his elbows, Donovan stood rigid in profile in the center of the room, his
hands on his hips, his mind absorbed in Duchamp’s news. Violence swirled about
him like a fine, dark mist. His mouth was tight with tension. The tender eyes had
narrowed to a chilling ice blue as they probed the shadowed recess of the empty
fireplace with malice.

He had been so sweet and attentive this past week, Elizabeth
had forgotten Donovan’s dark moods. They were rare, yet their intensity could
be frightening. “Donovan?”

Lost in black thoughts, he started at the sound of her
voice. A disguise of pleasantness dropped into place. “Lizzie, my sweet, you’re
awake.” His hand lifted to welcome her to his side. Seeing her reluctance, he
closed the gap between them and offered a limp smile.

“Is something troubling you, my lord?”

He wrapped an arm about her, drawing her close as she
remained stiff at his touch. “Duchamp tells me the new indentures arrived from
England. One is being particularly difficult. I need to deal with him. But
first, why don’t we open your presents, my sweet?” He cajoled in a buoyant
tone, gesturing to the mysterious wooden crates stacked at the door.

Without waiting for her response, Donovan stepped away and
took up the iron bar. He wrenched open the top box and gestured for her to come
closer and examine the contents.

Books, dozens of them were stacked neatly inside the crate.

“All of this, for me?” She gazed up at him with
astonishment.

A roguish grin worthy of Mr. O’Rourke tugged at his lips. “I
sent Ambrose to Basseterre on business at the beginning of the week and while
he was there I instructed him to have the bookseller box up anything that might
be of interest to a young lady.”

Never did Elizabeth imagine possessing so many books at once.
She picked up the top book and let go a squeal of girlish delight. “Mrs.
Radcliffe--it’s been ages and this one is new!”

The title, The Italian, was in raised gilt letters on the
cover. She caressed the letters with her fingertip, anticipating being held in
wicked suspense for nights to come. Hugging the first book to her breast, she
rummaged through the box, finding a complete set of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works
inside. “Donovan, you shouldn’t have. You’ll spoil me.”

“It’s time someone did.” He grumbled, his anger roiling to
the surface despite his attempt to conceal it. His arm snaked out to move her
gently out of the way as he wedged open the lid of the second crate. He placed
it on the floor and opened the last box.

Elizabeth knelt on the floor between the three crates,
completely astonished by the offering. She took book after book out of the
crate; Gulliver’s Travels by Swift, Amelia by Fielding, selected works by
Francis Burney, Mary Wollstonecraft, Wordsworth and Walpole. “How did you know
I love to read?”

“You told me, when we were courting.” He stepped back and
set the crowbar against the wall. “You said once you thought it unfair only
boys are allowed to go to university and confided to me one moonlit night
during our walk that as a girl you often dreamed of dressing as a lad and going
off to those sacred halls of learning to gain the education denied your sex.”

“Oh dear. You weren’t frightened off by such rash talk?”
Most men would be.

“Au contrare, that was the moment I knew I was in love with
you.”

Chapter
Thirty One

The portly man sitting in the ground of the prison compound
was filthy.

Still, the hate-filled eyes were unmistakable.

“Captain Fletcher!” Donovan spat on the ground. “How
thoughtful of you to join us at Ravencrest Plantation. I can personally
guarantee your stay will be long and most unpleasant.”

“You!” The middle-aged devil snarled, rising from the hard
packed earth with difficulty, given his leg shackles. He raised a pair of dirty
fists in defiance, the chains joining his wrists jangling with the movement.
“Where’s that Frenchie who married my girl? I demand to see Count Rochembeau.
Mark me; he’ll not like this shabby treatment of his relative!”

Donovan smiled. Jasper Winslow, the overseer, smiled. Gus
O’Leary laughed out loud.

Ambrose grinned his malice and snapped the bull whip around
Fletcher’s legs, pulling him to the ground. “On your knees, m’sieur cochon!”

“Ambrose, don’t insult the pigs.” Donovan quipped. “I’m sure
even they hold to a higher moral code than this creature.”

“O’Rourke.” Fletcher grimaced with pain. “I remember you,
sniffin’ about my stepdaughter’s skirts like a stray dog after a bitch in heat.
When my son-in-law learns--”

“Shut yer pie ‘ole!” Winslow cut in, snapping his whip near
Fletcher’s head without actually hitting him. He gestured to Donovan. “He is
the count, you bloomin’ idiot!”

“I met his lordship.” Fletcher retorted. “He’s ugly as sin.
His face is scarred.”

“Amazing what a silk scarf, an accent and a dark room will
do.” Donovan replied.

“Why, you dirty, conniving Irish Mick!” Fletcher rose and
lunged at him.

 Ambrose, Gus and Winslow quickly moved in to restrain the
man.

“She put you up to this, didn’t she? That ungrateful little
slut—Oow—“

Before Donovan could respond, Ambrose had his whip coiled
about the captain’s throat. He held it taut with both hands as he stood behind
his captive. He waited stoically for a signal from his employer to decide if
the man would live or die in the next instant.

“I’ll thank you not to talk about my wife in such low
terms.” At his signal, Ambrose released Fletcher and stepped back. Fletcher
fell onto all fours at Donovan’s feet, choking and gasping for breath. “In
fact, I’d rather you not soil the air she breathes by speaking at all during
your stay here. Pigs don’t talk, they grunt.” Donovan grabbed a thatch of
greasy brown hair in his fist, jerking the man’s head until he was forced to
look up at him. “I can have your tongue cut out if you persist in these
insults. I can, and I will.”

There was no remorse in those eyes, no fear as he gazed up
at his new master. “Oh.” Fletcher cooed with pernicious venom. “The Irish dog
is in love with his little whore!”