Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes) Read Online Free

Elizabeth’s brother. “The runners will be after
me, I can’t afford to linger.”
    “I’m not going.” Elizabeth informed him. “Not without my
grandmother.”
    “Fine, there’ll be less baggage to slow us up. Michael, get
moving.” Fletcher barked.
    “No.” Michael crossed the room to stand beside Elizabeth.
“Not without my sister.”
    The sharp intake of breath from the captain told them he’d
not been expecting mutiny from his charges, least of all from Michael, the
youngest and most easily cowed.
    A fitting revenge Old Sheila had on the captain, Elizabeth
thought, being careful not to smile. Michael might carry the captain’s name,
but he’d cut his teeth on Sheila’s stories of the Fighting O’Flahertys of
County Galway. He had the O’Flaherty sense of honor and integrity.
    Elizabeth steeled herself for her stepfather’s response. It
would be physical, and brutal.
    In silent agreement, Michael locked his elbow with hers.
    They were of one mind; they would go together or not at all.
    Captain Fletcher slapped the riding crop impatiently against
his boot, eyeing them for a dangerous moment. “Get the witch then, quick,
before the night watch sees the horses out back.”
    *******
    That nagging feeling wouldn’t go away. It clung to Kieran
like stale tobacco smoke.
    The shock he’d experienced months ago had been a summoning
from his Celtic ancestors. Yet the purpose behind it remained clouded. He felt
a powerful urge to return to England-- not to Ireland, where he spent most of
his childhood. He resisted, but the call was getting stronger, the dreams
became more insistent as time passed.
    “You take this one, lad.” Barnaby gestured to the window
facing the street.
     Kieran looked up from the mortar bowl he’d been so intent
upon. A tall, dark haired man in a wide brimmed hat and a long leather coat was
striding down the deserted street toward their shop, undaunted by the heavy
afternoon shower. Kieran set down the mortar and pestle and wiped his hands on
his apron to remove the fine dust from them. “Who is he?”
    “That’s what I hope you’ll be able to tell me.” Barnaby sat
at his desk and gave his ledgers his attention.
    Kieran scowled. The old man was testing him again. While
Barnaby was in awe of his gift, Kieran considered his intuitive powers to be a
curse. He didn’t like seeing people’s pain. He didn’t like feeling it if they
happened to touch him. And he hated having ghosts pop in on him all the time,
pestering him to help them solve their problems post-mortem. He wished he could
be normal, oblivious to the unseen world, like everyone else.
    “Good day, Sirs.” The stranger entered the shop and offered
them a greeting in a lilting Irish brogue. “And soft fine day it is, too, as
they say in Dublin.”
    “What can I do for you, sir?” Kieran responded. It wasn’t
that the man didn’t sound Irish, he was convincing. The impression came to him
that this man was an actor, using costumes, false accents and fictitious names
as a means of protection. This man had been hurt and was hiding from the world
that had caused him so much pain.
    “I need three ounces of goldenseal, two ounces of comfrey
leaves, and a bottle of Laudanum. What part of Erin do you hail from, lad?”
    The stranger was perceptive. After living here for nearly
fifteen years, few people noted Kieran’s accent. “County Galway. I didn’t catch
your name, Sir.”
    “O’Rourke, Donovan O’Rourke.”
    “Kieran O’Flaherty.” He extended his hand. O’Rourke didn’t
return the gesture. Kieran withdrew his outstretched hand. He sensed danger in
those bonny blue eyes, a promise of death to anyone who threatened this man’s
fragile existence. “How long have you been in the Indies?”
    “A few months. My master inherited his grandfather’s cane
plantation.”
    The tall, lean stranger appeared casual. His hands rested
jauntily on his hips. And yet, those pale blue eyes kept moving from the street
to