The Stolen Bride (18 page)

“I’m not angry.” She smiled coldly and stood. “I have realized you are right. You have changed. Sean O’Neill is dead. As soon as possible, I should like to go home to my fiancé. I was in love before you came back, and I do not know what possessed me to look at a man like you even twice.”

He paled.

She had wanted to wound Sean, and she still knew him well enough to know that she had done just that. She saw the hurt in his eyes. She should not care. It was time to go home and marry Sinclair. But, dear God, she could not help feeling that Sean had suffered enough.

His face had become a mask with no expression. He strode to the stove and began placing kindling in it.

It was cool in the room; she did not object. She saw that he was tense and angry. Eleanor wished she hadn’t spoken so cruelly. She stood. “Can I help?”

“No.” He used flint to light the fire and once it was burning, firmly closed the door to the stove. He did not look at her now, as he walked to a chair, pulled it away from the table, and sat down. The instant he did so, he shoved out his long legs and his head fell back. In that moment, Eleanor realized he was exhausted.

He had escaped prison just a few days ago and ever since, he had been running from his pursuers. The night before last, he had slept in the woods and last night, he had stayed up all night, watching for troops. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him but it was obvious that he had no physical resources left. Eleanor hesitated, her gaze taking in every feature of his face; finally, his expression was relaxed. Her glance slid down the hard line of his throat and then to the even harder planes of his chest, rib cage and torso. The soft white shirt he wore clung.

His eyes opened, meeting hers.

She knew she flushed. “You must be tired. Why don’t you take your boots off? I will keep watch.” She didn’t smile at him. But she was a compassionate woman and she couldn’t treat Sean any differently than she would someone else in his position.

He hadn’t moved from the slumped position he had assumed but his eyes remained on her now. And
then he straightened, lifting one leg and reaching for his boot. He grunted.

Eleanor turned away, wanting to help him but reminding herself that he was a cad and a rogue with no conscience.
I am afraid…for you!
She didn’t know why he was afraid for her, when he was the one in trouble, and she did not want to remember him saying so.

Eleanor suddenly realized that Sean was struggling to pull off his boot. He had turned as white as a sheet, sweat was dripping from his brow and he looked as if he were in pain. She could not help herself. She strode to him. “I’ll do it,” she said.

Their gazes collided; he glanced instantly away. “Thank you.”

Facing him, she took hold of his boot and pulled as hard as she could. The boot came off but Sean gasped, blanching impossibly.

She instantly saw why. His socks were tattered rags and his feet were bloody and swollen. What had she been thinking? He had been in a prison cell for two years. He wasn’t used to walking and he wasn’t used to wearing boots. And she had been complaining about her three paltry blisters. “Sean,” she managed to whisper, instantly aching for him.

His color was returning. He peeled off the bloody
sock, tossing it aside, and set his foot down. He reached for the other boot—she stopped his hand. “I’ll do it,” she said, her stomach churning.

He lifted his gaze; their eyes met and this time, they held. “Be quick.”

She nodded, pulling off the other boot. This time he didn’t make a sound. Eleanor knelt at his feet, removing the other bloody sock. “I need to get some water. Do we have soap?” She looked up.

He had his head thrown back and he was breathing hard. It was a moment before he spoke and he didn’t glance at her. “I am fine.” His shirt was wet with sweat now, too. Unfortunately she could see every clearly defined plane and line in his muscular chest and torso.

She looked away, fighting to control her fear. “You are hardly fine. And unless you want a serious infection, your feet need to be tended to, Sean.” She was silent for a moment. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He finally looked down at her. “I had other things on my mind.” He started to stand.

She shoved him back into the chair. “I’ll get the water and soap. Just sit still.”

He made no comment, so she stood, seized a pail by the sink, where a bar of brown lye soap lay, and left the flat. There was a small yard behind the shop
with a pump. Eleanor filled the bucket quickly, worried about being seen; but no one was in the yard. If his feet had suffered so terribly in the past few days, what other ailments did he have? She had noticed that his stride had changed, that he didn’t move with the same agility that he once had. She realized that every muscle he had was undoubtedly stiff and strained.

When she entered the flat, he was in the chair, his head thrown back, soundly asleep.

In that moment, she forgot about being hurt, rejected, cast aside. She forgot about being angry. She was terribly worried about him and there was no way to fight it or her feelings. He was exhausted, hurt, and wounded somewhere deep and dark in his soul. How could she remain angry at him? If she didn’t help him, who would?

As she knelt before him, she wondered where that left them. But there was no
them
, she thought as she began to carefully wash his feet. He had made that clear—and he was right. He had changed enough that there would never be a
them
. They were never going to leap off bridges and cliffs together again. They were never going to toil in a field side by side, or whitewash a wall together and then furiously paint fight. Suddenly she paused, unbearably saddened.
Her best friend was gone—and so was the man she loved. She could never forgive him for using her as he had, even if she had encouraged it. But she was going to prevent an infection, and she was also going to help him escape the country with his life.

Eleanor finished washing his feet and looked up. He remained deeply asleep, despite the stiff wood-framed chair and the uncomfortable position that he was in. And in sleep, she had the opportunity to study him. His face might be leaner now, and he had the scar on his right cheek, but his features remained very much the same, hard and handsome, at once painfully and wonderfully familiar. Staying true to her new course and new beliefs was not going to be easy, she realized grimly.

She tossed the rag she had been using in the now soiled water and stood. “Sean?” She took his hand. “Sean, go to bed.” He did not stir. “Sean?”

His eyes drifted open and he gazed at her without focus.

“Come to bed,” she said firmly, tugging on him.

His mouth shifted, the corners lifting. “
Elle
.”

He was barely awake and she knew it. But the murmur had been a seductive invitation she recognized instantly.
And he had smiled
. Her heart exulted. She hadn’t seen him smile even once since he had
come home, but now, unguarded in his exhaustion, he had tried to do just that.

She would give anything to make him smile again.
If she could, would the old Sean return to her
?

He was standing, his hand still in hers. Eleanor tensed as his sleepy gaze drifted down to her mouth and slid slowly over her chest. Had he reached out and caressed her, her response could not have been greater. Her blood raced, her skin hummed. And his lips turned up again, his hooded gaze lingering on her hips. Before Eleanor could react, his arm slipped around her waist. He pulled her to his side, against his hard body. Eleanor had stiffened, some alarm rising—and with it, inescapable urgency.

“Come with me,” he whispered, moving to the bed and as he lay down, he pulled her down with him.

Somehow she was in bed with him, in his arms. She could not do this, she thought in alarm. Yet her body had stirred, the pulse between her thighs surging. Eleanor knew he was dreaming, or caught between waking and sleep, and if she did succumb to temptation, she was going to regret it. She could not be used again, even if she wanted him desperately.

“Elle.” He sighed her name, his hands closing over the back of her head, in her hair. His leg covered hers and he pressed his mouth to her lips. Eleanor’s body
burst into flames while she waited for his assault. It did not come. His hands slid down her back and he pulled her close while his lips brushed hers, soft, gentle and questing. Eleanor felt her body hollow, the desire so overpowering it was enough to make the room tilt and spin. And then his mouth stilled.

She stared and saw that he was deeply asleep. She hesitated, remaining in his arms, because she didn’t want to move away. She shifted and tugged one arm free and lifted her hand, cupping his rough cheek. Too late, love swelled. It was never going to be over, she thought, and she was caught between elation and despair. But did she love a man who existed, or the ruined remains of one? In that frightening moment, she wasn’t sure she could distinguish between the old Sean and the man lying in bed with her.

But because she remained deeply in love with the old Sean, she lay in his arms, cherishing the interlude and knowing it was only that.

A few hours later, she slipped from the bed. Sean hadn’t moved once since he had passed out. Eleanor went to the window. It was late afternoon now. She hadn’t slept. Being with Sean was an emotional tug-of-war, and she did not know how much longer she could bear it. She was hungry, and their bread and cheese had run out that morning. However, she
wasn’t leaving Sean alone, and she wasn’t going to wake him, either. She had the terrible comprehension that he wasn’t going to find another moment to sleep for days. How much longer could he go on like this?

Suddenly she had the sensation of being observed. She shifted toward the bed. Sean lay on his side now, facing her, regarding her with watchful gray eyes.

“You’re awake,” she said. She smiled a little at him, her heart leaping in excitement she was not prepared for and did not want or need.

“How long did I sleep?” he asked, unmoving.

“Four or five hours. It’s late— I heard the church bells toll five o’clock.”

He suddenly sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He eyed her as he stood. If his feet hurt, he gave no sign. “Did you go out?”

She shook her head.

Sean crossed the room to retrieve his boots, taking the socks from the shoes beneath the rack of pegs.

Eleanor stared as he pulled on the clean socks. “Where are you going?” she asked with care. She did not like the idea of him going out.

He didn’t look up at her. “We need food… linens…more clothes.” He grimaced as he pulled on each boot.

Eleanor bit her lip. He needed to heal, not walk
around town in search of necessities while trying to elude any troops he might encounter from the city garrison. “I’ll go.”

He straightened. “No. You wait here.”

She tried to smile at him. “I think you should rest.” He had given the livery man one of her diamond earrings for Saphyr’s feed and board. She reached for the other earring. “There’s a chandler on the corner. It’s not far. I’m sure I can buy bread and cheese there, maybe some bacon. Do we have a fry pan? I’ll use my other earring—we’ll have credit for months.”

His silver gaze had locked on hers. “What is this?” he asked warily.

She knew exactly what he meant but pretended not to. A few hours ago, she had been furious with him, after all. “I feel fine and you do not. We have always looked out for one another. I’ll go out. I need some air, anyway.”

His eyes were wide. “You hated me…a few hours ago.”

She had to face him now. “I don’t think I ever hated you, Sean, and no matter how you have changed, there’s no point in being at odds. The one thing we have always been is friends.”

His eyes were wide. “You think to be…friends?”

She inhaled. If she made such an offer, would he
accept it? She knew she could not withstand another rejection now.

But he did not give her a chance to speak. “You forgive me?” He was disbelieving.

She hesitated. “If you are asking if I am forgiving you for treating me as you would a casual and inconsequential lover, for treating me as you did all those farmer’s wives and daughters when we were growing up, then no, I am not forgiving you for that.” She wet her lips. She had no anger left. In fact, she felt very much as if she had already forgiven him. “I’ll get us some supper, Sean. And more socks.”

“No.” His tone was hard and final.

“Why not?” she cried in real despair.

“Why not?” he cried back. “There are troops… there is a garrison…west of town!”

He was upset and she could not understand him. “Why are you trying to protect me? You need protection, not I!”

“Do not let
anyone
in,” he said. “Bolt the door.” He threw both bolts and strode onto the cramped landing.

She didn’t hesitate. She ran after him before he could shut the door. “What are you afraid of, Sean? I don’t understand!”

His jaw flexed. “I told you! No matter what I
say…you say…they will charge you as my accomplice.” He frightened her with his determination.
I must
protect you!
he had exclaimed yesterday. “No one,” she said slowly, “is going to accuse me of anything other than being rash and foolish, and certainly not of being your accomplice. Yesterday you said you wanted to protect me. I am not in danger, Sean. You are the one in danger.”

“You are foolish now! You have conspired with me…that is treason! You will not go to prison…for
my sins
.” His eyes blazed.

She became still, alarmed. Why would he speak about sins? And her intuition told her that she had found the terrible root of his wounds. “You mean crimes. You mean you do not want me to pay for your
crimes
. No one will try to make me pay for what you have done, Sean.”

He turned away, trembling, and hefted the bucket. “I’ll be back with water.” He paused before leaving. “Bolt the door, Eleanor.” He went out.

She barely heard him. Even having changed into such a dark man, his words were odd. Sean was not fervently or fanatically religious. She knew he believed in God—most men and women did. She did not think he would ever refer to the deaths of
soldiers, committed in the cause of patriotism, as sins. But she reminded herself that she was thinking about Sean, the man he had once been—not the man he was now.