by Silver, Lily
Elizabeth nodded. His words held a deeper meaning than the woman between them could know. Her face burned. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at him without turning scarlet.
“Chloe, you may go, for now.” Donovan addressed the maid. “Come back in an hour.”
Elizabeth studied her hands and choked on the pain rising in her throat. She didn’t want to be alone with him. Not now. Whatever could she say? And there were those penetrating eyes to contend with, eyes that seemed to look right through her. He knew. He knew she was tainted.
“How are you today?” Donovan’s strangely cheerful voice invaded her panic.
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She kept looking at her lap. Puck stood, stretched, and came to stand on her legs. She stroked the tabby’s back, desperate for distraction to avoid meeting that pale blue gaze. Puck turned about beneath her hand, raising his rump higher beneath her attentions and me-owing his pleasure.
The dark figure at the edge of her vision moved closer. Puck stiffened, and poised himself to investigate the huge bouquet of tropical flowers edging beneath Elizabeth’s downcast gaze. “I found these outside my laboratory. They’re Frangipani, a local bloom.”
The kitten rose on tiptoes and sniffed reverently, as if the offering were meant for him.
The petals were a deep, vibrant pink. “They’re beautiful. I’m sure Puck will enjoy shredding them.” She whispered, her voice having deepened with pain. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble, sir, I honestly didn’t think the captain—“
Two long, lean fingers covered her lips. “Don’t apologize. And don’t call me sir. You know I despise such formality from you.”
Thus corrected, she sat holding the flowers, wishing she could wilt into the mattress.
“Sweet Lizzie.” Donovan sank down before her on the bed and bracketed her face with his big hands. “You remember last night, don’t you? I hoped you wouldn’t. Don’t do this. Don’t torment yourself over something you couldn’t control.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice warbled with emotion. “My precious girl, that man raped you—“
“No--I told you--he didn’t. He didn’t rape me. I’m still— a maid!” A flush of hot tears made her world blur. And thus she was spared the agony of looking into the pale, penetrating blue eyes of the man she loved, eyes that knew her most wretched secret.
“He raped you.” Donovan insisted. “He forced himself on you against your will, the same as if he’d forced himself on you in the traditional manner.”
“You weren’t supposed to know!” She squeaked, as her throat clogged up with thick, hot, mortifying emotion. “No one was ever supposed to know.”
“I needed to know. And you needed to tell me.” Donovan pulled her against him. He hugged her fiercely. His hand guided her head to rest in the familiar nook beneath his chin. “We’ll get through this, my love. I promise. We’ll get through this, together.”
*******
Donovan steeled himself against the searing pain in his heart as her anguished cries filled the room. The tears were necessary to bring healing, just as one needed to lance a festering wound and allow the infected material to be released. He let go of her for a moment and piled the pillows against the headboard so he could recline sitting upright. He turned about, extending his legs, boots and all, on the bed and then drew his wounded goddess into his arms.
Gradually, her sobs ceased and she slept.
He closed his eyes for a moment, content to lay with his darling cradled in his arms.
An eerie presentiment jarred him. Donovan opened his eyes. A pale woman with long, dark hair stood next to his bed. She was peering down at him while he lay asleep. She wore a white gown and seemed so forlorn he immediately felt pity for her.
And then, her face transformed from fragile waif to harpy as malice filled soulless black eyes. Before he could utter a sound the woman disappeared like mist before his eyes.
It was a dream, he decided as his heart cantered past the gateposts of logic and reason. He’d hardly slept for two nights running. He’d simply dozed off without realizing it and had a nightmare. Donovan settled a sleeping Lizzie on the pillows, and rose with reluctance.
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 wa
sn’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.
“The Englishwoman is cursed.” His grandmother continued, looking directly at him.
Donovan took a step back and attempted to hear her words over the pounding hooves as his blood raced through his temples and thundered over his heart.