by Silver, Lily
Donovan’s countenance became a study of shame and regret. He looked down for a moment, as if to avoid her gaze, and then, thinking better of it, he raised his eyes to meet hers. “I had him kidnapped after your rescue. I learned from Captain Sully that Fletcher hired the smugglers to abduct you. I wanted revenge. I wanted him to pay for what he did to you. So I made him my indenture. But I underestimated his--“
“You brought the devil to us!” Elizabeth shrieked. Everyone in the room froze and watched them. “You brought the devil here.” She slapped him across the face and pushed at him. He didn’t budge. She hit his solid torso with her balled fist, and then pounded his chest, over and over. “I trusted you, do you hear me? I trusted you--how could you bring him here?”
Donovan didn’t move. He didn’t restrain her. Ambrose stepped close with an imposing frown, but the others merely watched as she vented her fury. She kept hitting Donovan and screaming at him, releasing all her terror. “How could you! You brought the devil to us! You did this--you did this to us--and Michael will die--”
“No, he won’t.” Donovan grabbed her fist at last, cupping it with his meaty hand. “Michael will live.”
That did it. Elizabeth crumpled against him with frantic, terrified sobs.
Donovan caught her to him, hugging her and soothing her as she cried against his blood spattered shirt. “Shhh. You’re angry with me. It’s all right. It’s over, my love. It’s all over. Fletcher is dead. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
Elizabeth nestled against him, seeking the assurance only he could give.
“Actually, my lord. That’s not necessarily true.” Mr. Barnaby informed them as he stood with his arm about Kieran. “We must act quickly, Kieran, and seal his spirit in the grave so he cannot come back to reek havoc from the spirit world.”
Kieran wavered. He staggered forward, looking as if he might drop to the floor.
Donovan released Elizabeth and went to catch her brother as he slumped forward. “Kieran is going to the surgery. He has a lead ball in his shoulder. Ambrose, Pearl, take him, please.” The men stepped in to take Kieran from Donovan. They carried him out the door and turned in the hall toward the east wing where Donovan’s laboratory was located.
“Barnaby, I believe you’ll find Miss Ramirez to be a worthy assistant for your magical endeavors. Her grandmother was the Voodoo priestess here on the island. Miss Ramirez, if you would be so kind.” Donovan turned and took Chloe’s hand, helping her to rise from the floor where she had been sitting with little Gavin before Johnny took him in his arms. Leading her by the hand to Barnaby, he continued. “If you’re going to bury the sot, my men will assist you.” He pointed to the three guards from the indenture compound, gesturing for them to follow Barnaby and Chloe’s instructions.
Elizabeth watched as her capable husband took charge of the chaos around them, directing each person to a task and seeing that all the wounded were being cared for. She loved that man. He was, and would always be her hero.
Donovan crouched to check on little Gavin. Johnny was holding the boy. Gavin clutched his older brother about the neck as if he would never let go. Donovan spoke a few soft words to the boy and stroked his back reassuringly. “Bring him to the surgery.” He told Johnny.
Donovan returned to Elizabeth, his face heavy with regret. “Forgive me, my love. I must leave you to your maid’s care.” He cupped her cheek, and brushed his thumb lovingly across her face. “I have to go pull a lead ball out of your little brother’s arse.”
*******
Elizabeth’s work was over. Donovan’s had just begun.
He wished he’d kept Miss Ramirez and Mr. Barnaby close, as both were well versed in the healing arts and could assist him with his patients. Thankfully, his valet was present. Pearl had patched Donovan up time and again during their adventures on the Indian Ocean.
Donovan would have jumped right into the fray, starting with Kieran, but Pearl stopped him. Gareth and the stocky butler helped restrain Donovan so Pearl could examine his wounds.
“My lord.” The gentle Indian argued as he held Donovan’s grazed upper arm in his slim brown hands. “If you falter from your own injuries while performing surgery on these men, your dear lady’s brothers, they will be without a competent physician’s care.”
Unable to refute the Indian’s logic, Donovan submitted to his ministrations with impatience. Pearl cleaned the gash, bandaged it, and then inspected Donovan’s stab wound.
The force of Fletcher’s throw was hindered by his seated position and the distance of ten feet to throw the blade. Fletcher’s need to hold on to his two captives with his other hand further contributed to the ineffectiveness of the knife wound penetrating deep enough to cause lasting harm. Had it been a powerful thrust close up, Donovan might be the one needing surgery at the moment or a mortician. But Fletcher was aiming for Lizzie. Had the man succeeded in hitting her in the throat where she stood second’s before, Lizzie would have been killed. Donovan’s battle carved hide provided a suitable shield against the sharp missile aimed at more vulnerable flesh.
He ruminated over his patients while Pearl washed his puncture wound and applied a generous paste of Golden Seal to it. Kieran concerned Donovan the most; his blood loss and the fact that he was presently complaining of his arm going numb. Donovan had to remove the ball but if it hit the sub-clavian artery, Kieran’s wound would be difficult if not impossible to repair.
Michael, despite the profusion of blood seeping down his leg, was the most fortunate. When Michael stood and shoved Gavin out of the way, the ball aimed at Fletcher’s chest hit Michael in the right buttock. It was a painful wound. No one could deny it. The boy wouldn’t be able to sit without a cushion under his bum for a long time. Yet, with the large areas of muscle and fat padding the human buttocks, Michael should not suffer permanent damage.
Giles, Ambrose, and two footmen were hovering nearby. Pearl had moved to Donovan’s cabinet to remove his surgical kit. “Did you order water from the kitchen?” Donovan asked, having learned in the orient that instruments purified by being dipped in scalding water before a procedure resulted in less incidence of infection in patients as wounds healed.
“Yes, my lord. Fritz brought it now. Which brother will you begin with?”
“Kieran.” He replied decisively. “The ball is in his chest, at the subclavical bone, near the shoulder. It’s a dangerous place, so close to the heart. You may begin cleaning the wound.” As he spoke, Donovan noted the short cook hurrying in with a steaming bucket of hot water. “Where were you when all this was happening?”
“Moi?” The man’s moustache quivered and wiggled, like a grotesque caterpillar above his lower lip. “Hiding in the pantry, M’sieur.” The wiry man admitted without shame. “I have no stomach for violence and blood. But I make magnifique pastries and chocolat every morning for la comtesse. Is why you keep me here, eh? Make the missus fat and happy, and when the mistress is happy, soon we will have little mouths to feed, Oui?”
Donovan waved the impudent cook away and turned his attention to his patients.
*******
Two days later Donovan awoke alone in the bed. He’d slept later than usual, but Lizzie was not one to leave their suite before him. He found his wife in Michael’s room.
Michael was lying on his side, facing Lizzie. She sat in the chair next to his bed, holding his hand. Michael was in pain. Kieran was standing behind her, his right arm resting on the back of Lizzie’s chair, his left arm in a sling due to his wounded shoulder. The Irishman gazed with a fierce protectiveness at his two younger siblings.
They were silent; the three stunned survivors of a devastating domestic war that spanned nearly two decades.
Lizzie was unharmed physically, aside the wrist she’d broken a week earlier. Emotionally, it was different matter. He expected it would be some time before this last encounter with Fletcher was behind her.
As long as Michael’s face was swollen and bruised, so would her heart be. The lad ha
d taken the brunt of Fletcher’s fury. He had a concussion from the blow he took to the back of his head when Fletcher initially subdued him on the jungle road. Added to that dangerous injury, Michael had a black eye, a broken nose, burn marks on his neck from the leather strap Fletcher used to garrote him, and he’d been shot in the bum. Loss of blood and emotional devastation added weakness to the lad’s condition.
Donovan watched the trio, unwilling to intrude. He wanted to be with Lizzie, but he knew he mustn’t be greedy about his time with her given the circumstances.
“Good Morning, my lord.” Mr. Barnaby stepped into the room, looking for Kieran, he suspected. “I was hoping I might be able to talk with you regarding Lord Greystowe’s condition?”
Donovan raised a brow at the man. Lord Greystowe’s heart was giving out. There was naught to be done. Not even the noble Foxglove plant could help, Donovan concluded, as had several physicians in England. James Wentworth was going to die in matter of months.
“He intends to return to England soon with my boy, there.” Barnaby gestured to Kieran.
“Does he?” Donovan responded. “And pray what brought about that foolish idea?”
“I was talking to him about his condition, sir.” Barnaby admitted. “I may have a potion that could help strengthen his heart, giving him a little more time. You see, there is this bark that comes from South America. The natives there used it with the aged to even out the pulse.”
That was refreshing news, indeed. Barnaby had been an apothecary for several decades. If the old man had a potion that could make the surly Lord Greystowe strong enough to leave his home and sail back to his own, Donovan was vastly in favor of it.
“Well.” Donovan sighed, eyeing his wife, whose attention was fixed upon her brothers.
“It appears I’m free at the moment. Perhaps you’d care to join me in my laboratory.”
“I’d love to.” Mr. Barnaby said with the excitement of a child about to enter a toy shop.
*******
Once Michael was asleep again, Elizabeth left him under the watchful eye of Mr. Marceau, his tutor. She liked the man. He seemed to have developed a genuine fondness for her brother. He was a pleasant, jovial fellow when out of Lord Greystowe’s grim shadow, as different from the dour, stern tutors she and Michael endured as children as day was from night. Donovan appointed the man, and that explained a great deal.
She smiled at the tutor as Kieran escorted her out of the room. She had yet another reason to be grateful to her husband. He wisely chose a man to teach Michael who would do so by being his friend instead of his disciplinarian.
“Where are you off to now?” Kieran asked, following her as she moved down the hallway to the main staircase. “You should rest upstairs. You’re still recovering from the stress of the other day. And the baby needs rest, Elizabeth. That’s quite a shock we put him through.”
“I promised to visit little Gavin.” Elizabeth replied, ignoring his caution. Only Kieran knew of her pregnancy. She hadn’t even noticed, not yet. But when she’d asked him what he meant when he’d chanted so precisely ‘By the power of three, bound by blood; my blood, your blood, O’Flaherty blood’ during their skirmish with Fletcher as it was only the two of them to add their blood to the blade, he’d informed her she was with child .
“Walk with me, Kieran.” She wanted to tell him something important while they were alone.
As they entered the garden and meandered slowly toward the stables, Kieran invited Elizabeth to sit with him on a stone bench. The Mastiffs came bounding after them, yapping and barking, frightening away the birds in the nearby bushes.
“I don’t understand it.” Kieran told her as Elizabeth stroked the massive heads. “How could Fletcher have gotten past these two?”
“Donovan told me; when Johnny O’Reilly went with the men to search for Michael, he instructed his brothers to go upstairs to their quarters above the stables and to stay there until he came back because of the incoming storm. Well, they did so, but Danny took the dogs upstairs with them. Danny loves them so. After the men left, Michael returned with Fletcher holding a gun on him. When he rang the bell at the back gate Gavin went to go unlock it, thinking Donovan had returned from the mill.”
Kieran pondered her answer. “So, the dogs were upstairs, with Danny, and little Gavin was at the mercy of Fletcher. Damn that man. Has Gavin talked yet? Is he going to be able to talk after what that bastard put him through?”
“I don’t know.” Elizabeth admitted. “Donovan isn’t certain if his vocal chords are damaged, or if he’s just not speaking because of the fright he received.” She pushed Ares’ nose away from the basket of scones and strawberry jam she’d picked up in the kitchen to take to the boys. “That’s one reason I wanted to visit him this morning.”
They sat in silence. Elizabeth searched for the right words as she prepared to tell her brother of her decision. “Kieran, I need to tell you something. You won’t like it.”
That pulled his attention from the distant horizon. “You’re evicting me again.”
“No, of course not. It’s this gift.” She sighed, and licked her lips. “I don’t want it. I don’t want to be the seer anymore, or the priestess of Clan O’Flaherty.”
“It’s not something you can give back.” Kieran pointed out. “It’s hereditary. You’ll have the gift of seeing all your life, regardless of whether you want it or not.”
Elizabeth scrunched up her face. She’d been thinking of how to say this to him all night long. She hadn’t talked to Donovan about it, but she knew what he would say if she did, and that solidified her decision. “It may be hereditary, but it isn’t practical. Not in this time, Kieran.”
“It’s a timeless gift--“ He began, warming to his own argument.
“No, it is not.” She countered. “It’s an outdated tool. This isn’t the 13th century anymore. We’re not tribes and clans. Ireland is part of the modern world, ruled by England.”
“He’s talking you out of it, isn’t he!” Kieran looked away with anger. “I know, it’s all logic to him, cut and dried. You’d think after all that’s happened he’d respect the gift and--“
“No, dear brother.” Elizabeth transferred the basket handle to hang over her bound hand. She touched Kieran’s hand with her free one. “Don’t blame Donovan. He knows nothing of my decision, although his penchant for logic may have helped me to see reason. He slept last night while I worked this out for myself. Listen to me, please? Just listen to what I have to say.”
Kieran gave a toss of his head, intimating his reluctant agreement to let her speak unhindered. He laced his fingers with hers, and stared down at the cobbled stones.
“My home is here, with Donovan. I can’t be the hereditary seer and priestess of Clan O’Flaherty if I live thousands of miles away from our people. And I cannot ask Donovan to leave his plantation and move to Ireland. The gift is useless here, with me. I might still have visions, and see things in the people here, but I’m not moving to Ireland and I’m not going to be of any use to the clan living here. So, you’ll have to take the O’Flaherty Book of Secrets into your keeping. It’s the historical record of our clan; births, marriages, deaths, wars, and alliances spanning centuries. You must take over the charge of it and find someone to take my place when you go back to Ireland.”
Kieran was silent. He kept staring at the ground, his face set. His lips formed a thin line. He removed his hand from hers, and cupped the elbow of his arm jutting out of the sling.
“Sheila wasn’t an O’Flaherty by birth.” Elizabeth went on. “She married the Clan Chieftain in 1740. She was an O’Malley, a descendant of the pirate queen, Grace O’Malley.” Elizabeth paused, smiling at the idea of a woman pirate besting the English Queen centuries ago. “Yet, Sheila became the seer because she was married to the Chieftain. And, for the last eighteen years, she wasn’t really the seer at all. Sheila was our nanny, in England, so the clan has been without a seer for a long time. So you see, the gift may be heredi
tary, and it may flow through the blood of us and our descendants, but it is still outmoded, a relic of another time.”
Elizabeth paused. She didn’t know how Kieran was reacting to her words. She waited.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to Ireland.” He said after several moments. “As the heir, I have a great deal of responsibility that will keep me in England.”
“You’ll go.” She assured him. “You’ll go to Ireland, and you’ll reclaim your birthright. And when you do, you’ll find an Irish lass to share your life with. She’ll be the next seer . . . or perhaps it will be your daughter who takes my place.”
Kieran shook his head, dismissing her words. “I’ll take the book, if you want. But I’m not moving to Ireland. I’ll be taking grandfather’s seat in the house of lords after he passes, and managing his estate at Greystowe Hall.”
Elizabeth smiled. He would go to Ireland. She’d seen it, as if it had already come to pass. Perhaps he wouldn’t go fulfill his destiny as a great Irish leader right away, but one day, Kieran O’Flaherty would return to reclaim his heritage and the lands stolen from their family.
Epilogue
One week after Captain Fletcher’s violent intrusion upon the residents of Ravencrest Plantation, Christmas Day of 1798 was upon them.
It was the first time in fifty years that the old plantation house experienced a true Christmas. The new mistress had made certain bright greenery was festooned upon every horizontal surface of the first floor and that sweetmeats adorned every side table in the salon.
Elizabeth reveled in her new role as Countess Rochembeau. Although her title was of French origin, she was determined to celebrate Christmas in the English tradition, sans snow. She assembled the family and the servants together in the salon. A large table held a veritable feast Old Fritz had worked diligently on for days before. Elizabeth presented each staff member with a small gift for helping her bring the old manor house back to life.