by Silver, Lily
“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!”
Donovan snatched the whip from Winslow’s hand and slapped the coiled serpent across the man’s torso repeatedly as Fletcher crouched on all fours and tried to protect his head with his chained hands. Donovan relished each jerk and grunt of pain as the dirty shirt became soaked with crimson.
Tossing the whip aside, he hauled Fletcher to his feet and shoved his raw back against the stone wall. Fletcher groaned. “I should kill you for what you did to her.” Donovan snarled through clenched teeth, barely able to contain his rage. His hands closed around that grimy throat. “Another word about my wife and I’ll strap you to my surgery table, bleed you, boil the flesh from your carcass and hang your bones next to those of your old friend, Dr. Linton.”
At last, the hard, hate-filled eyes widened with horror.
“Oh, yes, we discovered your mole during the passage. His skeleton is in my laboratory, waiting to be strung together and put in a display case, a personal trophy you might say. I also have Captain Sully’s skull. I use it for a paper weight. Care to join you’re old chums, Fletcher?”
“Y-y-you’re mad!” Fletcher croaked.
“Perhaps.” Donovan conceded, releasing his hold on the man and stepping back. Fletcher sank to the ground, coughing and wheezing. “Pray I am not. According to English law allowing the purchase of criminals for indentured servitude, your sorry ass belongs to me.”
“I’m a free man!” Fletcher bellowed. His face was florid with renewed rage. “You kidnapped me and you have no right to keep me here.”
“Men are kidnapped all the time, are they not?” Donovan held out his arms in an expansive gesture. “Some by their own government, forced to sail the world for King and Country. And nothing, short of a pirate, I’m told, can save them.” Donovan turned on his heel to Gus. “Isn’t that what happened to you, Mr. O’Leary?”
“Aye.” Gus replied. “Pressed onto a naval vessel bound for Ceylon, I was, until pirates attacked the ship I was on and set me free. I’ll be forever grateful to that pirate, sir.”
Donovan gave O’Leary a gallant bow in acknowledgement of said gratitude before continuing his argument with his prisoner. “Why, I’ve even heard tales of little boys being ripped from the bosom of their families to become victims of the spiriting trade.” He turned to Fletcher as he delivered his final riposte. “I recently met a man who survived that brutal fate. His name is Kieran O’Flaherty. Would you care to meet him, Captain Fletcher?”
“I didn’t . . .” Fletcher began and stopped as Donovan removed the curved dagger from the sheath he had strapped to his thigh and stepped toward his prey.
“Oh, you did.” Donovan countered, directing his men to move in with his weapon.
Gus, Ambrose and Winslow converged upon Fletcher, holding him fast. Donovan stepped forward, his blade aloft between his face and Fletcher’s. Holding his victim’s chin securely in one hand, he spat on the man’s face and scraped his cheek with the blade, giving him a much needed shave as he spoke. “You kidnapped an earl’s heir and sold him to white slavers eighteen years ago, a crime punishable by transportation, at the very least. Add to that the hiring of thugs to kidnap a countess—my countess!” Donovan’s eyes widened at the last and his blade deftly sliced the man’s cheek, drawing blood. “And I’m certain a hanging would be your future. That is, if you wish to pursue the legal avenues. Say the word, captain, and I can arrange to have you brought before the local magistrate before the day is out.”
“No!” Fletcher’s eyes betrayed his panic at the suggestion. “No—I—I—“
“Ah, I thought not.” Donovan said with a wry grin. “Could be a bit tricky for you, what with stepchildren still alive and able to testify against you, despite your efforts to the contrary.” He spat on his dagger and wiped the blood and stubble on Fletcher’s soiled shirt.
“So, you brought me all this way to kill me, is that it?”
“No.” Donovan slipped the dagger into the sheath strapped to his thigh. “That would be a kindness you don’t deserve. As you recall, I paid off all your notes a few months back. In return, I’ll have eighteen years hard labor for all the years you tormented my wife.”
Fletcher’s distress grew at the prospect of a lifetime of forced labor.
“Where do you want him kept,” Winslow asked. “In the compound, with the others?”
“No. Chain him up with the pigs.” Donovan replied. “He’ll sleep with the pigs in the prison yard. He’ll eat from their trough. During the day, he’ll work the fields with the others, but keep him in leg irons. And no machete for this one or any other tool he could use as a weapon. And no rum rations. He’s the most dangerous when he’s drunk.”
*******
Donovan rode along the winding roads as the sun lowered in the sky.
He couldn’t stop thinking of all the things he longed to do to Fletcher now that he had the man in his power. His blood was seething and boiling in his veins, his mind whirling at all the wicked possibilities; he could use him for target practice or make him flush out the poisonous snakes hiding in the uncut cane. They lost at least one man every season to a venomous snake bite while cutting the stalks.
The one thing Donovan could not do was go home. Elizabeth’s intuition would find him out. She’d be frightened by the violence seething in his soul. He’d spent the past days trying to surround her with calm. He couldn’t go to her until he gained control of his turbulent emotions.
As the sun melted into the sea, he guided his mount down the path to the beach and allowed Zeus to cantor across the sands. They raced along the white sand, through the crashing waves toward the rocky promontory that reached into the ocean. When they reached the rocks Donovan turned his mount and galloped back down the shore.
By the time he’d repeated the invigorating race up and down the shoreline two more times Zeus’ sides were heaving. Donovan dismounted and allowed the Arabian to sample the foliage growing along the embankment. He sat down on the sandy rise a few feet from the horse, braced his forearms across his bent knees and allowed the steady boom of the crashing surf to surround him as he attempted to calm his heart in the growing twilight.
He continued to struggle with his primitive emotions as he made long strides from the stables to the house. He ambled about his laboratory, searching for a distraction. His eye caught the report lying open on his desk, the investigation on O’Flaherty’s background. He picked it up with renewed interest as he sank into the overstuffed chair behind his desk.
Twenty minutes later, Kieran O’Flaherty entered the laboratory at his summons. “Sit, Kieran.” Donovan gestured to the seat opposite his desk. “Would you care for glass of port?”
“No sir.” The sparse, tall redhead edged around the newly arrived crates of scientific equipment stacked near the door. Emerald eyes took in the specimens lining the walls with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
Donovan watched the man survey his collection of preserved animals, birds and reptiles with mild amusement. Scientific classification had been his hobby since childhood, much to his mother’s chagrin, as
he preferred to spend hours cloistered in his attic laboratory as a lad rather than in parlors under her enforced attempts to socialize him. His adult studies included human specimens. He had organs preserved in glass jars of salt brine and vinegar. A human brain was on the shelf behind him, compliments of the hangman in Basseterre. Donovan extracted it from a cadaver that came to him in exceptional condition, despite the typically destructive processes of execution.
“You wished to speak to me, sir?” O’Flaherty slid into the chair opposite his desk.
“Yes.” He replied, pouring himself a glass of port and pausing to offer his guest a glass. Kieran declined his offer. “Are you sure? It’s very smooth, well aged, from Portugal.”
“I don’t imbibe in spirits, my lord. It tends to muddy my perceptions.”
Donovan sat back in his chair and extended his long legs beneath the desk. He cradled the goblet of ruby liquid between his fingers. “Ah, yes. You make your living using your peculiar perceptions.” He took a sip of the fine port and slumped lower in the chair, determined to be comfortable. “You are reputed as an adept in the metaphysical realm, according to my reports.”
O’Flaherty swallowed convulsively. “Reports? You had me investigated?”
“Not all of us possess the gift of second sight. My agent merely questioned the locals to verify your claims.” He took a sip of his drink, and watched Kieran’s reaction. “My wife is very precious to me. I could never allow another man near her without scrutinizing his background, particularly not one who has the potential to engage her heart. A long lost brother is no trifling gift to present to such a fragile soul.”
Nodding, O’Flaherty conceded Donovan’s point, yet he was rankled, all the same. “Barnaby’s position in the city is precarious. The wrong inquiries could cast suspicion—“
“--Yes, he could be driven out of town due to his dealings in sorcery and necromancy.” Donovan finished with impatience. “And a bit of larceny, given his advertisement promising, let me see, how does that go? Ah, yes discrete and efficient resolutions for those troubled by spirits—prices negotiable.” He quoted the handbill in his file, lifting it to wave at his guest.