Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) by Lily Silver Page A

bought a plantation in the Carolinas and married the feisty Irish
lass who stole his heart. My mother christened me with both her parent’s
surnames so I might never forget I’m half Irish.” He spoke in a languid
colonial drawl with just the hint of an Irish burr in it, a mixture she found
alluring.
    Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile. He smiled back, and her
insides did a peculiar little twist to be the recipient of such bounty.
    “I went to France to study medicine, and lived with my
uncle, the former count. My uncle died without heirs, bestowing upon me the
ancient title of Count Rochembeau. So, I’m American by birth, a count by
default, and a physician by choice.”
    She nodded at his explanation. “I owe you a great debt for
rescuing me, my lord. My grandmother will be very worried. She’s quite old and
frail. We must send word to her.”
    Her caretaker reached forward, took her hand and cradled it
between his own. “Your grandmother passed on some weeks ago.”
    “No!” She protested as her throat closed around a hard stone
that suddenly lodged there. She squeezed her eyes shut to contain the moisture
gathering before it spilled out onto her cheeks. The large hand encompassing
her own tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to convey his
compassion, enough to say he understood her grief. She opened her eyes.
Releasing a strangled sob, she swiped at the tears escaping down her cheeks
with the lace sleeve of her gown. “Sheila loved me, more than my own mother.”
    “Yes.” Something flickered in her caretaker’s eyes. “Sheila
loved you very much. That’s why she made me promise to take care of you after
she died.”
    “Well, I do have a brother, sir. Michael Fletcher. Have you
attempted to contact him?”
    “Ah, Michael’s a good lad.” He patted the hand he had firm
possession of, and took to stroking her captured limb in a manner that seemed
far too intimate. “He’s in London, preparing to enter St. Paul’s Academy in the
spring.”
    “And just w-who is p-paying f-for that?” She huffed, enraged
by his strange claim and frustrated by her inability to speak clearly.
    “Your grandfather. I was planning to, but the earl insisted
upon it in the end.”
    Elizabeth sat bolt upright in the bed and jerked her hand
from his grasp. “Lord Greystowe? The Earl wouldn’t care if Michael and I were
d-drowned in the Th-thames as infants! H-he disowned my m-mother—h-h-he-he-“
    “Easy, lass!” He rose to stand over her. “You’re getting
upset and there’s no need. Michael is fine, and I’m going to take good care of
you, just as I promised Old Sheila.”
    “I want to go home.” She tossed back the covers and swung
her legs over the bed.
    Strong hands circled her shoulders, preventing her from
rising. “You’re not leaving this bed. You suffered a severe blow to the head
that nearly killed you. That’s why you can’t remember the past two years of
your life.”
     Two years? What a queer world she’d awakened to; Sheila was
dead and Michael was at a school for rich boys? And she was in the keeping of a
stranger. “Where are you taking me?”
    “To the West Indies.”
     “But . . . I don’t know anyone in the Indies!” She
whispered above the load roar in her ears. The room seemed hot and confining,
like a prison cell.
    “That’s where I live, darlin’, on a beautiful island.” He
sat down on the bed, facing her, his arm resting along her thigh. She could
feel the weight of his hand on her leg, the heat of him even with the blanket
between them. “We can go riding in mornings and picnic on the beach in the
afternoons. You can collect sea shells and swim in the ocean.”
    “I don’t know how to swim.” She managed in a voice that
sounded high and tight to her ears. Fisting the blanket in her hands, she gazed
about the room for some portal, some magical means of escape that would take
her back to Sheila, Michael, and all that was familiar to her.
    “It’s all