Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  Looking at his face was a mistake. His pale eyes had become pools of regret. “Will you forgive me for upsetting you earlier, dearest?”

  She wanted to forget this afternoon. “That depends. Does Pearl still have skin on his back?”

  A brief irritation marred his countenance. Well, if the man thought she’d melt into a gooey puddle at his feet if he played the romantic swain, he had another thing coming.

  “It was a figure of speech, nothing more. I was concerned Pearl may have allowed a bad element into the cabin in my absence.”

  Elizabeth remained silent. She clutched her glass with both hands.

  Lean fingers lifted her chin to meet his gaze. She was unprepared for the soulful expression therein. “I behaved badly. I frightened you and I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

  As a nobleman, the fact that he would apologize at all was remarkable. “Yes, my lord.”

  “My name is Donovan.” He whispered, his breath caressing her cheek.

  Elizabeth released her stilted breath, unsettled by his nearness. Muscular arms surrounded her, drawing her close. The fragrance of spices greeted her, and the faint scent of tobacco. Beneath the familiar, the faint musky smell of his skin was alluring. Her eyes wandered to his lips. She wondered how they might taste if he kissed her.

  “Donovan.” They whispered and his rich lyrical voice added to the seduction. “Say my name, Elizabeth.”

  Apology or not, he was still very much in control, while she was swiftly becoming the aforementioned puddle melting in his arms. “I like calling you ‘my lord’.”

  “Everyone calls me ‘my lord’.” Hovering an inch from her face, his lips tantalized her as his warm breath caressed her mouth.

  “Well, you are my lord, are you not?” Too late, she realized her mistake.

  “I am. Say my name.”

  “Donovan.” She whispered, lifting her gaze from his lips to those mesmerizing eyes. Elizabeth knew in that instant she’d been neatly cornered by the wolf. All she could think of was that he might kiss her. She hoped he would.

  The water glass was pried from her hands. He set it on the floor. A firm hand slid between the cushion and her bare bottom as he lifted her onto his lap. He removed his hand from her bum as soon as he had her settled and wrapped both his arms about her waist.

  “’And slowly, Beauty came to realize the Beast would not devour her before the evening meal, perhaps not at all’.” A shiver ran down her spine as she recognized the quote from Beauty and the Beast. “At least not in one night. Such a delicious morsel should be savored slowly.”

  “Where is your big knife?” She asked, her face growing hot. She hoped to steer the conversation to a safer subject.

  A deep rumbling laugh was his answer. Elizabeth started, and stared at him with amazed pleasure. She’d never heard him laugh before. It was a pleasant sound, but she failed to see what he found amusing. He’d had that nasty dagger strapped to his thigh this afternoon. The sharp buckle should be biting her bottom as it had when he held her like this earlier, but it was not.

  “I put it away.” He said, grinning. “I noticed you had a mark on your bottom when I put you to bed earlier.”

  Elizabeth gasped her outrage and looked away as the color rose fast and furious to her cheeks. “You’ve no business poking about down there!”

  “I beg to differ. As you pointed out, I am your lord.”

  She’d never live down that stupid remark! “Stop it.” She demanded. It came out as a plea.

  His lips curled into a wicked smirk. “Your nightgown was twisted about your hips when I put you to bed. As your delightful derriere is typically flawless ivory, I couldn’t miss a nasty red welt glaring up at me, now could I?”

  Averting her gaze, she groaned at his casual description of her undignified state, fearing her complexion could not turn a deeper shade of crimson if she were standing naked before him now with her backside openly displayed for his perusal. Did he have to be so bloody honest?

  He rubbed her arm affectionately. “You should have said something earlier, my sweet.”

  She hadn’t noticed earlier. She’d been crying so hard nothing else compared to the raw ache in her chest. It was only being on his lap again that made her recall the small buckle hasp was not poking painfully into her bottom as before.

  “You blush so easily, my love. I’ll just have to find another way to bring color to your cheeks.” He laughed as his palm cupped her face. “I meant these cheeks, of course.”

  Elizabeth didn’t reply to his saucy remark. Her hot cheeks said quite enough. She was starting to feel weak and spent, not up to the task of sparring verbally with him any longer.

  Noting her weariness, he shifted beneath her and arranged her so she was reclining across his lap with her head cradled in the crook of his elbow as it rested against the sofa arm. “Would you like to hear the story again of how we met?”

  Again? She didn’t remember him telling her before this. Elizabeth nodded and settled into a comfortable repose as he explained their first meeting. Michael brought him home for dinner one night. Not just any night, it was her birthday, and Donovan was her ‘present’.

  Elizabeth nibbled her lower lip and concentrated, very hard. Nothing. He may as well have been telling her the events of another person’s life. She couldn’t recall any of it. Apparently the man had gone to great lengths to make her his wife—but it didn’t mean that he loved her. He wouldn’t be the first to marry the descendent of a cast off heiress with the hope that all would be mended within the family one day and a sizeable portion of the inheritance might come to him.

  “I see a question.” He prompted, watching her. “Share it with me.”

  “Well,” She began, fearing it was entirely too cheeky to question the man’s motive for marrying her. “I can’t remember any of it. And you didn’t actually say--” That you love me! She sucked in her breath. Oh, Bollocks, there was no going forward and no going back. “I-I was wondering—sir--if you ever . . . kissed me?”

  “Yes, many times.” He replied with amusement. “It must be terrible to not remember one’s first kiss or the man who gave it to you beneath a canopy of summer stars.”

  He made it sound so poetic. “Could you do it again, sir--so I might have a sense of what it must have been like?”

  Before she knew what he was about, he bent and his lips brushed hers in a brief caress. “There, a typical first kiss from a devoted suitor.” He said, smiling as he drew away.

  “Is that how you kissed me before?” Elizabeth felt oddly disappointed by the brief exchange. She sensed there was more to this kissing business then he was letting on.

  “I was holding back a little. I didn’t want to overwhelm you. Would you like me to do it again, properly this time?”

  She nodded. His face lowered and his lips caressed her with more enthusiasm. Not merely his lips, but his whole body suddenly became dedicated to the single purpose of kissing her. Powerful thighs tensed beneath her bottom, strong arms tightened about her, enfolding her and cradling her against his solid form as his sensual mouth teased and tantalized her lips.

  A knowing thumb on the depression of her chin parted her lips. Their lips formed a tight seal as his kiss deepened. She mimicked his movements, and was rewarded as the pleasure intensified. His lips were soft, yet insistent, his mouth warm and inviting as it melted into hers. It was an exhilarating, deeply satisfying, and very intimate gesture.

  He drew away, his smoky pale eyes measuring her response. “Does that please my lady?”

  “Yes.” She whispered through tingling, swollen lips. Demented butterflies seemed intent on creating an exit through her abdomen. Elizabeth took a deep, steadying breath in a futile effort to calm her shuddering heart.

  The count’s satisfied smirk told her she’d just given him the advantage in the war of wills between them. If this was the pleasant reward of surrendering, then perhaps surrender was not as distasteful as she’d been led to believe.

  ****
***

  Donovan gazed at the sleeping angel in his arms. These incidents of narcolepsy were disconcerting. Ah, but she looked peaceful, his own sweet Aphrodite fallen from Mt. Olympus, straight into his open arms.

  He was content to sit with his goddess draped across his lap, watch her sleep and savor the victory of engaging her in her very first kiss--for the second time. It was a pleasant end to a harrowing day. In the midst of her frantic weeping this afternoon, her eyes had rolled back and she succumbed to the effects of a full blow grand mal seizure. When the convulsions ceased he carried her to the bed, dreading the moment her eyes would open and he’d have to explain what just occurred. But Elizabeth did not wake up. She slept like the dead for six hours.

  Tonight, she didn’t seem to recall the seizure.

  He wasn’t about to tell her, it would frighten her needlessly.

  As for himself, he was not going to panic.

  One seizure did not constitute epilepsy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Another week passed with inescapable languor. After days of coaxing, Donovan finally led his anxious bride into the invigorating world of brilliant sunshine and crisp sea breezes snapping at full sails.

  He’d taken the precaution of sending most of the crew below, save the handful it took to mind the rigging. Still, Elizabeth scanned her surroundings continually, keeping track of each man’s movements in proximity to her own. Donovan ground his teeth to restrain the urge to comfort her. There was nothing to be done except face her fear of strangers—of male strangers in groups. His chest burned. It was his fault, this pervading fear haunting his darling’s eyes.

  He was well acquainted with that species of fear. He killed because of it. That first year after his release from the Bastille all it took was an unexpected hand on his shoulder. He didn’t think. He reacted, like the cornered animal he’d been reduced to in the torturer’s den. His crew learned quickly that it was not healthy to touch him without permission. He still didn’t like being around people who he didn’t know well. He preferred to live as a recluse. Lizzie would carry her aversion to men for a long time, perhaps forever. It wasn’t her fault. It was his. He failed to protect her, and he would never make that mistake again as long as he lived.

  “Look down, darlin’.” He coaxed to distract her. “Sometimes dolphins swim alongside.” Lizzie did as he asked, forgetting the men minding the rigging above their heads.

  “Oh, did you see that!” She rose on her tiptoes and leaned over the rail.

  “Don’t lean out so far.” He chastened, suffering a pang at her quick movements. He placed a hand around her waist and pulled her back from the dangerous precipice. “Two more.” He pointed out a pair surfacing beyond the ship’s prow and hugged her securely about the waist with both arms, from behind her.

  They watched for half an hour before their aquatic escort disappeared beneath the rolling seas. Elizabeth turned in his arms to look up at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes vivacious with excitement for the first time in many weeks. Donovan couldn’t resist. He lowered his face and captured her lush pink lips in an exhilarating kiss. Elizabeth merely endured his caress but did not return it. He drew back, deeply aware she was intimidated by her new surroundings.

  “What do you think of my winged horse?” He waved a hand about the deck expansively. “The Pegasus glides through the winds and the rolling waves. She bears us home, lass.”

  “It’s a grand ship, my lord.” Elizabeth forced herself to smile. She could see that her husband was as proud of his ship as any boy might be with an expensive toy. He talked about his ‘winged horse’ a little more and held her hand on his arm as they strolled the main deck.

  “My lord?” She ventured after several moments of silence between them. “You said if I had concerns regarding my past you wished me to share them with you.”

  “I have also asked you to address me informally, my dear. Is that so much to ask?”

  “No sir.” She mumbled. Addressing him by his Christian name was a form of intimacy, one she wasn’t certain she was willing to embrace. She hadn’t the benefit of a long courtship to become as familiar with him as he seemed to be with her. She’d awakened in his bed and was told they were married. She was still trying to reconcile herself to the abruptness of it. Thus corrected again, she retreated into silence.

  “What troubles you, my sweet?” The count asked after a few prickly moments.

  “When did you start calling me Lizzie?”

  “Since the day we met or shortly thereafter. Do you dislike it?”

  “No, sir—Donovan.” She tested the name with her tongue. “I was just curious.”

  She liked his pet name for her. She liked the way he said it, with a happy inflection that was full of warmth and affection as if they were old chums.

  “You mean, that night, when Michael brought you home.” She clarified, mentally feeling about for the security of a stone wall as amnesia had left her groping about in the darkness.

  “Yes, my love.” He replied in his usual patient tone when she quizzed him about their courtship. He seemed to understand her need to review what he had told her from time to time to help solidify the events in her mind. “It was your birthday. Michael asked me to dinner. He didn’t tell me that I was to be your present.” He gave her a charming smile.

  Thus fortified by the familiar conversational pattern, she pushed herself to ask the unpleasant question nibbling away at her. “So then, how did Sheila die?”

  The count regarded her with arched brows and parted lips, shocked by her odd inquiry. He quickly mastered his surprise and trained his features into a practiced calm. “I’m not certain. I was in London arranging things with Fletcher. It was probably her heart.”

  “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.

&nbs
p; “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.