Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) (33 page)

He wished he could just lie here with Lizzie in his arms for
the rest of the day.

He could not rest, not until he confronted the charlatan
awaiting him in the salon.

Chapter
Twenty Eight

A tall, slender, flame haired man entered Donovan’s
laboratory behind the butler.

Giles gave his master a significant look before withdrawing
and closing the door.

Donovan thought he’d steeled himself to meet with the
impostor, but the moment he laid eyes on the fellow, the universe shifted
beneath his feet.

The man possessed features Donovan knew by heart; high
cheekbones, a perfect nose, a slender jaw and a stubborn set to his chin. Hair
the color of sunset was shoulder length, tied back in a queue. Framed beneath
arched auburn brows, the visitor’s eyes were neither blue nor green but a
curious mix of both-- like the woman lying upstairs in his bed. Donovan saw the
tragic vulnerability he observed a thousand times in his wife’s features. The
expression was fleeting; quickly masked by pride and willfulness, more traits
belonging to the woman he loved.

He understood Giles’ bewilderment. If not for the span of
years between them, this man could be Elizabeth’s twin.

“Mr. O’Flaherty.” Uncle Gareth walked across the room,
extending his hand. “I’m Gareth O’Donovan, his lordship’s relative.” Gareth
shot Donovan an uneasy glance, unsure if he should make known their blood ties
to a stranger.

“This is my esteemed uncle.” Donovan responded, wanting to
clear away any uncertainty on that account. “Have a seat.” He instructed with
impatience. “I have little time. My wife is seriously ill and I don’t wish to
be away from her for long.”

“I know. That’s why I came.” The man replied with a trace of
impudence.

“You know?” Donovan frowned, the enchantment quickly losing
its power. He opened his bank book. “That fact was not in the society page, Mr.
O’Flaherty or whoever you are.”

Gareth gave an exasperated sigh and sent Donovan a look of
censure.

Well, he was exhausted, damn it! He should be upstairs with
Elizabeth. He didn’t wish to deal with a con man claiming to be her long dead
brother. Sheila told him about the mysterious disappearance of her grandson
when Lizzie was born. Donovan came to the same conclusion the old woman had;
the boy was murdered long ago to secure Fletcher’s son as the legitimate heir.

“No, it wasn’t in the papers.” Turquoise eyes flashed to a
dangerous green, just like Elizabeth’s when she was angry. “Nor was it in the
papers that Lady Beaumont has an older brother of Irish descent. If you believe
me to be an imposter, my lord, how would I possess knowledge of the existence
of Kieran O’Flaherty?”

“You could have worked on the same plantation in your
youth.” It was Gareth voicing Donovan’s thoughts aloud. “Knowing his history
and possessing a similar coloring, you may have decided to see if you could
pass yourself off as him.”

“To what end? Viscount O’Flaherty lost everything when he
was arrested. And how is it you know Kieran O’Flaherty was sold as an
indenture?” The man fixed Gareth with accusation before leveling crisp emerald
shards at Donovan. “If they knew what happened to me, why didn’t they try to
find me?”

It was a valid question. The pain the man’s voice revealed
much.

Still, Donovan was determined to be careful, to play his
hand to the last card.

“No one knows for certain what happened to Viscount
O’Flaherty’s son.” Donovan replied. “It may interest you to know the boy was
declared legally dead fifteen years ago.”

“When Captain Fletcher’s son was born.” The man gripped the
arms of the chair, his manner grave. “I didn’t come here for money, your
lordship.”

“So, if I wrote a bank note for two thousand pounds with the
proviso that you never attempt to contact my wife, you wouldn’t take it?”

“I would not.” The face was unwavering as the man returned
his challenge.

They eyed one another in silence, each one taking the
other’s measure.

“Money cannot replace the loss of family.” The man responded
hotly, bolting from his chair. “My father and my uncles were hanged when I was
nine. I watched them die, along with my mother and my grandmother. We were
evicted from the castle shortly thereafter, in the dead of winter.” He paced
about the room, his hands fisting at his sides. “Alone and without funds, in a
strange land, my mother had no recourse but to remarry quickly. Captain
Fletcher took us back to London. My mother died several months later in
childbirth, so I was told. Fletcher sold me to white slavers the next morning,
without waiting until Mama had a proper burial. Barnaby bought my indenture. I
came to him as Kieran O’Flaherty when I was nine years of age.”

The man stopped pacing. “Imagine my shock, my lord, as I
pick up the weekly newspaper and discover I have a younger sister who is very
much alive. And imagine my concern as I recall a tale I heard in the taverns
last week, told and retold for the price of a drink by a pair recently fired
from here. They speak of a twisted count who keeps his bride locked up like a
prisoner in her own home. Imagine, my lord, finding out the sad heroine of such
a sinister tale is none other than your own baby sister!”

“Elias and Henry.” Donovan remarked. “I fired them for
making lewd advances to my wife.” He shot Gareth a significant look. Gareth
nodded, supporting him in his word.

O’Flaherty observed the exchange between them.

“And as the head of Clan O’Flaherty it is my duty to make
certain my sister is being treated well here--and if not, to remedy the
situation.” Emerald shards fixed Donovan with challenge. “I’m not afraid to
call you out, sir. The O’Flahertys always take care of their own!”

Donovan’s jaw dropped. Sheila muttered that same phrase many
times in his hearing. He fully expected to be fleeced out of a few thousand
pounds by a wily fellow with red hair and a fake Irish accent. He didn’t expect
his honor to be challenged by a thin, spindly creature who had obviously never
handled a weapon in his life. Only a Chieftain’s son, raised in the old world,
would possess such a fierce loyalty to blood kin.

He stood and extended his hand. “I hope that won’t be
necessary, Mr. O’Flaherty.”

Reluctantly, O’Flaherty took his hand. “My lord. Or should I
say Mr. O’Rourke?”

“You’re the apothecary’s assistant in Basseterre.” Donovan
recalled, unable to restrain a grin. “We have much to discuss, but not now. My
wife is ill. I must give her my full attentions.”

“I understand.” O’Flaherty responded after a moment, as if
deciding Donovan was telling the truth. “I came to find out if my sister is
well after the horrors she endured during her abduction. I already knew the
rumors circulating in Basseterre about you are unfounded, sir.”

The words shot through Donovan like a jolt of lightening. No
one knew of Lizzie abduction. No one but himself and the crew of The Pegasus,
and he’d paid them a fortune to keep silent to protect her reputation. Donovan
looked down, inherently conscious of O’Flaherty’s hand on his arm long after
their handshake ended. No one touched him. Not without his knowledge and
permission. And yet . . . this man had been touching him for several moments
without both.

That was his first thought. The second realization came
swiftly galloping over the first awareness: Lizzie saw things when touching
others. Could a full blood brother possess that gift?

“Mr. O’Flaherty,” Donovan said emphatically, extracting his
wrist from the man’s grasp. “You are welcome to remain as my guest for as long
as you wish, but only with the promise that you will not attempt to see
Elizabeth without my permission. She had a severe seizure two days ago. I cannot
allow her to become agitated at present. In a few days she may be well enough
to meet you. Today, it’s out of the question. Can you agree to those terms?”

“Yes.” O’Flaherty’s surprise revealed that he did not expect
to be treated so graciously by the notorious Count Rochembeau.

*******

The last strands of sunlight melted into the western sea.
The room was bathed in a soft orange glow. Donovan sat in the chair near the
bed, drinking scotch and dining on ashes after the events of the past days. His
booted legs were propped on the mattress, his ankles crossed. He’d sent Pearl
to the cellar to fetch a bottle of his grandfather’s prized Scotch, as he
craved something stronger than port to steady his stretched nerves.

After meeting with O’Flaherty, Donovan returned to his suite
to find his wife curled up with pain, clutching her abdomen. She claimed it was
nothing and begged him to leave her to Chloe’s care. He refused. Realizing he
was not about to back down and slink away as she’d hoped, Elizabeth blushed and
hid her face in the pillow as she confessed the nature of her strange
affliction; severe menstrual pains. She admitted to having an irreverent cycle
that stretched close to two months between purges, causing heavy bleeding and
excruciating pain when it did arrive.

His physician’s mind wandered down a more perilous path as
he silently assessed her symptoms. His worst fear was internal bleeding due to
the severe beating she’d endured from the smuggler. The intermittent chills and
the coldness of her extremities contributed to his fear, along with the
distressing abdominal pain and the frightening pallor of her skin. He’d tucked
the blankets about her as he worried about what to do, at which point his boot
inadvertently kicked over a porcelain chamber pot next to the bed containing
bloody linens.

Relief flooded him as he bent to inspect the discarded
linens. He rose, lifted the blanket and pressed his palm over the place she’d
been cradling protectively. Donovan winced. He could feel the powerful
contractions seizing her womb. They were intense, like one of his mares when
they were about to deliver a foal. He’d heard of Dysmenorrhea, the medical term
for painful menstruation. He read about it in a medical text years ago when
he’d been a student. That was the extent of his knowledge, an abstract term
that meant nothing to him--until today-- when he witnessed the agony the
affliction was bringing to the woman he cared about. At a loss as to what to
do, he administered a mild dose of Laudanum to ease her suffering. He’d have to
do some research, find or develop some herbal formula so she wouldn’t suffer so
every time. He rubbed his brow and propped his head in his hand as he admired
the sleeping angel in his bed.

Lizzie’s cat was slumbering at her side. The kitten perked
up, stretching lazily on his tiptoes. Donovan patted his lap. The red tabby
crossed the chasm between bed and chair using Donovan’s crossed legs as a
bridge. “You’re quite the brick.” He said, rubbing the tiger behind his ears
and receiving a loud purr of gratitude. “Is there anyone you don’t like? You
make friends too easily. You should be more reserved. Not all humans are nice
to fat kitties, you know.”

Green eyes gazed up at him solemnly. Puck commented with a
mournful meow, as if he understood precisely what Donovan had been saying.

A couple of glasses of scotch would do that to a fellow. A
few more glasses and he’d understand what the cat was saying. He downed his
drink in one swallow and poured another, welcoming the numbing effects as the
fiery liquid coursed through his insides. Puck crawled on his shoulder and
batted at the hair that came loosened from his queue. The kitten chewed on it
for a while, alternately biting his hair and licking his earlobe before curling
cozily against his neck. Donovan’s eyelids became heavy. He should lie down
beside his wife, but it required too much effort. Besides, the cat was
comfortable, purring against his neck in a mesmerizing tone.

*******

A low, feral growling startled Donovan from his inebriated
doze.

He opened his eyes and his heart stopped. The hair on the
back of his neck rose.

Puck was still on his shoulder, crouched and growling at the
dark haired woman he’d seen in his dream this afternoon. She was bending over
Elizabeth, whispering some insistent message in her ear.

The woman wasn’t alive. Donovan knew it instinctively, just
like the cat.

As he watched, the mysterious woman drew back the covers and
slipped pale arms beneath his sleeping wife. Elizabeth was lifted above the bed
. . . and then hurled across the room as if she were naught but a feather
pillow.

The bone crunching thud of Lizzie’s body hitting the floor
was enough to stir him out of his stunned lethargy. He stood and grabbed the
only weapon at his disposal, the empty bottle of scotch. “Get away from my
wife.” He warned, tossing the bottle at the pale woman in white.

The bottle went through the woman’s body and shattered the
dressing mirror across the room. The sound of tinkling glass gave solid
evidence that he was not dreaming.

The pale woman grimaced at him. Her face became ugly and
skeletal. She gave him a look of pure malice before disappearing into thin air,
just as she had earlier today when he awakened from a startled doze to find her
hovering near him.

Donovan rushed to Elizabeth’s side.

“Donovan . . .” She murmured, hugging him in recognition
through her drug induced daze. He carried her to the bed and settled the covers
about her. He stood looking down at her as she returned to a serene slumber. He
ran a hand through his loose hair, and turned toward the doorway, desperately
searching for tangible proof that he was not losing his mind.

 “Poor child.” The soft cooing came from behind him. He
twisted on his heels and nearly shrieked his horror aloud. His dead grandmother
was hovering over Elizabeth, stroking her hair with a transparent hand. “I’ve
tried to protect her. The woman is too powerful.”

This was why people shouldn’t drink! He thought with revived
conviction. Donovan tried to swallow. His throat was bone dry. He didn’t seem
to have a drop of spit left in him.