The Stolen Bride (26 page)

He was holding her so close that she was wrapped in his arms and legs, her face against his shoulder. He lifted his head so he could stare down at her face. Her lashes had fluttered. And gazing at her, his heart surged powerfully. She was so beautiful and so strong, so brave. He lowered his head, tucking hers beneath his chin. “How could I have ever loved Peg? I love you.” And too late, he realized the words he had just spoken were the truth.

He closed his eyes, holding her even more tightly, allowing himself to finally realize and identify his feelings. He was stunned by their enormity, their intensity, their power.

He knew what would happen if he dared to love her. She would suffer, as Peg had suffered. And he was a doomed man. Nothing had changed, except that his heart wanted something he could never have—and had no right to have.

“S-S-Sean? I’m c-c-cold.”

He stiffened as their gazes met. Hers was not coherent or focused.

He tried to smile at her. “I know. You’ll be warm soon. Warm…and safe. I promise.”

Her mouth curved and the trust he thought he’d never see again filled her eyes. “I am safe,” she murmured, kissing his jaw.

This time an entirely different part of his body went rigid. He reminded himself that she was more asleep than awake, and possibly ill, if not delusional. She hated him, and the trust he’d seen in her eyes was a cruel reminder of what he would never again genuinely have and had never really deserved. The present was proof of that.

Suddenly her cold hands were inside his shirt and against his chest. She sighed and began to rub the skin there and then his nipples.

Sean seized her wrist, restraining her. His mind told him to get out of her bed, now, before he succumbed to temptation. Because he was now acutely aware of just how naked she was, how soft in some places, how lean in others, and the way they were intimately entwined. And then he felt her body soften.

Stunned, he realized she had fallen asleep, this time deeply, the shivering having ceased. He sighed, shaken but relieved, and then he pulled her closer. He kissed the top of her head, thinking about the feelings
he had just discovered, allowing the wonder of his discovery to wash over him. He did not know when he had first fallen in love with her, but she had been his life from the moment they had met. The swollen feeling in his heart might have been joy and hope combined, had he been a different man in a different life. He decided not to analyze it further. He felt awed, as if in the midst of a miracle, and he knew he must cherish this brief moment and cling to it for as long as he could.

Reality must wait.

And when dawn broke another time, he crept from her bed and made the necessary arrangements for the future they would not share.

W
HEN
E
LEANOR AWOKE,
it took her a moment to recall where she was.

Sunlight was pouring into a small, sparsely furnished flat. A fire was crackling in a cast-iron stove near a tin sink. She lay in a simple bed, with a single pillow, a sheet, a thin and coarse blanket.

And then Eleanor saw Sean.

He was entering the room, carrying an armful of wood for the stove.

In that moment, she recalled that he had come
back and she had jilted Peter Sinclair at the altar. They were in Cork, hiding from the authorities—and Sean had married another woman named Peg.

Overcome with the same sense that this could not be happening, she sat up slowly, holding the covers up to her neck. She had never ached with so much sorrow.
Sean no longer belonged to her and he never had
.

“What happened to me? Where are my clothes?” she asked, her tone sounding high and hoarse to her own ears.

He put the wood in the wicker basket by the stove, avoiding her. “You ran away from me.” He glanced at her, his expression tight and hard. “You returned freezing cold and soaked.”

And suddenly she recalled spending the night in a doorway, shivering and wet, crying her heart out, the sense of loss beyond anything she’d ever before experienced.

He stood and glanced briefly at her. “I bought you some proper clothing.” He gestured at the wall pegs, where a muslin dress, underclothes, pelisse and bonnet were hanging. There were also shoes and stockings.

She wondered if he had any money left, then refused to worry for him. He was a traitor, not to the authorities, but to her—to them. She never intended to forget it.

“I suppose you expect me to be grateful for the clothes?” She was aware of sounding as bitter as she felt.

“You don’t owe me…anything,” he said sharply, and their gazes collided. He turned away again, finally flushing.

“I certainly do not,” Eleanor retorted, now hugging the blankets to her breasts. He owed her everything, and she was never going to collect, because he had chosen a different woman over her. She wondered if her heart was ever going to heal and feel whole again. She didn’t think so.

“Where are my trousers?” she asked grimly. She actually coveted the clean dress and underclothes, but would never say so.

He went to the clothes pegs and removed the feminine items. “I burned them,” he said quietly, attempting to hand her the ensemble.

“How dare you!” she cried, and in that instant, she was enraged. “I want my trousers back!”

He started, and as if realizing she was slightly out of her mind, a wary look entered his eyes. “They’re gone. You can’t parade around…dressed as a man. When you are home, I am certain…you will talk Tyrell out of his clothes.”

When she was home, tossed aside like leftovers.
That was what she was, used goods fit for the garbage. But he hadn’t used Peg that way.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said suddenly.

“Oh, yes, with Kate! Is that where you got the clothes, from Kate?” She was furious.

“Actually, I bought them in a shop,” he said carefully.

“But Kate’s clothes would have been so perfect for me! Because I’m no different from her, now am I? I’m no different from a housemaid or a dairymaid or a farmer’s daughter. I am no different from a
whore
.”

He turned white. “For God’s sake, don’t do this,” he said rigidly.

“Don’t do what? Point out the fact that you have treated me the way you have treated all those trollops you took to the stables when we were growing up?” Tears of bitter rage filled her eyes. “How dare you burn my pants!”

He inhaled harshly. “I am sorry. I am sorry for everything. You are not a farmer’s daughter and you are not a whore. I know you love me…I am a cad. I used you and there is no excuse.” He turned to leave.

She slid from the bed, the blanket and sheet wrapped around her. “I don’t love you!”

He stumbled, stiffened, turned.

“You were a rake when I was a child and I know
it firsthand. You remain a rake—and a cad! You are a
cheat
, Sean, a
liar
and a
cheat
and a
miserable cad!
”

He did not move. He did not speak. He was so still he could have been carved from stone, a beautiful male statue.

“Defend yourself!” she shouted, shaking in her rage.

He shook his head.

Eleanor didn’t hesitate. She slapped him with all of her might across his starkly pale but handsome face.

He flinched, but otherwise, stood ramrod straight.

“Just so there is no misunderstanding, I hate you now.”

He nodded and walked out.

E
LEANOR PULLED
her wide-brimmed bonnet low as she followed Sean to the dock, keeping her head and face hidden. He had disguised himself with a powdered wig, the kind some of the older, unfashionable men wore, as if their previous king still lived. Her heart had never felt heavier, but this was what she wanted now—to go home. Sean had said that Cliff would sail her to Limerick. The trip overland was much shorter, but she had wanted to avoid any and all conversation with Sean. He seemed to want that, too, and they had not exchanged more than a few sentences about their plans since their previous
argument. Sean appeared to be in a hurry. She couldn’t help wondering what that might mean. Were the authorities on his trail?

The piers were in sight, with many bobbing ships of all sizes and shapes. Instantly she saw
The Fair
Lady
, at anchor some distance away. She also saw the British naval ship and at the sight of its flag, she shuddered. A few red-coated marines were on its decks, but otherwise the ship was silent and appeared deserted.

She folded her arms, filled with a new tension, brought on by the sight of the marines. “Why would Cliff take me home now when he could sail you away? The two of you have clearly conspired already.” She refused to meet his gaze.

“Cliff is going to take you home. He and I are agreed.” He was firm.

It was so difficult having a conversation with the man she had once loved so completely. All she wanted to do was escape him and never see him again, but he did not deserve to hang. “Do not mistake me,” she said curtly, her gaze on the harbor scene. “I want to go home immediately. I want nothing more. However, I have decided that I prefer to go by land. Cliff can sail you away.” And she finally met his eyes.

“As soon as you board, I will book passage…on another ship.” He spoke very softly now but his voice had never been more intense. Was it pleading?

She felt herself flush. “I do not care what you do,” she said, meaning it, “once you are out of the country. There are soldiers right over there. I will travel by coach.”

His gaze was searching, so she kept her eyes downcast. “We don’t have time to argue…. The plans are made. And Cliff will keep you safe.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. “And who will keep you safe, Sean?” Her tone was hostile.

“But you hate me,” he said slowly.

A long, tense pause ensued. “I hate you…but I do not wish you dead,” she finally said.

Then, suddenly, he spoke. “You will never forgive me, will you?”

She had to meet his anguished eyes. Trembling, she steeled herself against him. “No.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said.

E
LEANOR SAT IN THE BACK
of the gig by herself, wrapped up in a soft wool cloak that belonged to Connelly’s wife. There had been too many soldiers on the docks for her to board Cliff’s ship, and she was
travelling home by coach after all. The carriage was an open one, pulled by a single horse, and even though the sun was shining, it was a cold, bitter day. She shivered, but the coldness of her skin was nothing like the iciness in her heart. Connelly had offered to take her to Adare and she was finally on her way home. She was trying not to think or feel but it was so hard. She was never going to see Sean O’Neill again.

How had her life come to this single point in time?

Memories she and Sean had made together over an entire lifetime were her only companion now. But the remembrances were so painful now, even the pleasant, happy ones, because all hope was gone.

Their lives had diverged long ago when he had chosen a path that had led him north, away from Askeaton and into another woman’s life. How odd it was that a single twist of Fate had briefly brought them together. Now, with every breath she drew, their steps diverged again, but this time, more widely. There would be no more miraculous twists of Fate. Their paths were never going to cross again. It shouldn’t hurt, not after all he had done. But, dear God, it did.

Eleanor shuddered, filled with grief. The adage was that time healed all wounds, but she knew hers
would never heal. Hatred was a refuge, but she could never genuinely hate Sean. She would cling to her anger for as long as she could, but her heart knew it was a sham.

There was so much regret.

Connelly suddenly glanced back over his shoulder, his face stiff with tension.

Eleanor felt a frisson of dread. She, too, turned.

A dusty cloud filled the air, signaling numerous riders behind them, rapidly approaching.

Connelly saw it, too. “We have company, my lady. Probably a hired coach, but you never know. Could be cutthroats an’ thieves—or worse.”

Worse, of course, would mean soldiers. For the first time since running away with Sean, Eleanor started to realize the situation she was in. In a way, she had been an accomplice to Sean’s escape. She remained certain, however, that no officer would ever condemn her for what she had done. After all, she was Adare’s daughter.

Eleanor clung to the carriage door. Connelly slowed the gig. The cloud of dust was replaced by a half a dozen riders, all except one wearing the blue uniforms of a regiment of Light Dragoons. And the officer in red was none other than Captain Thomas Brawley.

Instantly she was afraid for Sean—and fiercely
relieved she did not know his exact plans. Trembling, she realized she must convince the troops that Sean had left the country days ago, that he was already far out to sea. And in that moment, there was no hatred, only a fierce and loyal desire to protect the man she had known and loved her entire life. Lowering her voice, she said, “We have done
nothing
wrong.”

Connelly was white. “They’ll hang me if I am found out,” he said.

Eleanor’s mind sped with excuses and explanations. She hadn’t seen Sean in days—he had left the country immediately, and she had been ill and stranded in Cork. “Let me do the speaking,” she said tersely to Connelly.

Brawley rode up to her. “Lady de Warenne!” he cried with evident relief.

She somehow smiled. “Captain.”

He instantly dismounted. His gaze moved swiftly over her, the inspection clinical, not bold. “Are you all right?”

Eleanor marked his concern but was now worried about the treachery she suspected had led the troops to her. She glanced at Connelly, but he was pale with fear and she was certain he was not the traitor—if, indeed, there was one in their midst. She must use all of her wits now, she thought fiercely, and if Brawley was concerned for her, she would play him, too.

She extended her hand to him. Unfortunately she was trembling. “I have been through an ordeal,” she said softly, allowing tears to fill her eyes. “Thank God you are here.”

“What has happened to you?” Helping her from the carriage, he took her arm and led her a short distance away, so they might speak somewhat privately. “Where is O’Neill?”