The Stolen Bride (4 page)

It was then that he saw the man in the fine blue wool jacket approaching, a wildflower in his lapel, a small satchel in hand. Because he feared a trap, Sean carefully let the dagger reverse itself in his hand, and he laid it on his thigh, beneath the table.

The gentleman saw him and paused before the table. “Collins?”

Sean nodded, responding to his alias. Then he gestured at a chair.

The man sat. “I was given your description,” he said. “Unfortunately, you look exactly as a dangerous escaped felon might.” He was grim.

Sean ignored the remark. The man was tall, with tawny hair. His jacket was well made, his trousers tan, a fine wool. He noticed his waxed shoes. This man was clearly from a privileged background. The odds were that this was the gentleman Connelly had described, someone named Rory McBane.

It took him a moment to speak. It seemed easier than it had been that morning. “Are you…alone?”

“I haven’t been followed,” McBane said, studying him as warily. “I was very careful. And you?” He leaned closer, as if he hadn’t been able to clearly hear Sean when he had spoken.

Sean shook his head. The man continued to stare, far too closely, as if trying to decide whom he was aiding and abetting now. Perhaps McBane knew he was wanted for murder—perhaps he knew he
was
a murderer—perhaps he was afraid.

“Everything you need is in the satchel.” McBane broke the tense silence. With his boot, he moved the satchel toward Sean. “There’s some coin and a change of clothes. Passage has been booked to Hampton, Virginia, on an American merchantman, the
U.S. Hero
. She sails the day after tomorrow on the first tide.”

He would soon be free. In a matter of days, he would be sailing across the ocean, away from the British, away from Ireland, the land where he had been born, the land where he had spent most of his life. He knew he must thank McBane, but instead, his heart stirred unpleasantly, as if trying to tell him something.

Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear. In a few days, he would no longer be hunted. Soon, he would be able to look at the sun, hopefully without using his hand as a shield, and he would never have to hide in the dark again. He would never be surrounded by cold stone walls and a barred iron door. He would never sleep on ragged stone floors with only the rags on his body for warmth, for comfort. He would never
have to eat water laced with potato skins and bread crawling with maggots. He was going to America and he would be free. They would not find him there.

He should be elated or relieved, but he was neither of those things.

Crystal tinkled. Perfume wafted. Soft conversation
sounded. And amber eyes, bright with laughter,
held his
.

Sean stiffened, shocked that his mind would suddenly do this to him. He felt ill, almost seasick. Maybe he was losing his mind, once and for all. He simply could not go to where his mind wanted to take him. There was no returning to that other lifetime! Panic claimed him.

“You need a good razor,” McBane said, cutting into his thoughts, the interruption a welcome one. “I saw a Wanted poster. You look too much like it. You need to get rid of that beard.”

Sean just stared. He had used Connelly’s blade but it hadn’t been of a good quality. McBane was right. He needed a real razor, a brush, well-milled soap.

And his mind had become intent on mayhem.

Silver eyes, bright and pleasant, stared back at him
from a looking glass. A handsome, dark-haired man
was reflected there, shaving in the morning. In that
reflection, velvet draperies were parted. Outside, the
sky was brilliantly blue and the overgrown lawns
were fantastically green. The ruins of a tower were
just visible from the window. So was the sea.

Sean! Are you going to dally or are we riding
to the Rock?

“Are you all right?” McBane asked.

Sean tensed. He could not understand the question. What was happening to him? He could not think about the ancient past. When he married Peg Boyle, hoping to one day love her and determined to be a father to her child, as well as to the child she carried, he had made his decision. The only woman he had to remember was Peg. Now, he deliberately recalled her lying in his arms, battered and beaten and bleeding to death.

“Look, Collins, I understand you have been through hell. We are on the same side. I’m an Irishman, just like you. I heard it whispered that you’re noble by birth, which gives us a common bond. You don’t look well. Can I be of some help somehow?” McBane seemed perplexed but he was also concerned.

Sean could not find any relief in the present now. He found his voice but made no attempt to raise it. “Why…are you doing this?” He had to know why a gentleman would risk his life for him.

McBane started. “I told you. We are countrymen, and I am a patriot. You fought for freedom one way. I fight for it another way—usually with my pen—but sometimes I aid men like you.”

Sean forced his teeth to bare, trying to smile, but McBane flinched. “Thank you,” he heard himself say roughly.

“Is there anything else that you need?” McBane asked.

Sean shook his head. All he needed was to sail far away to a different land, a different life. Once he did that, maybe his mind would stop trying to torture him with glimpses of a life he was afraid to recall.

McBane leaned across the table. “Lie low then, until the
Hero
departs. I am leaving Cork tonight, but I can be reached at Adare. It’s only a half day’s ride from here and our mutual friends can get word to me there.”

Sean knew his body remained perfectly still, but his heart leaped with a painful and consuming force. He felt as if McBane had just stabbed him. Was this a trick, after all? Or was his mind cruelly teasing him again? Had McBane just referred to
Adare?

McBane stood. “Godspeed,” he said.

Sean, stunned, did not reply.

McBane made a sound, and something like pity flitted through his eyes. Then he started through the
crowd. Sean remained seated, paralyzed. He should let McBane go, otherwise he knew he was going to lose the last of his iron will. But what if McBane was a part of an elaborate trap?

He was not going back to prison and he was not going to hang.

Sean followed McBane with his eyes. He waited until he was almost at the front door. He had been correct to assume that McBane would not look back. Sean leaped up, grabbing the satchel, and reached the door an instant after McBane passed through. Then he followed him into the night.

McBane walked down the narrow and dirty street, his strides long, even jaunty. Making certain that he was soundless and invisible, Sean followed, his longer strides taking him closer and closer to his unsuspecting prey. And then he reached out, seizing him from behind, turning him face-first into the nearest wall. McBane stilled, clearly understanding that a struggle would be futile. “You…do not…go to Adare,” Sean rasped, fury now uncoiling within him. “This…is a jest…or a trap.”

“Collins!” McBane gasped. “Are you mad? What the hell are you doing?”

Sean jerked on the man’s arm, close to breaking
it. “What…do you intend? What kind…of clever ruse…is this?”

“What do I intend?” McBane gasped against the wall. “I am trying to help you flee the country, you fool. We should not be seen together! My radical anti-British views are well-known. Damn it! There are soldiers everywhere in town!”

Sean pushed him harder into the wall. “You cannot be going to Adare. This is a trick!” he cried. Speaking a whole sentence without interruption caused his entire body to break out in sweat.

“A trick? You are mad! I heard they had you in solitary for two years. You have lost your mind! I am going to Adare as a friend of the bride and her family.”

And Sean lost all control.

Adare was his home
.

The green lawns and abundant gardens of Adare
were so spectacular that summer parties from Britain
would request permission to stop by to visit them.
Huge and grand, the visitors would often request a
tour of the house, as well, and it was usually allowed,
if the countess or earl were in residence.

He was shaking. No, Sean O’Neill had been raised there. He was John Collins now.

“You are as white as a sheet,” McBane said. “Would you mind releasing me?”

But Sean didn’t hear him.

During the morning, there had been lessons in the
sciences and the humanities with the tutor, Mr.
Godfrey. The afternoons had been spent fencing with
an Italian master, rehearsing steps and figures with
the dance master and learning advanced equestrian
skills. There had been five of them, all young,
handsome, strong, clever, privileged and more than
a bit arrogant. And then there had been Elle
.

“Collins.”

He came back to the present, to the street in Cork where he continued to hold McBane against the brick wall of a house. The damage was done. He had dared to allow himself the luxury of recalling a piece of the past to which he no longer had any rights. He loosened his hold on McBane, wetting his lips. He had to turn around and go back to his flat over the cobbler’s shop. He did not. “There…is a wedding?”

“Yes, there is. A very consequential wedding, in fact.”

Sean closed his eyes. He did not want to remember a warm and verdant time of belonging, of family, of security and peace, but it was simply too late.

He had a brother and sister-in-law and a niece; he had a mother, a stepfather and stepbrothers, and there was also Elle. He could not breathe, fighting the
floodgate, struggling to keep it closed. If he let one memory out, a thousand would follow, and he would never elude the British, he would never flee the country, he would never survive.

He was overcome with longing.

Faces formed in his mind, hazy and blurred. His
proud, dangerous brother, a fighting captain of the
seas, his charismatic and rakish stepbrothers, the
powerful earl, his elegant mother. And a child, in
her two braids, all coltish legs
…

He stepped away from McBane, sweat running down his body in streams. McBane appeared vastly annoyed as he straightened his jacket and stock, then concern overtook his features. “Are you all right?”

McBane had mentioned a
bride
. He looked at the man. “Who is getting…married?”

McBane started in surprise. Then, slowly, he said, “Eleanor de Warenne. Do you know the family?”

He was so stunned he simply stood there, his shock removing every barrier he had put up to prevent himself from ever traveling back into the past. And Elle stood there in the doorway of his room at Askeaton, her hair pulled back in one long braid, dressed for riding in one of his shirts and a pair of Cliff’s breeches.
This was impossible.

“What is taking you so long?” she demanded
.
“We are taking the day off! No more scraping burns
off wood! You said we could ride to
Dolan
’
s
Rock.
Cook has packed a picnic and the dogs are outside,
having a fit
.”

He tried to recall how old she had been. It had been well before her first Season. Perhaps she had been thirteen or fourteen, because she had been tall and skinny. He was helpless to stop the replay in his mind.

He was smiling.
“
Ladies do not barge into a
gentleman’
s
rooms, Elle.” He was bare-chested. He
turned away from the mirror and reached for a soft
white shirt
.

“But you are not a gentleman, are you?” She
grinned
.

He calmly buttoned the shirt. “No, you are no lady.”

“Thank the Lord!”

He tried not to laugh. “Do not take the
Lord’s
name in vain!” he exclaimed.

“Why not? You do far worse— I hear you curse
when you are angry. Boys are allowed to curse but
ladies must wriggle their hips when they walk—while
wearing foul corsets!”

He eyed her skinny frame. “You will never have
to wear a corset.”

“And that is fortunate!” Her face finally fell. She
walked past him and sat down on his unmade bed. “I
know I am so improper!” She sighed. “I am on a
regime to fatten up. I have been eating two desserts
every day. Nothing has happened. I am doomed.”

Now he had to laugh.

She was furious. She threw a pillow at him.

“Elle, there are worse things than being thin. You
will probably fill out one day.” He could not imagine
her being anything but bony and too tall.

She slid off the bed. “You’re saying that to humor
me. You told me I’d stop growing two years ago, too.”

“I am trying to make you feel better. Come. If you
beat me to the Rock, you can stay here an extra day.”

Her eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Really.” He grinned back. “Last one to the Rock
goes home today,” he said, and he started to the door.

She cried out and ran past him, flying down the
stairs.

He was laughing, and when he got in the saddle,
she was an entire field ahead.

He turned away from McBane, trembling. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stand there in the cool autumn afternoon, letting his mind wander. He needed to get on that ship and sail far away, to America.

How old was she now?

The last time he had seen her she had been eighteen. He desperately wanted to shut his mind
down now, but it was too late. The unforgettable image had formed. Elle stood in the white lace nightgown, next to Askeaton’s front gates, a small, forlorn figure as he stared down at her from the rise in the hill. She did not move. He didn’t have to be near her to know she was crying.

Promise me you will come back for me
.

He was very ill now, and he could barely breathe. “Who…is she marrying?” Had she fallen in love?