The Stolen Bride

“All right, I give up,” he said quietly, turning away.

She sighed and left the safety of the tree, and he whirled and grabbed her by her ear.

“Ow! Ow!”

He shook her well, not once, but twice. “The next time I catch you spying on me, I am turning you over my knee, as if you were five or six.”

“All right! I’m sorry! I swear!” she begged, wild-eyed.

“Ladies don’t swear—but then, you’re a hellion not a lady. Let’s go.” Not releasing her ear, he started to walk away from the stable, Elle in tow.

“I am sorry—and I won’t swear!”

“You’re not sorry—and you’ll probably swear at your wedding!”

“Don’t take me to Father!” she begged, a tear falling.

He halted. In spite of what she had done—and what she had seen—he did feel sorry for her. He transferred his grip to her arm. “Did you really kiss Jack?”

She hesitated. “Yes, I did, but on the cheek—not the mouth.”

“I thought so.” He sighed. “Ladies don’t lie, Elle, they don’t kiss boys, and they don’t swear.”

“I hate being a lady,” she pouted.

He had to smile—and she smiled back.

“ELEANOR—I LOVE YOU.”

Sinclair’s breathless declaration jerked Sean back into the present. He didn’t want to remember the past, but he didn’t want to watch Elle making love to another man, either. Sinclair held her face in his hands. The man was visibly shaking and Elle, damn it, was smiling at him—as if she were in love.

“I am trying very hard to be a gentleman,” Sinclair whispered, “but you make it almost impossible.”

“It’s only the two of us,” Elle murmured. “No one will ever know if you are being a gentleman tonight or not.”

Sean started to step forward to intervene but caught himself in the nick of time. Was she suggesting that Sinclair take even more liberties? She had been such a wild and headstrong child, he knew she was a wild and passionate woman. Had she already taken her fiancé to bed? Elle never denied herself anything that she wanted and he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t care at all about her virginity, but that she would most certainly like bed sport.

And they were kissing again.

Sean slammed his fist into the wall then. Where the hell were her brothers, damn it? Was he going to have to witness her lovemaking all night? Because he didn’t think he could stand it.

Elle leaped out of Sinclair’s arms. “What was that?” she cried, glancing quickly around.

He forgot about his dilemma, willing himself into invisibility as he sank as tightly as he could against the wall.

“What was what?” Sinclair asked, his tone disgustingly thick again.

“Didn’t you hear that?” Elle asked, appearing bewildered. “Are we being spied on?”

“Darling, who would spy on us?”

“Rex, is that you?” Eleanor demanded, scowling now.

“Oh, God,” Sinclair said. “Your brothers are very protective of you—which is laudable, of course, but each and every one has privately made it very clear to me that I had better be a perfect gentleman until we are wed.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

Elle shook her head. “Oh, don’t mind them! They are all swagger and high commands. I can manage Ty, Rex and Cliff. Have no fear! I am enjoying being kissed, Peter,” she added boldly.

Sean felt like grabbing her by the ear as if she were eleven years old and shaking her until time went backward and she was an innocent, if vexing, child once more.

Suddenly the terrace door opened and an odd footfall sounded. Sean recognized Rex—and then he realized that he had lost half of his right leg and he was using a crutch. He stared, shocked.

He hadn’t known.

But then, he had been gone for so long, how would he have known that his stepbrother had suffered such a wound?

Rex limped over to the lovebirds. “I thought it might be wise to interrupt this enchanting tryst. The two of you are not married yet.” He smiled, but without mirth.

And in that single instant, Sean recognized a kindred spirit—Rex had changed from the inside out. Although he had never mourned the loss of his own soul, he ached for Rex’s loss now.

“I am twenty-two,” Elle exclaimed. No other woman would ever refer to her advanced age. “I hardly need a chaperone.”

“Oh, I think I can easily disagree with you,” Rex said. “Shall we?” And it was not a question, but an order.

Elle was annoyed. “Oh, I forgot, you outrank me, Sir Rex,” she said with heat.

So Rex had been knighted, Sean thought. He had undoubtedly won that title on the field of battle and Sean was pleased for him.

“Only until you are wed,” he said calmly, gesturing the lovers inside.

Sean watched Elle display her infamous temper, huffing as she swept by him, with Sinclair, chagrined, following. Sinclair would never be able to keep up with Elle, he thought, but he felt no satisfaction. He was thinking now about the fact that in two nights, if he had understood correctly, Elle was going to be in that man’s bed, with every right to be there.

Suddenly Rex stiffened.

Sean stopped breathing, aware that Rex had just sensed his presence on the terrace.

Rex, posed to enter the house, shifted on his crutch and turned, his glance taking in the entire terrace—including the wall where Sean stood hiding.

And for one moment, Sean could have sworn that Rex had seen him, that their eyes had met.

But he was wrong, because Rex turned and limped into the house, leaving Sean alone outside, swallowing the bitter aftertaste of all he had just seen and heard.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS A NEW DAWN. Eleanor had not been able to sleep more than an hour or two, fighting the effects of the wine, and when she had, she had dreamed not of Peter, but of Sean. In her dreams, Sean had come home, but he had changed, and there had been something dark and disturbing about him. She had woken stunned, for one moment believing that her dreams were real. And when she had realized they were only dreams, utter disappointment had claimed her.

Today she raced her stud as hard as he could go. Bending low over the bay stallion’s neck like a Newmarket jockey, she urged him around a particularly sharp turn.

A man stepped directly into her path.

Eleanor hauled hard on her reins. The man just stood there, unflinching, as if he were made of stone. The animal lunged back to stand and Eleanor reacted. She had never been more furious. “Fool!” she shouted, raising her crop, her instinct to strike him down. “Do you wish to die? Did it not cross your mind to get out of my way, or are you a madman seeking suicide?”

She urged the bay forward, intent on going around him, but he seized her reins.

Her fury escalated dangerously, but with it came fear. No one had ever accosted her on her father’s estate before. She spurred the bay—and their gazes clashed, then held.

Her heart ceased beating, and then thundered wildly, in disbelief and elation.

Sean was standing there on the trail before her. Sean had come home.

And she knew, immediately, that something terrible had befallen him. In that space of a single heartbeat, she saw that he was thin and scarred. But it was Sean. With a glad cry, she leaped from her horse. She rushed him so swiftly that she almost knocked him off his feet. Throwing her arms around him, she clung.

She began to cry.

She had missed him so much. Only then did she fully realize that it had been like having her heart ripped from her chest while it continued beating.

He did not move, but he made a noise, raw and harsh.

That sound cut through her exhilaration, her relief. She realized she was clinging as tightly to his lean, muscular frame as she could. She was afraid to let go, afraid that if she did, he might vanish into thin air. His chin cupped her head and her face was tucked into his chest. Sean had always been lean but now he was only muscle and bone, with no flesh to spare. And that rough sound had been filled with pain and anguish. What was wrong?

But he had come home—he had come back to her, for her. A huge pressure swelled inside of her, a powerful combination of all her feelings both past and present, of having missed him so much and of needing him now. She still loved him; she had never stopped. Eleanor smiled up at him.

He did not smile back. His face was wary and he moved stiffly away from her.

Eleanor started—he could not be wary of her? She reached for him to embrace him again. “I knew you would come back.”

But he deftly dodged her. “Don’t.”

She somehow breathed. “Sean, don’t what? You’re home!” she cried.

He didn’t answer, but his intense regard never wavered. When she looked into his eyes, trying to make some sense of his behavior, they became flat and blank before he looked away.

She was shocked. They had never kept secrets from one another; his expressive eyes had always been open and unguarded with her. His beautiful gray eyes could shine with laughter, with affection, with kindness, or they could darken with intent, with determination, with anger. How often had they shared a private look and each had known exactly what the other one was thinking?

And his face had changed, too, she realized. It was gaunt and hollowed. She saw the scars on his cheek and throat and she shuddered—someone had slashed him with a knife! “Oh, Sean,” she began, reaching up to touch a white crescent on his face, but he flinched.

She went still. His expression was guarded. Her first instinct was right—something was very wrong. Whatever he had suffered, she was there now, to help him though it. “Are you all right?”

“You’re engaged,” he said. He spoke in a whisper that was barely audible and his voice was hoarse, as if had recently lost it. He was looking at her with such shattering intensity that she hesitated.

“What?” she began, confused.

But he was not looking into her eyes now. His gaze had slipped to her mouth and then it veered abruptly to her chest. She was, in fact, wearing one of his old, cast-off shirts. His gaze slammed to the knotted leather belt at her waist—or to her hips. Suddenly Eleanor was aware of how she must look in a man’s breeches. She had been wearing men’s attire for years—Sean had seen her dressed in such a bold fashion a thousand times—but in that instant, she felt immodest, indecent, naked.

Her body hollowed.

For the first time in her life, Eleanor understood desire. For the space inside her was so empty that she ached, and in that instant, she understood the necessity of taking him inside so he could fill it.

She had thought she had felt desire before. She had enjoyed Peter’s kisses, certainly, and before Sean had left Askeaton, she had looked at him and wished to be the recipient of his flattery, to be taken into his arms, to be kissed by him. In that moment, she realized she had been playacting, pretending or even hoping to feel the way a woman was supposed to feel when she loved a man. But she had been too young and too innocent and she hadn’t felt this way at all. The pressure in her was combustible and consuming.

It was so hard to speak. “You came home,” she said slowly, trembling. Now, she was cautious. She wanted to take his hand—as she used to do, lightly and innocently—but she was afraid to reach out. Somehow, in the previous moment, everything between them had changed. “What happened? Where have you been?” she asked.

His eyes locked with hers, just for an instant before he looked aside. “I heard you’re getting married,” he said again, slowly, spacing out his low, rough words. And he lifted his silver gaze.

She bit her lip, taken aback. Hadn’t she secretly fantasized about his return in the nick of time to save her from wedlock to another man? “Sean. I am affianced,” she began. But she did not want to discuss Peter or her marriage now.

“The wedding—” he paused, as if it was hard to speak “—is in two days.”

She didn’t even think about what she would say. She smiled tremulously at him. “It is a mistake. I’m not marrying Peter.”

His eyes flickered.

And she had to touch him one more time, even though she was afraid to perform such a simple gesture. She reached out to him, brushing his hand. She wanted to seize it and never let go. “It’s been so long! Everyone thinks you’re dead, Sean. I almost believed it, too. But you promised. You promised me you would come back and you did!”

He didn’t look at her now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want…to hurt anyone.”

He was acting so oddly and speaking so strangely. It had become awkward, as if they were strangers now, but that was impossible—they were best friends. “What’s happened to you? What happened to your voice? Why are you so thin? Why didn’t you send word? Sean…you’ve changed so much!”

“I couldn’t send word.” He looked briefly, unemotionally, at her. His eyes had become even flatter and darker than before. “I’ve been…in prison.”

“Prison?” She gasped in absolute disbelief. “Is that where you got those scars? Oh, God! Is that why you’re so thin? But why would you be in prison? You’re the most honest man I know!” But this began to explain his prolonged absence and his utter lack of communication with her and the family.

He stared at the ground. “I shouldn’t be here.” He glanced up, at her, through her. “I escaped.”

The implications of what he said hit her then, hard. “Are they looking for you?”

“Yes.”

Her mind scrambled, fear rising. He was not going back to prison. Nothing would stand in her way of helping him now! “You must hide! Were you followed here?”

“No.”

She was relieved. “The stables? You could hide in a spare stall there.”

He did not reply.

She was unnerved. What did that intense look mean? “We’re best friends, but I am so nervous!” She laughed and the sound was high and anxious. “You need to hide.”

“I am not…staying.”

She had misheard. He had just returned; he could not leave her now. It was a moment before she could find her voice. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

He looked away, at the branches overhead, or at the skies beyond. “I am leaving…the country.”

“You just came home!” she cried, desperate and frightened, and she seized his hand. It was hard and calloused and that, at least, was familiar.

He pulled his hand free, his eyes wide and incredulous. He shook his head, not speaking.

It was dawning on her now that he would not let her touch him. But they had grown up together and in the past, she had done more than reach for his hand—she’d leaped on his back as a small child and crept into his bed after a nightmare. She’d ridden astride behind him. Even when she’d been older, she held his hand when she felt like it, and he must have clasped her shoulder or her elbow a million times.

His rough whisper brought her eyes to his. “You’ve changed.”

Of course she had changed. And although his words were entirely dispassionate and without any innuendo, that shattering intensity had returned. In response, she went still and she instantly recognized the fist of desire as it slammed into her.

Somehow she nodded. She spoke with great care. “I’ve grown up. You’ve changed, too.”

Tension seemed to fill the clearing. It crackled like fire, dancing between them, heated and bright. Was she mistaken, or was Sean feeling the same need, the same desire, that she was? He had never before looked at her so intently as he had just done. There had never been so much awkwardness and tension. In the past, the pull between them had been easy and light—a natural affinity, a bond of affection. What else could this strain mean?

She shuddered. “How long were you in prison? What did you do?”

He stared at her, his eyes turning blank. “Two years.”

She gasped.

“There was a village. It’s gone now.”

She had been steeped in the history of her people, her land. That history was one of plunder and outright theft, of birthrights lost or stolen, of rape, murder. One of the worst massacres in Irish history had taken Sean’s father. She didn’t have to know the details to understand him now. There had been a protest or an uprising and the British troops had been called in. Whether rightly or wrongly, defense of the landed gentry had resulted in the destruction of an entire village. And Sean had been involved.

He had spent his entire adult life taking care of Askeaton, and that had included guarding and even defending the rights of every Irish tenant on estate lands. She did not have to ask which side he had been on. She was almost paralyzed with foreboding. “Did British soldiers die? Did you bear arms?” Bearing arms in Limerick County was an act of treason, as was disputing British authority; the county had been placed under the Insurrection Act before Sean had left.

He nodded. “Yes, soldiers died. Arms?” He was angry now. “We had knives and pitchforks.”

Had a chair been available, Eleanor would have sat down. She knew she had blanched. She didn’t know where the uprising he spoke of had occurred, but it didn’t matter. If soldiers had died in a violent confrontation, Sean was in dire jeopardy. He might even be a traitor. She was terrified for him now. “The winter before last, they hanged over a dozen men, Sean, and deported dozens others! The charges were insurrection! Father is no longer the magistrate here—he chose to step down. Accusations of bias were made against him. He dared to defend some of our people! Captain Brawley is the commander of the garrison in the county and he has been acting as chief magistrate.” She realized she was in tears. She wiped her face; she had no time for weeping now.

“I am sorry,” he said, appearing grim and disgusted.

She shook her head. “He and Devlin both perjured themselves in the hopes of saving some of the accused. He stepped down because he could not keep the county under control—because he could no longer protect our people.” She forced herself to recover her composure. She strode to him but he stepped back from her, as if he knew she was going to reach for him. His determination to keep a physical distance between them had already dismayed her, but now, it was beginning to frighten her, too. What had happened to him, to make him so wary, so distant?

“Sean, I don’t care what you did—nothing has changed for us. You’re my best friend and I will do anything for you. Anything!” she stressed fervently. “Sean, why won’t you let me embrace you?”

“Everything has changed.”

She wished she could look into his eyes and comprehend his every thought the way she once had. She was sure he was angry, but she could not fathom why. And she had no clue as to what he meant. “You have been through a terrible ordeal, which is obvious. My feelings for you haven’t changed. My loyalty remains. I will help you hide and then we will go to Father and somehow resolve this, so you can be free to come home.”

His eyes widened. “You are not going to the earl!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Do you want him… named…a conspirator? Do you want the earldom… forfeit? Traitors do not keep their titles…their land!” He was so agitated that he was shouting, but in that terrible whisper of his.

She was aghast. “Were you charged with treason?”

He nodded darkly, his eyes flashing now.

“But they hang traitors!” she cried. Executions were summary and swift.

He waved at her, hard, a dismissal. “Cease.” His chest was rising and falling rapidly, an indication of his stress. “I am going to America.”

She reeled. America was so far away! Yet he was right in that her father must not be a conspirator to his crimes. The pages of Irish history were filled with stories of forfeited titles and lands. But Sean must not go to America. “You do not need to run away to America,” she heard herself say with desperation. Panic had overcome her now. “Devlin can help us.”

He jerked, and for one instant, she thought he was reaching for her. But his hand fell to his side. “Not us. And he is not helping me.”

She flinched. “Devlin will want to help you. He is one of the wealthiest men in Ireland and he is still well connected with the government. In fact, he has many cronies in the Admiralty—”

“No!” He suddenly towered over her. His lean body was shaking wildly, uncontrollably. “Why won’t…you understand? The man who left… four years ago…he isn’t coming back!” He seemed furiously angry, his eyes bright, his face flushed.

Eleanor was almost cowed, but she was relieved to see him passionate about something, anything at all. “He did come back. He’s standing right here!”

“He died,” he shouted in that dismal whisper. “Sean O’Neill is dead.”

Eleanor recoiled, horrified by his words, and worse, by the fact that he wanted her to believe them.

“I am John Collins! I am not dragging Devlin…into hell.” His dark stare glittered wildly, almost madly.

She was terrified, but not of him—she was terrified of what had happened to him. “If Sean were dead, I would know it!” She swatted hard at his chest. He jumped, eyes widening in shock. She hit him again, this time with her fist, the blow a solid one. “If Sean were dead, he would not be trying to protect his brother! I don’t know who John Collins is and I don’t care to know!” Then she swatted at her tears.

And she saw that he was fighting for composure now. Realizing the enormity of the struggle, she became still. She slid her hand over his cheek just as the tremors ceased. He started, his gaze flying to hers. He was roughly shaven, but she didn’t care. She loved him more than she ever had, and that was impossible. Touching him, even in such a simple caress, instantly sent a vast churning into motion inside her. There was so much love, so much fear and so much need. If only he would take her into his arms, she might settle for that, never mind the urgency in her body.

“Don’t cry.”

She hadn’t realized that tears continued to well in her eyes. The dam broke then, and the tears raced hard and fast down her face. “How can you ask me not to cry when you are a fugitive from the British? When you plan to leave your home again? When I need to hold you and touch you and you won’t let me? Will you ever come back? And you are so thin!” She wept.

“Don’t,” he said, his tone thick. “Elle.”

The tears ceased. It had been so long since he had called her his own private nickname and her heart yearned for what suddenly felt impossible—to have him smile at her the way he always had when he was no longer furious with her. She did not move, because she still cupped his rough cheek and his oddly flat eyes had a light in them now, or was it the glimmer of tears?

He shifted so that her hand dropped to her side. “The earl can’t help…Devlin can’t help,” he said very quietly. “You need to understand.”

“No! I do understand. But Devlin can help. He would never run away from this, from you, like a coward! He has missed you, Sean, almost as much as I have.”

“I killed a soldier.” He cut her off. “There was a trial. I am a traitor. No one…can help. I am going to America…tomorrow.”

Had he hit her with his fist she could not have been more stricken. He would leave tomorrow? She reeled, staggering backward. And he instinctively reached out to steady her.

His large hand, strong and hard and capable, painfully familiar, closed on hers as it had countless times before. But his touch had changed. His touch now went through her entire body, because it was that of a man and she had become, just moments ago, a woman. She met his gaze. There was no choice to make. She was going with him.

“Sit down…before you swoon.”