Praise for Brenda Joyce

“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight,

which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her fast-

paced story keeps the pages turning.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride

“An emotionally sweeping tale of heartache,

redemption, and rebirth, The Stolen Bride lives up to this reader’s high expectations for a Perfect 10 read.” —Romance Reviews Today

The Masquerade “dances on slippered feet, belying its heft with spellbinding dips, spins and twists. Jane Austen aficionados will delve happily into heroine Elizabeth “Lizzie” Fitzgerald’s family… Joyce’s tale of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will enchant those who like their reads long and rich.” —Publishers Weekly

“Joyce brilliantly delivers an intensely emotional and

engrossing romance where love overcomes deceit,

scandal and pride… An intelligent love story with smart,

appealing and strong characters. Readers will savour

this latest from a grand mistress of the genre.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on The Masquerade

“The latest from Joyce offers readers a passionate,

swashbuckling voyage in her newest addition to the de

Warenne dynasty series. Joyce brings her keen sense

of humour and storytelling prowess to bear on

her witty fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

“The latest in the de Warenne series is a warm

wonderfully sensual feast about the joys and pains

following in love. Joyce breathes life into extraordinary

characters – from her sprightly Cinderella heroine and

roguish hero to everyone in between – then sets them in

the glittering Regency, where anything can happen.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on A Lady at Last

“I knew you would come back!”

“You’re engaged,” he said. He spoke in a whisper that was barely audible and his voice was hoarse. 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. 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.

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

She reached out to him, brushing his hand. “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!”

Brenda Joyce is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and novellas. She wrote her first novella when she was sixteen years old and her first novel when she was twenty-five – and was published shortly thereafter. She has won many awards and her first novel, Innocent Fire, won the Best Western Romance Award. She has also won the highly coveted Best Historical Romance award for Splendor and the Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. She is the author of the critically acclaimed Deadly series, which is set in turn-of-the-century New York and features amateur sleuth Francesca Cahill. There are over eleven million copies of her novels in print and she is published in over a dozen countries. A native New Yorker, she now lives in southern Arizona with her husband, son, dogs, cat and numerous Arabian and half-Arabian reining horses. For more information about Brenda and her upcoming novels, please visit her website at www.brendajoyce.com.

The Stolen Bride
Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to thank Lucy Childs once again for reading everything I write and always being so enthusiastic and supportive while offering really helpful criticism. I want to thank my editor, Miranda Stecyk, for being as enthusiastic, as supportive and a great editor (keep on cutting!) as well as being willing to work with me on an insane and manic schedule. I also want to thank Cissy Hartley at Writerspace for her support, patience and utter diplomacy, time and again, and the great job she has done taking care of my websites. I want to thank Theresa Myers for her enthusiasm and brilliance and always taking on copywriting at the last moment! And I want to welcome two new members to my team, designers of dewarennedynasty.com and mastersoftimebooks.com! Thank you, Laurel Letherby and Dorie Hensley, for such wonderful support, unflagging enthusiasm and unfailing creativity!

THE STOLEN BRIDE

This one is for the new team! Cissy Hartley,

Laurel Letherby, Dorie Hensley, Theresa Myers

and Miranda Stecyk. I couldn’t do it all without

you guys. Thank you so much!

PROLOGUE

Askeaton, Ireland, June, 1814

THE CALL OF THE UNKNOWN. It was there, around him, inside him, an urgent restlessness, the call to adventure. It had never been stronger, and it was impossible to ignore for a single moment longer.

Sean O’Neill paused in the courtyard of the manor home that had been in his family for almost four hundred years. With his own hands, he had rebuilt the stone walls he faced. With his own hands, he had helped the town craftsmen replace the empty husks where the windows had once been gorgeously colored stained glass. He had knelt on the ancient floors inside, carefully replacing the broken stones alongside the Limerick masons. With an army of housemaids, he had carefully salvaged every burned sword in the front hall, all family heirlooms. The huge tapestry there had been burned beyond repair, however.

And he had plowed the charred and blackened fields alongside the O’Neill tenants, day after day and week after week, until the earth was brown and fertile again. He had overseen the selection, purchase and transport of the cattle and sheep that had replaced the herds and flocks destroyed by the British troops in that fateful summer of 1798. Now, as he stood by his mount, the saddlebags full, a small satchel attached to the saddle horn, lambs frolicked with their dams in the hills behind the house, beneath the blush of first light.

He had rebuilt the estate with his sweat, his blood and even at times, his tears. He had rebuilt Askeaton for his older brother in the years Devlin had been at sea, a captain in the royal navy, engaged in war with the French. Devlin had returned home a few days earlier with his American bride and their daughter. He had resigned his commission and was, Sean knew, at Askeaton to stay. And that was how it should be.

The restlessness overcame him then. He wasn’t sure what it was that he wanted, but he knew that his task here was done. Something was out there waiting for him, something huge, calling to him the ways the sirens did the sailors lost at sea. He was only twenty-four years old and he smiled at the rising sun, exhilarated and ready for whatever adventure Fate thought to hand him.

“Sean! Wait!”

He was briefly incredulous at the sound of Eleanor de Warenne’s voice. But then, he should have known she would be up at this hour and that she would catch him as he prepared to leave. She had been his shadow since the day his mother had married her father, when she was a demanding and irrepressible toddler of two and he was a somber boy of eight. As a child, she followed him around like a puppy its new master, at times amusing him and at other times annoying him. And when he had begun the restoration of his family lands, she had been at his side on her knees, chipping out broken stones with him. When she had turned sixteen, she had been sent to England. Since then, she didn’t really seem like little Elle anymore. Uncomfortable, he turned to face her.

She hurried toward him. She had always had a long aggressive stride, never the graceful gait of a proper lady. That hadn’t changed, but everything else had. He stiffened, because she rushed toward him barefoot and clad only in a white cotton nightgown.

And in that heartbeat, he simply did not know the woman who was calling out to him. The nightgown caressed her body like a silk glove, indicating curves he could not recognize, flattened against her by the dawn breeze.

“Where are you going? Why didn’t you wake me? I’ll ride with you! We can race to the chapel and back.” She halted abruptly, her eyes going wide, staring at the saddlebags and the satchel. Her smile had vanished.

He saw her shock, followed by comprehension, but he was still struggling with his own surprise. He would always think of Elle as an awkward child, tall and skinny no matter her age, her face thin and angular, with her hair in waist-length braids. What had happened to her in the past two years? He wasn’t sure when her body had developed such immodest and feminine curves or when her face had filled out, making it a perfect oval.

He looked away from the neckline of her gown, which he decided was indecent. Then he looked away from the swell of her hips, hips that simply could not belong to her. His cheeks were warm. “You can’t walk around in nightclothes. Someone might see you!” he exclaimed. He had sat across from her at supper last night. But he had been uncomfortable then, too, especially because every time he glanced at her, she had smiled at him, trying to hold his gaze. He had done his best to avoid eye contact.

“You’ve seen me in my nightclothes a hundred times,” she said slowly. “Where are you going?”

He dragged his gaze directly to hers. Her eyes hadn’t changed, and for that, he was relieved. Amber in hue, almond in shape, he had always been able to look at her eyes and read her every mood, her every thought, her every expression and emotion. He saw that she was afraid. His reaction was immediate, and he smiled reassuringly at her. Somehow his duty had always been to ease her fears, whenever she had them. “I need to go,” he said quietly. “But I’ll be back.”

“What do you mean?” she gasped in disbelief.

The Elle of his childhood had always been able to read his every thought and mood, too. She had grown up, but she still understood him, even without his having to elaborate. Carefully, he said, “Elle, something is out there and I need to find it.”

“What?” Her eyes were filled with growing horror. “No! Nothing is out there—I am here!”

He became still, their gazes locked. He knew, as did everyone in their two families, that she had harbored a wild and foolish infatuation for him for as long as anyone could remember. No one knew precisely when, but as a child she had decided she loved him and that she would marry him one day. Sean had been amused by her claims. He had always known that she would outgrow such nonsense. They didn’t share a drop of blood, but he considered her a sister. She was the daughter of an earl—she would marry a title or wealth, or both. “Elle.” He spoke calmly now. He chose to ignore that remark. Surely she no longer clung to such beliefs. “Askeaton belongs to Devlin. He’s home now. I have this feeling that there is something more out there for me. I need to go. I want to go.”

She was pale. “No! You can’t leave! There is nothing out there—what are you speaking of? Your life is here! We are here—your family, me! And Askeaton is yours as much as Devlin’s!”

He decided not to refute that, as Devlin had actually purchased Askeaton from the earl eight years ago. He hesitated, trying to find the right words, words she might understand. “I have to go. Besides, you don’t need me now. You’ve grown-up.” His smile failed him. “You’ll be sent back to England soon and you won’t be thinking of me then. Not with all your suitors.” He found that notion odd and unpleasant. “Go back to bed.”

A look of pure determination crossed her face and he tensed. When Elle had an objective, nothing could stop her from attaining it. “I am coming with you,” she declared.

“Absolutely not!”

“Don’t you dare leave without me! I am going to get dressed. Have a horse saddled for me!” she cried, whirling to race back inside.

He seized her arm, pulling her back around. The moment he felt her soft full body against his, his brain failed him. He instantly jerked away from her. “I know you have always gotten your way with everyone, including me. But not this time.”

“You have been acting like an idiot ever since I came over last night! You’ve been avoiding me! And don’t you dare try and deny it. You won’t even look at me,” she exclaimed. “Now you say you’re leaving me?” She was so distressed and angry that she was breathing hard.

He folded his arms across his chest, his gaze dropping to the bodice of her nightgown, where he could clearly see the shape of her full breasts. He was shocked with himself. He lifted his eyes instantly to her face. “I’m leaving—not you, I’m just leaving.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “Just take me with you!”

“You’re going back to England.”

“I hate it there!”

Of course she did. She was a wildflower, not a hothouse rose. Elle had been raised amongst five boys, and she had been born to ride the Irish hills on her horse, not to dance the quadrille in a London ballroom. She stood there, looking devastated, and in that moment time fell away and she appeared all of eight years old, not eighteen, crushed with disappointment and hugely vulnerable. Tears tracked down her cheeks.

And instantly he took her in his arms, as he’d done a thousand times before. “It’s all right,” he began. But the moment he felt her breasts between them, instead of her bony chest, he pushed away. He felt his cheeks flame.

“Are you ever coming back?” she demanded, clinging to his arms.

“Of course I am,” he said tersely, trying to back up.

“When?”

“I’m not sure. A year or two.”

“A year or two?” She began to cry. “How can you do this? How can you leave me for so long? I already miss you! You’re my best friend! I’m your best friend! Won’t you miss me?”

He gave in and reached for her hand. “Of course I’ll miss you,” he said quietly. It was the truth.

Their gazes locked. “Promise me. Promise me that you are coming back for me.”

“I promise,” he said.

And he realized as they stared at each other, as the tears rolled down her face, their hands remained tightly clasped. Gently he pried himself loose. It was time to go. He faced his mount, reaching for the stirrup.

“Wait!”

He half turned and before he could react, she threw her arms around him and pressed her mouth to his.

He realized what was happening. Elle, little Elle, tall and skinny, fearless enough to leap off the old ruined stone tower behind the manor and laugh while doing it, was kissing him on the mouth. But that was impossible, because there was a woman in his arms, her body soft and warm, and her lips open and hot.

He jumped away, aghast. “What was that?”

“That was a kiss, you fool!” she shouted at him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still stunned.

“You didn’t like it?” she said in disbelief.

“No, I didn’t like it,” he almost shouted. Furious now, with her and with himself, he leaped astride his horse. Then he looked down at her. She was sobbing, but soundlessly, covering her mouth with her hands.

He could not stand it when she cried. “Don’t cry,” he said. “Please.”

She nodded, ashen, fighting the tears until they stopped. “Promise me again.”

He inhaled. “I promise.”

She smiled tearfully at him.

He smiled back, and it felt oddly tearful, as well. Then he lifted the reins and spurred his horse into a gallop. He hadn’t meant to leave at a madcap pace, but her distress, which he had caused, was far too much to bear. When it felt safe to do so, he finally glanced back.

She hadn’t moved. She stood by the iron courtyard gates in the white nightgown, watching him leave. She raised her hand, and even from a distance, he felt her sadness and fear.

He raised his hand in return. Maybe this was for the best, he thought, shaken to the core of his being. Then he turned away, cantering down the roadway, not toward Limerick, but to the east.

When he topped the first hill he paused a final time. His heart beat hard and fast, disturbingly. He turned his mount to look down on his home. The manor was as small as a toy house. A small figure in white posed by the front gates. Elle hadn’t moved.

And he wondered if what he was looking for was already within his grasp.

CHAPTER ONE

October 7, 1818, Adare, Ireland

IN THREE DAYS, she was getting married. How had this happened?

In three days, she was going to marry the gentleman everyone thought perfect for her. In three very short days, she was going to be Peter Sinclair’s wife. Eleanor de Warenne was afraid.

She leaned so low over her galloping horse’s neck that she saw nothing but his dark coat and mane. She spurred him, urging him to an even faster, more dangerous pace. She intended to outrun her nervousness —and her dread.

And briefly, she did. The sensation of speed became consuming; there could be no other feeling, no thought. The ground was a blur beneath the pounding hooves of her mount. Finally, the present had vanished. Exhilaration claimed her.

Dawn was breaking in the pale sky overhead. Eventually, Eleanor became tired, as did the stud she rode. She straightened and he slowed, and instantly, she thought about her impending marriage again.

Eleanor brought the bay stallion to a walk. She had reached a high point on the ridge and she looked down at her home. Adare was the seat of her father’s earldom, an estate that reached into three counties, encompassing a hundred villages, thousands of farms and one very lucrative coal mine, as well as several quarries. Below, the ridge turned to thick forest and then into the achingly lush green lawns and riotous gardens surrounding the huge stone mansion that was her home, a river running through them. Although first built in Elizabethan times, very little of the original structure remained. Renovated a hundred years earlier, the front of the house was a long three-story rectangle, with a dozen columns supporting the roof and the triangular pediment above it. Two shorter wings were behind the facade, one reserved for the family, the other for their guests.

Her home was filled with family and guests now. Three hundred people had been invited to the wedding and fifty guests, mostly Peter’s family, had been crammed into the east wing. The rest were staying at village inns and the Grand Hotel in Limerick.

Eleanor stared down at the estate, breathless and perspiring, her long honey-blond hair having come loose from its braid, wearing a pair of breeches she had stolen ages ago from one of her brothers. After her come-out two years earlier, she had been required to ride astride in a lady’s proper riding attire. Having been raised with her three brothers and two stepbrothers, she had decided that was absurd. She had been riding at dawn since then, so she could ride astride and leap fences, an act that was impossible in skirts. Society would find her behavior shocking—and so would her fiancé, if he ever discovered she was inclined to ride and dress like a man.

Of course, she had no intention of letting that happen. She wanted to marry Peter Sinclair. Didn’t she?

Eleanor could not stand it then. She had thought her grief and sorrow long since gone, but now, her heart broke open. She had wanted to marry Peter, but with her wedding just days away, she had to face the terrible and frightening truth. She was no longer certain. More importantly, she had to know if Sean were alive or dead.

Eleanor walked her mount down the hillside. Her heart beat swiftly and painfully, stirring up feelings she had never wanted to again entertain. He had left her four years ago. Last year, she had come to terms with his disappearance. After waiting for his return for three interminable years, after refusing to believe the conclusion her family had drawn, she had woken up one morning with a horrific comprehension. He was gone. He wasn’t coming back. They were right—as there had been no word, he must be dead.

She had locked herself in her room for several days, weeping for the loss of her best friend, the boy she had spent a lifetime with—the man she loved. On the fourth morning, she had left her rooms, going directly to her father.

“I am ready to marry, Father. I should like you to arrange a proper match.”

The earl, alone in the breakfast room, had gaped at her in shock.

“Someone titled and well-off, someone as fond of the hunt as I am, and someone passably attractive,” she had said. She had no emotions left. But she added grimly, “Actually, he must be a superb horseman or we will never get on.”

“Eleanor—” the earl had leaped to his feet “—you are making the right decision.”

She had warded him off. “Yes, I know.” And she had left before he might inquire as to her sudden change of heart. She had no wish to discuss her personal feelings with anyone.

An introduction had been made a month later. Peter Sinclair was the heir to an earldom, the estate seated in Chatton, and his family was well-off. He was her own age, and he was handsome and charming. He was a superb horseman and bred Thoroughbred racehorses. She had been wary of his English background, having been chased improperly by some English rakes during her two Seasons, but upon meeting him, she had liked him instantly. His behavior had been sincere from the first. That very night, she had decided he would suit. The match had been arranged shortly thereafter, due to her enhanced age.

Suddenly Eleanor felt as if she were on a bolting horse, one she could not bring to a halt. A horsewoman her entire life, she knew the best recourse would be to leap off.

But she had never bailed from a runaway, not once in her twenty-two years. Instead, she had exerted her will and skill over the animal, bringing it under her control. She tried to remind herself that all brides were nervous and it was not uncommon. After all, her life was about to forever change. Not only would she marry Peter Sinclair, she would move to Chatton, live in England, run his home and soon, bear his children. God, could she really do this?

If only she knew what had happened to Sean.

But she did not know his fate, and she was probably never going to learn of it. Her father and Devlin had spent years searching for him, using Bow Street Runners. But his name was not an unusual one, and every lead had turned out to be false. Her Sean O’Neill had vanished into thin air.

Once more, she blamed herself for ever allowing him to go. She had tried to stop him; she should have made an even greater attempt.

Abruptly Eleanor halted her mount and she closed her eyes tightly. Peter would be a perfect husband, and she was very fond of him. Sean was gone. Not only that, he’d never once looked at her the way Peter regarded her. It was a great match. Her fiancé was kind, amusing, charming, blond and handsome. He was horse-mad, as was she. As the English debutantes she had once been forced to attend would say, he was a premier catch.

Eleanor quickly moved the stallion forward. At this late hour, she was lying to herself. Peter was a dear man, but how could she marry him when there was even the slimmest chance that Sean was alive? On the other hand, she couldn’t break the contracts now!

Suddenly real panic began. She had been a failure in London. She had hated every ball, where she had been snubbed because she was Irish and tall and because she preferred horses to parties. The English had been terribly condescending. She was going to be a failure in Chatton, too—she was certain of it. Even if Peter had never questioned her background, once he got to know her he would be condescending, too.

Because she wasn’t proper enough to be his English wife. Proper ladies would not dream of riding astride in breeches, let alone doing so alone. And while a few were brave enough to foxhunt, ladies did not shoot carbines and fence with masters; ladies loved shopping and gossip, which she abhorred. Peter didn’t really know her—he didn’t know her at all.

Ladies don’t lie.

It was as if Sean stood there beside her, his silver eyes oddly accusing. If only he hadn’t left her. How could it still hurt, on the eve of her wedding, when she had invested the entire past year of her life in her relationship with Peter?

And Eleanor knew she was on that runaway horse yet again. Her wedding was in three days and until recently, she had been pleased. In fact, she had been very caught up in the wedding preparations and she had been as excited as her mother. It would be the scandal of the decade should she now call it off. She was having bridal jitters, nothing more. Peter was perfect for her.

Very purposefully, Eleanor halted and closed her eyes, trying to find an image that would chase away, once and for all, every fear and doubt she had. She saw herself in her wedding dress, the bodice covered with lace and pearls, the huge satin skirts boasting pearl and lace insets, the train an endless pool of satin trimmed in beaded lace. Peter was standing beside her, blond and handsome in his formal attire. They were exchanging vows and Peter was raising her veil so he might kiss her.

The veil was removed from her eyes. Peter was gone. Standing before her was a tall, dark man with shockingly silver eyes.

Ladies don’t lie, Elle.

Eleanor could not bear the renewed surge of grief. She did not need this now. She did not want this now.

“Go away!” She almost wept. “Leave me alone, please!”

But the damage was done, she thought miserably. She had dared to let him back into her mind, and now, just days before her wedding, he wasn’t going to go away. She had known Sean O’Neill since she was a child. His mother had been widowed by the British in a terrible massacre, and her own father, a widower at that time, had married Mary O’Neill, taking Sean and his brother in. Although he had never legally adopted the O’Neill boys, he had raised them with his own three sons and Eleanor, treating both boys as if they were his own.

There were so many memories now. Even as a tot, she recalled thinking Sean a prince, never mind that his family had been impoverished Irish Catholic gentry. Toddling after him, screaming his name, she had tried to follow him everywhere. At first he had been kind, allowing her to piggyback on his strong but scrawny shoulders or leading her back by the hand to her nurse. But his kindness had become irritation as Eleanor grew into a small child. She would hide in the classroom to watch him at his lessons and then advise him on how to do better. Sean would summon the tutor, ordering her put out, telling her to mind her own affairs. Unfortunately, even at six, Eleanor’s math was better than his own numbers. If he thought to escape the day’s lessons, she knew, and she would follow him out to the pond, also intent on fishing. Sean had tried to scare her with worms but Eleanor had helped him bait his hooks instead. She was better at that, too.

“Fine, Weed, you can stay,” he had grumbled, giving up.

He would ride across the Adare lands with his brothers, an almost daily event. Eleanor had a fat, old Welsh pony, and she would follow, refusing to be sent home. More times than not, with vast annoyance, Sean had caved in to her, allowing her to send the pony home and letting her ride double behind him.

Her favorite ploys, though, had been to spy or steal. Sometimes she hid in a closet to eavesdrop on Sean, overhearing the most fascinating young male conversations—most of which she had not understood. At other times she would take a beloved possession—his favorite book, his penknife, a shoe—just to make certain he hadn’t forgotten her. When he realized, he would chase her furiously through the house or across the grounds, demanding the item back. Eleanor had laughed at him, loving the chase and knowing he could not catch her unless she allowed it, as she was too fast for him.

An ancient ache was assailing her, yet she realized she had been smiling, too. She found herself standing some distance from the stables, her stallion now contentedly grazing, and tears pricked at her eyes. Sean was gone. In her heart she might yearn for his return, and she might still miss him terribly, but what good was that? Irrefutable logic demanded that if he could come back—or if he wanted to—he would have returned by now. Common sense also proved a very painful fact: he had never once in their entire lifetime indicated that he felt anything but brotherly affection for her.

Eleanor realized that a man was approaching, having come out of one of the many entrances of the house. Instantly she recognized her oldest brother, Tyrell. He was so terribly preoccupied with affairs of state, the earldom and the family that they did not spend much time together, but there was no one more dependable or more kind. One day, he would be the family patriarch, and every problem and crisis, both personal and otherwise, would be brought to him for resolution. She admired him tremendously; he was her favorite brother.

Tyrell paused before her and she was very pleased to see him. Tall, muscular and dark, he smiled at her. “I am relieved that you are all right. I saw you from a window and when you dismounted, I feared something was amiss.”

Somehow Eleanor forced a smile. It felt sad and fragile. “I am fine. I decided to let Apollo graze, that’s all.”

Tyrell’s dark blue gaze was searching. “You were never one to dally in bed, but I thought we had an understanding that you would not ride about this way while we have so many guests.”

Eleanor tried to keep smiling, but she avoided his eyes now. “I had to take a gallop this morning.”

He was blunt. “What is wrong?”

She stiffened, Sean’s image filling her mind. Oddly, she thought she could feel him with her now, somehow. Shaken, she glanced around, but only a gardener and his boy were passing on the lawns behind her.

Tyrell caught her free hand. “Most brides would love some extra beauty sleep, sweetheart,” he said kindly.

“Extra sleep will hardly make me shorter,” she managed tartly. “True beauties are not as tall as most men—and taller than their own husbands.”

His smile was brief. “Have you decided that you wish a taller husband? It is a bit late to change grooms.”

Damn it, her first thought was that her head barely reached Sean’s chin—even in her boots. Dismayed Eleanor bit her lip. “I am very fond of Peter,” she somehow said. “I don’t care that we stand eye to eye when I am in my bare feet.”

“I am glad, because he is very smitten with you,” Tyrell said seriously. “Last night during the dancing, he could not take his eyes from you. He also partnered you three times. A fourth time would have been scandalous.” He laughed.

Eleanor did not. “That is because I am a ghastly dancer, missing every other step.” She met his gaze. “Do you really think he is smitten? I am bringing a fortune to the marriage.”

“It is rather obvious that he is besotted, Eleanor. Why are you crying?”

Eleanor tensed. She was ready to tell Tyrell everything, she realized. She so needed a confidante. “Tyrell, I am confused,” she heard herself whisper.

He gestured at a stone bench, his expression kind. Eleanor handed him the stud’s reins and walked over, sitting down, that odd desperation coming over her. “I do care about Peter. He is so witty and so considerate, and I have enjoyed the time we have spent together. You know I detest balls, but these past few months, with Peter attending me, I really haven’t minded.”

“He has been good for you, Eleanor,” Tyrell said seriously. “The entire family is agreed on that. He is turning you into a rather proper and conventional lady.”

“I have truly tried to be ladylike,” she said.

Ladies don’t lie, they don’t steal and they don’t spy, Elle.

Panic overcame her and she stood. “Tyrell! Sean is haunting me now. I can’t do this! I really can’t! We should call off the wedding— I don’t care if I remain an old maid on the shelf!”

His eyes were wide. “Eleanor, what has brought this on?” He spoke with a wary tone.

“I don’t know!” she cried. “If only we knew where Sean was—if only we knew what had happened to him.”

Tyrell was silent.

She filled that silence. “I am aware that you think he’s dead. I know what the Runners said. I still miss him,” she whispered, and to her shock, she realized she missed him so much that it was like a knife stabbing through her heart.

Tyrell put his arm around her. “You have loved him your entire life and he has been gone for four years. I am certain a part of you will always miss him. Peter is a great match for you, Eleanor, in every possible way, and I cannot tell you how pleased I am that he is genuinely in love with you, too.”

She barely heard. “But how can I really go through with this when I am feeling this way? I am so unsettled! I almost feel as if Sean is here to stop me from going forward! I am going to be Peter Sinclair’s wife. I am going to bear his children. I am going to live in Chatton.” And she gazed pleadingly at her brother.

“Even if Sean were here, which he is not, would it really make a difference?”

“Of course it would!” Then she flushed. “I comprehend your point. He never cared for me the way that Peter does. I know that, Ty. Why do I have to be thinking of him now, of all times?”

“All brides become exceedingly nervous before their weddings, or so I have been told.” Ty smiled reassuringly at her. “Maybe you are looking for excuses to delay the event, or to even walk away?”

She studied him. “Maybe you’re right. What should I do?”

Tyrell touched her. “Eleanor. You waited for almost four years for him. What do you think to do? Wait four more years for his return?”

Her heart wished to do just that. She finally said, “He’s not dead, Ty. I know it. I feel it. He is very much alive. He has hurt me terribly, but one day, he will come back and tell us what happened and why.”

“I hope you are right,” Tyrell said grimly. He put his arm around her again. “A very wise person once said that we do not choose love. It chooses us. True love never dies, Eleanor.”

“What am I to do?” she begged.

It was a thoughtful moment before Tyrell spoke. “Frankly, I am not surprised that now, on the eve of your wedding, you would be tormented by thoughts of him. Given the past, it would be odd if you did not think of him now. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that you should forsake your marriage to Sinclair.”

Eleanor started. “What do you wish to say?”

Tyrell hesitated.

Eleanor seized his sleeve. “Ty, you may be frank.”

His jaw was tight. “I wish for you to have a life of your own. A home and family of your own, a future with the joy of children. Sean has never returned your feelings, and we do not know where he is or if he will ever return. Sinclair is offering you a genuine future. I think it would be mistake for you to jilt him now. You will not find this opportunity again. Not because of your age, a hindrance enough, but because Sinclair is such a good match for you.”

Eleanor realized she did not care for his meaning. She slumped onto the stone bench, consumed with despair and doubt.

Tyrell spoke again, with great care. “Sinclair is an honorable man. He is, by birth, nature, breeding and character, a true gentleman. I do think, should you go through with the wedding, he might have some trouble ruling his roost. But I don’t think he will care! He has fallen in love with you, Eleanor, and I very much approve of that. Are you genuinely considering breaking the contract on the off chance that Sean will soon return and, even more improbably, realize that he loves you?”

She was so overwhelmed she could barely think. Tyrell was right. She was being absurd. And she had given her word to Peter Sinclair.

“Of course, if you do not care for Sinclair at all, I would not want you to marry him,” Tyrell said softly. “But from what I have seen, you seem genuinely fond of him. I have been pleased to see you laughing again, Eleanor. And I never thought to see you smile during a quadrille.”

Eleanor inhaled and made her decision. “I am so fortunate.” She did not feel fortunate at all. “What woman is allowed to make such an important choice? What choice is there to make? Peter is titled, wealthy and handsome, he is kind, and he loves me. I must be the biggest fool in the land to be thinking, even for a moment, of breaking my marriage for a man who doesn’t want me—a man who isn’t even here, a man the whole world thinks is dead.”

“You have never been foolish,” Tyrell said with a smile. “But I am relieved that you will go through with the wedding. I can barely begin to describe the pleasure a family of your own will bring you.”

She just looked at him, reminding herself once again how fortunate she was while trying to push Sean’s dark image out of her mind. She must never entertain it, or her doubts, again. “You scandalized all of society by choosing Lizzie over your duty, Ty. You married for love—for true love—so I am not sure I am going to enjoy all that you have.”

“You won’t know, not if you don’t try,” he said. “I would never encourage this union if I did not have great hopes for it. I want you to be loved and I want you to be happy, Eleanor. We all do.”

She threw her arms around him. “You are my favorite brother! Have I ever told you that?”

He laughed. “I believe you have,” he said with an affectionate smile. “And, Eleanor? Please, do not become too proper!”

She finally smiled. “As it is an entire ruse, you need not fear a shocking transformation of character! Is not my current attire proof?” She gestured at her breeches.

He did not look down. “On that subject, I must object. Eleanor, please promise me you will return to your riding habit if you must gallop at dawn? At least until after the wedding—and the honeymoon. I would then advise you to humbly ask Peter for his permission to ride astride. I have no doubt you can convince him of anything you truly desire.”

She sighed. “I will try to be humble, Ty. And you are right. I do not need a scandal of my own making now. I will steal into the house so no one sees me. Are the gentlemen up and about?”

“A large group is intent on fishing today, so yes, they are in the breakfast room. I suggest you go in through the ballroom. The ladies remain asleep, of course, except for my wife.” His soft smile was instantaneous.

She quickly envisioned her escape into the house, and her planning calmed her. “Thank you, Ty. Thank you for your pearls of wisdom.” She stood. “You have soothed me. I have come to my right mind. I feel much better.”

Tyrell kissed her cheek. “I happen to believe you are making the right decision. I think, in time, your love for Peter will grow. I think there is every chance that, once you bear his children, there will be no regrets. You deserve all life has to offer. Sinclair can give you that.”

“Yes, you are right. You are always right, in fact.” She grinned at him. It never hurt to flatter the heir to the estate.

He laughed. “My wife would disagree. You need not be obsequious, my dear.”

“But you are the wisest of all my brothers! Can you take Apollo back to the stables for me?” she asked in the same breath.

“Of course.”

Eleanor hugged him and strode toward the house, looping past the west wing so she could take the terrace to the ballroom.

Tyrell remained still, watching her. His smile faded. He had been terribly fortunate in his own life to avoid a prearranged match and to marry for true love. Eleanor remained as deeply in love with Sean O’Neill as she had ever been—it had never been more obvious. These past few months she had been acting a charade. He could not help himself now, for his wife had made him a romantic. He wished that circumstances were different—he wished she were marrying where her heart lay. But it was not to be, and Sinclair was offering her a future. Even if Sean did return, he could offer her nothing now.

He tensed. He had just kept the truth from his sister and he dearly hoped that in doing so, he had done what was right.

For last night, well past the conclusion of the supper party, Captain Brawley, currently in command of a regiment stationed south of Limerick, had requested a private audience with the earl. Tyrell had attended, as was his right. And the young Captain had informed them that Sean O’Neill’s whereabouts had been discovered.

Shocked, they had learned that Sean had been incarcerated in a military prison in Dublin for the past two years. Their disbelief and horror growing, they were told that Sean had been charged with and tried for treason. There was no explanation for his lengthy incarceration or the failure of the authorities to hang him, much less to bring the facts forward to the family. Then Brawley had announced the most shocking news of all. Three days ago, Sean had taken the prison warden hostage and he had escaped.

Sean O’Neill was a fugitive now, wanted by the authorities, a bounty on his head.

And at any moment, Tyrell expected him to appear at Adare.

CHAPTER TWO

EVERYONE KNEW that hell was blazing fire. Everyone was wrong.

Hell was darkness. It was darkness, silence, isolation. He knew—he had just spent two years in it. Three days ago, he had escaped.

And because the light of day hurt his eyes, because everyday sounds startled and frightened him, because he was being pursued by the British and he did not intend to hang, he had been hiding in the woods by day and making his way south by night. He had been told that there were men in Cork who would help him flee the country. Radical men, men who were traitors, too, men who had nothing to lose except for their lives.

It was almost dawn. He was covered with sweat, having traveled from the prison in Dublin to the outskirts of Cork in just three nights by foot. Once he had realized he might never be let out of the black hole that was his cell, he had started to use his body to keep it strong, beginning to plan his escape. Exercising his body had been simple—he had found a ledge on the wall and he had used it to hang from or to pull up on. He had used the floor in a similar manner, pushing up until his shoulders and arms ached. He had tried to keep his legs strong by practicing fencing exercises, concentrating on lunges and squats, but his body was not used to walking or running or covering any distance at all. The muscles he had not used for two years now screamed at him in protest and pain. His feet hurt most of all.

Exercising his mind had been excruciatingly difficult. He had focused on mathematical problems, geography, philosophy and poems. He had quickly realized he must keep his mind occupied at all times—otherwise, there was thought. Thought led to memory and memory led to despair and worse, to fear. Thought was to be avoided at all cost.

In his hand, he carried a burning torch. The torch was his greatest treasure. Having been immersed in almost total darkness for two years, a source of light was as important to him as the air he breathed, or as his freedom. The torch felt as weighty in his hand as a king’s ransom. Sean O’Neill looked up at the sky as it turned a dark, dismal gray. He no longer needed the light if he dared to go on. The sole other survivor from the village of Kilvore had instructed him to proceed to a specific farm as swiftly as possible, and he knew he must go on, somehow transcending his fear. He carefully extinguished the torch.

The Blarney Road he was on was made of rough and rutted dirt, and led into the town’s center. Somewhere up ahead was the Connelly farm. He had been assured that there he would find comfort and aid.

His heart beat hard and heavily as he walked through the woods, not daring to use the roadway but keeping parallel to it. From the width of it and the wheel ruts, he saw that it was well used. In the three long nights he had been traveling, he’d avoided all roads and even dirt paths, keeping to the hills and the forest. He’d heard troops once, but that had been a hundred miles north of where he now was. Only hours from Dublin, he’d heard the cavalcade of horses and had peered out from some high rocks on a hilltop. Below, he’d seen the blue uniforms of a horse regiment. The last time he’d seen cavalry, two dozen men had died—as had innocent women and children. In real fear, he had melted back into the woods.

The sky began to turn a pale pink. Today, clearly, it would not rain. His tension began, creeping over him, a companion both familiar and despised. But he was too close to run to the ground now. He would suffer the daylight, no matter what it cost him. Already the sounds of an awakening forest were making him start and jump, the birds beginning to sing merrily from their perches in the branches overhead. As had been the case each morning since his escape, their song brought tears to his eyes. It was as precious, as priceless, as the unlit torch he carried.

The road rounded and a cottage became visible, the roof thatched, the walls stuccoed, two sows rooting in the mud in the front yard by the well. A single cleared cornfield was behind the house, a smaller lodge there.

Sean paused behind a tree, breathing hard, but not from exertion. As alert as he was, it was hard to see across the road and to the house and the hut beyond. His eyes had become so weak. He finally glimpsed a movement between the house and the field—it was a man, or so he thought. He hoped it was Connelly.

Sean looked up and down the road but saw nothing and no one. Not trusting his poor eyesight, he strained to hear. The only sound he heard was that of myriad birds, and after a moment, he also decided that he could detect a soft rustling of leaves, the whisper of a fall breeze.

He thought he was very much alone.

More sweat pooled.

His heart pumped with painful force now. He stepped from the woods and onto the road, almost expecting a column of troops to mow him mercilessly down. But not a single soldier appeared, much less an entire column. He tried to breathe more easily, but he simply could not. He was too afraid.

He blinked against the brightening sky and pushed across the road.

The man saw him and halted.

Sean cursed his vision and strode on. He tried to summon up his voice, the effort huge. Just before his solitary confinement, there had been a murder within the prison, and much mayhem had followed. He had been badly beaten, and in the riot, his throat had been cut. No physician had been sent to attend him and for a while, he had been at death’s door. He had healed, but not fully. He could no longer speak with any ease; in fact, forming each word took tiring and painstaking effort. Of course, there had been no one to speak to for two years, and once he realized that he could barely talk, he had not even tried.

Now, he forced the word from his throat and mouth. “Conn…elly?” And he heard how hoarse and unpleasant he sounded.

The man hurried forward. “Ye be O’Neill,” he said, taking his arm.

Sean was shocked by his touch, and alarmed to realize he had been expected. He flinched and jerked away from the other man. “How?” He stopped and fought for the words a child could so easily utter. “How…do…you know?”

“We got our own secret post, if ye get my meaning,” Connelly said. He was a big, burly man with a long red nose and bright blue eyes. “I been sent word. Ye better get inside.”

A flurry of messages must have been relayed, sending the news of his escape and his need ahead of him. Sean followed the big man into the house, allowing himself to feel a small amount of relief when the front door was solidly closed, barring the outside world.

“The missus is already with the hens,” Connelly said. “Ye be John Collins now.” He spoke swiftly, but as he did, his gaze took in Sean’s appearance with growing concern. “Ye look like a skeleton, me boy. I’ll feed ye and give ye a blade fer your face. Damn those bloody Brits!”

Sean simply nodded, but he reached for the thick beard on his face. There’d been no shaving for two years.

Connelly hesitated, then spoke, “I’m sorry about what happened in Kilvore. I’m sorry about it all, an’ I’m sorry about yer wife and child.”

Sean stiffened. An image formed, blurred, a sweet face with kind and hopeful eyes. Peg had faded into an indistinct and painful memory that was colorless, even though he knew her hair had been shockingly red. His gut twisted, aching.

He had grieved at first, for many months; now, there was only guilt. They were dead because of him.

“Ye got no choice but to leave the country. Ye know that, don’t you?”

Sean nodded, glad to have his thoughts interrupted. He had learned how to avoid all memory of his brief marriage, except in the wee hours of the night. “Yes.”

“Good. Ye go straight down Blarney Road to Blarney Street. Ye can cross the river at the first bridge. Follow the river, it’ll take you to Anderson Quay. Cobbler O’Dell will put you up.”

Sean nodded again. He had questions, especially as to when he would be able to find a passage and how it would be paid for, but he was suddenly exhausted and he was also starving. He’d had a single loaf of stale bread in the past three days. Worse, speaking was a terrible chore. He tried to find and form the words. “When? When…will…I…leave the country?”

“Sit down, boyo,” Connelly said, his expression grim. “I don’t know. Every day at noon, ye go to Oliver Street. The pub there, it’s right around the corner from O’Dell. Ye look fer a gentleman with a white flower pinned to his jacket. He will be able to tell you what ye need to know. I’m only a farmer, Sean.”

Sean struggled. “Noon.” He tried to clear his throat. Even his jaw felt odd, rusty, weak. “Today? Should I…go today?”

“I don’t know if the gent will be there today or tomorrow or the next day. But he’s good. He’s real good at helpin’ patriots. His name is McBane. Ye don’t want to miss him.”

McBane, Sean thought. He nodded again.

Connelly turned and went to the larder. He returned with a plate of boiled potatoes and a large chunk of bread and cheese. Sean felt saliva gathering in his mouth.

The supper table was set in white linens, with Waterford crystal wineglasses, imported china and gilded flatware. Huge chandeliers were overhead, towering candles flickered on the table and liveried footmen carried sterling platters of venison, lamb and salmon. The women wore silks and jewels, the men black dinner coats and white shirts and ties. Perfume wafted in the air….

He jerked, shocked by a memory he had no right to have. He refused to identify it or the man it belonged to.

Instead, he tore off pieces of bread and cheese, devouring them almost in the same instant. The only past he wished to remember was the recent one—his life at the Boyle farm. Otherwise, he would never be able to pay for what he had done to them.

THE NOISE WAS DEAFENING.

Sean paused once inside the barroom’s door, overwhelmed by the cacophony of sound. The instinct to clap his hands over his ears to dim the sound was almost impossible to resist. The raucous conversation and laughter, the scraping of wood chairs, the clink of tin, was a barrage of sound that threatened to immobilize him. As it was, he was rigid with the tension it had engendered in him. And the bright lights were blinding.

He had left the farm within an hour of first arriving there and had followed Connelly’s instructions. It had been easy to find the cobbler, who had put him up in a small room over his shop. It had been hugely difficult to make his way through the awakening and bustling city. He had been shocked by the sight of so many people, both on foot and on horseback, or driving wagons and carts. There had been so much pedestrian and vehicular traffic. He had seen one-horse gigs and two-horse curricles and even large coaches. And then there had been all those barges on the river. There had simply been so much movement, so many people, so much chatter, conversation and noise. And there had been so much dirt, soot, smoke and refuse. He felt strange and alien, like a farmer from the far Northwest who had never been in a city before.

In the few short hours he had been in town, his senses had not become accustomed to the sensory overload. Now, in the pub, he had to hold a hand over his eyes. Briefly, he felt a surge of panic and it was not for the first time. There were too many loud people in this single room, he thought, and his first instinct was to flee.

Yet he remained capable of reason. His mind knew that the overcrowded public room was far preferable to the small box that had been his cell. And he told himself that he would eventually become accustomed to the noise and the crowd.

Someone entered the barroom, brushing past him as he did so.

Sean did not think. The dagger appeared in his hand, a reflex meant to ensure his survival, so swiftly that no observer would have seen any movement. But the moment he grasped the carved handle above the lethal blade, the moment he held the dagger chest high, poised to slice the intruder’s throat, some sanity and even humanity returned. Sean stopped himself. He braced hard against the wall, panting, subduing the urge to defend himself, the urge to kill in that defense, reminding himself that he was not a beast, never mind the past two years of being caged and fed like one. He was a man, even if he was the only one who might think so.

He leaned his head against the wall. In truth, he no longer knew who or what he was. Maybe he had genuinely become this creature of the night, a man who would kill without provocation, John Collins.

Despair suddenly clawed at him, but he had enough talons in his flesh and he shoved it savagely aside.

“Hey, boyo, beg yer pardon,” the very drunken man said, glancing at him.

He had stolen the dagger from the warden when he had taken him hostage. Sean now hid the weapon, having flipped it deftly so that the blade faced up his arm, against his shirtsleeve, the worn handle hidden in his hand. He knew he needed to smile—it was the polite thing to do, the way a gentleman would behave—but he could not perform the task. Suddenly, he desperately wanted to manage the act. He ordered his facial muscles to do so, but they were so ill-used that a brief attempt produced no change in his expression. Sean gave up, staring at the unwanted interloper.

The man’s eyes widened with fear. He hurried away.

Sean stood very still, his breathing hard, the ugly sounds of the drunken crowd still surging over him and through him, waves of disturbing sound pounding inside his head. Maybe it would be better once he was on a ship, once he was put to sea.

He pushed through the crowd, carefully avoiding all physical contact. He had glimpsed a small corner table far in the back, in the shadows, against a wall, and he made his way to it. When he reached it, he felt safer, relieved. Two crooked chairs were there, but neither satisfied him. With his foot, he shoved one chair against the wall and only then did he sit. His back was protected, and he could see the entire public room and everyone inside it.

He gazed out at the thirty or forty men present, all drinking, laughing, speaking, some playing at die or cards, and he once again felt like an outcast. These men were Irishmen, just as he was. Once, he had been prepared to give his life defending them against tyranny and injustice, and he almost had. Now he felt no kinship with them. Except for confusion and surprise, he felt nothing at all.

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?

“What is this about?” McBane demanded. “Do you know her?”

Sean looked at McBane, finally seeing him. He had to know. “Who is she marrying?”

McBane seemed taken aback. “The groom is an earl’s son, Peter Sinclair.”

The moment he realized that she was marrying an Englishman, he was disbelieving. “A bloody Brit!”

McBane said carefully, “He has title, a fortune, he is rumored to be handsome, and I have heard it said that they are a very good match. In fact, my wife told me Sinclair is besotted and that she is very happy, too. Look, Collins, I see you are distressed. But you will be even more distressed if a patrol finds us standing about gossiping on the street. You need to go back to wherever it is that you are hiding until you leave for America.”

He was right. Sean fought to come to his senses. He was leaving in another day for America. It was a matter of life and death. What Eleanor did, and whom she was marrying, was none of his affair. Once, he would have protected her with his life. But he had been a different man and that had been a different lifetime. Sean O’Neill was dead, killed shortly after that terrible night in Kilvore. He was a murderer now, with a price on his head.

Even if he wanted to, there was no going back, because Sean O’Neill did not exist.

There was only a pathetic excuse for a man, more beast than human, and his name was John Collins.

He looked at McBane. “You’re right.”

“Godspeed, Collins. Godspeed.”

CHAPTER THREE

“BEFORE THE GENTLEMEN retire to our brandies, I should like to make a toast,” the earl of Adare said.

Everyone became silent. The long, linen-clad table was filled with all fifty houseguests, the entire de Warenne family—except for Cliff, who had yet to arrive—and Devlin and Virginia O’Neill. It was set with Adare’s best crystal and china and gilded flatware from Holland. Two low, lavish floral arrangements were in the center, from the countess’s hothouse gardens. The earl sat at its head, the countess at its foot. Eleanor saw that her father was smiling.

He was a handsome, silver-haired man in his early fifties with the demeanor of a man born to privilege and power. But then, his entire life had been dedicated to serving the earldom, his country and his family. His blue eyes were warm and benign as he looked down the long table, first at his family and then at their guests. Finally his gaze returned to her.

She could not quite look him in the eye. He was so pleased that she was marrying Peter, and she did not want him to guess that she had remained nervous all day—just like the witless debutante brides she scorned. Her earlier conversation with Ty had not had a lasting effect. Peter sat beside her. He had been attentive all evening, and he was very handsome, too, in his dinner clothes. At first, it had been so hard to smile and laugh and pretend that nothing was wrong when she was still so uneasy. Eleanor didn’t care for the taste of wine and more importantly, its effect on her mind, but tonight she’d had not one but two entire glasses of red wine. Miraculously, it had calmed her down.

She had instantly enjoyed Peter’s every single word and had been laughing for most of the night. She hadn’t realized how amusing he was. And she wondered why she had never realized how extremely handsome he was, too.

Those ridiculous, marriage-mad debutantes with whom she’d had to spend so much time during her two Seasons would think that Peter was more than a premier catch—he was the catch of all time. Why hadn’t she invited Lady Margaret Howard and Lady Jane Nettles to her wedding? They would be green with envy. Pea-green with envy, in fact. She had heard their husbands were fat.

If it wouldn’t be remarked upon, she would have another glass of wine, never mind that supper was over. Then she would simply float through the rest of the evening.

Peter murmured, so no one else might hear, “Are you all right?”

She smiled at him. “It has been a lovely evening.”

His brows arched in mild surprise. “Every evening is lovely if I share it with you.”

She felt herself melt, oh so pleasantly. Had she really been in doubt of their union? “You are a romantic, Peter.” She laughed, playfully poking his arm.

He started. “I have always been a romantic when around you.”

She fluttered her lashes at him. How fortunate could one get? Why had she been so upset earlier? She could not quite recall.

The countess was seated at the foot of the table. Lord Henredon, Peter’s father on her right. Mary said softly, “Darling? We are all waiting.”

The earl cleared his throat, his gaze going from his daughter back to the table of expectant faces. “I cannot begin to say how pleased I am that my dear, beautiful daughter has finally decided to marry. I am even more pleased that she is marrying young Sinclair. Obviously her change of heart required the right man. I do not think I have ever seen her happier. To the bride and groom. May your future be filled with love, peace, joy and laughter.” He raised his glass.

Eleanor smiled at her father, not able to decipher what he was talking about, and she looked at Peter, who was looking at her as if she were a goddess from Mount Olympus. His eyes were shining. Or was her vision dancing? Maybe Tyrell was right. Maybe this man was in love with her and she would one day find herself in love with him. Eleanor smiled at Peter. Maybe she was falling in love, then and there. Maybe she was already in love. Hadn’t she agreed to marry him because he was the right man for her?

Her father had said something about a change of heart. She frowned. How could her heart change? She had found the right man, obviously—although he did not have gray eyes.

She felt confused. Peter’s eyes were blue, not gray. Maybe she needed more wine. If she were not already in love, another glass would certainly do the trick.

“I would also like to thank Lord and Lady Henredon for their aid in planning this monumental wedding, and I want to thank all of our guests for being here. I especially want to thank Mr. and Mrs. McBane, Lord and Lady Houghton, Lord and Lady Barton, for being here with us tonight, on this first of hopefully many more joyous family occasions. And finally, I want to thank young Sinclair. Peter, thank you for making my daughter so happy.” He sat down, glancing at Eleanor again with a fond smile.

“I should like to second that toast and add one of my own,” Tyrell said, smiling as he stood. “To the man who dares to marry my sister. Keep her happy or you will have to account to all five of her brothers,” he said.

Sinclair smiled. “I will live to keep Eleanor happy,” he said gallantly. Then he seemed perplexed. “I beg your pardon—Eleanor has four brothers, does she not?”

Eleanor felt her smile fade. She had three brothers and two stepbrothers. Everyone knew that. Didn’t Peter know it, too? But Sean was gone, missing—and he was the one who had gray eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?” Sinclair asked in bewilderment. “Cliff has not arrived yet, but he would make four.”

Eleanor stared at the linen table cloth, suddenly sad in spite of the wine. Where was Sean? Why wasn’t he here? Didn’t he want to come home?

The wine had made her a lackwit. Sean wasn’t there, so how could she get married? There couldn’t be a wedding without Sean, because he was the one she was supposed to be marrying. Suddenly Eleanor felt a surge of panic.

“I am sorry, Eleanor,” Tyrell murmured.

She looked at him, the effects of the wine gone just like that, like being thrown in a tub of frigid water. She was marrying Peter, not Sean. She loved Peter—or she almost did—and she had to have a third glass of wine before the evening was ruined.

Devlin O’Neill spoke. Once an infamous captain in the British Royal navy, he remained bronzed, his hair sun-streaked. “I am sure you have heard the rumors, Peter. I have a younger brother but he disappeared four years ago. No one has seen or heard from Sean since.”

Sinclair started. “No, I hadn’t heard. Good God, I am terribly sorry, Sir Captain!”

There was no wine left in her glass. Eleanor stared at the crystal, almost wishing that she had never met Sean, because he was ruining what was supposed to be the happiest day in her life. And she was happy, wasn’t she? She liked the way Peter looked at her and the way he smiled. She had been happy a moment ago! She was going to miss Sean forever—she missed him now—but she was marrying a wonderful man, the most perfect man, even if he was English.

And she was overcome with confusion. She liked Peter very much; sometimes she thought she loved him. Missing Sean—who had gray eyes—had nothing—nothing—to do with her wedding.

“Peter?” She smiled at him. “I should like another glass of wine. Very much,” she added, but he was not given the chance to respond.

“To Sinclair,” Rex de Warenne said. He had lost his right leg in the war and now he reached for his crutch and pushed to his left foot. “The perfect husband for our sister, as he will dedicate his life to her. Eleanor, no bride could be as fortunate.”

Eleanor just stared at Rex, wondering if he was mocking her. He had changed so much since he had come home from the war. “I am the most fortunate woman in Ireland,” she said with the heat of utter conviction.

Everyone looked at her.

Eleanor wondered, aghast, if she had just slurred.

Rex’s dark brows lifted in skepticism. “Really?”

Eleanor met his dark, penetrating gaze and thought he might know exactly how she was feeling. But then, he was very fond of wine—and brandy—especially since he had lost his leg. Maybe he would get her another glass of wine—discreetly, just in case she had committed the terrible faux pas of becoming foxed in polite company.

Ladies don’t get foxed, Elle.

Eleanor jumped in her seat, whirling to find Sean. But no one was standing behind her.

“Eleanor? What is it?” Peter asked quickly, concerned.

“Is he here?” she managed, clinging to the back of her chair.

The earl stood decisively. “I think we should adjourn to our brandies. Eleanor?”

Eleanor realized she had been about to sit backward in her chair. Sean wasn’t there. She was so disappointed it was hard to face the right way as the men all stood. She felt far too many curious regards coming her way.

Peter remained seated beside her. As the men left, Rex limped over to them, using his single crutch. He was very dark and muscular, and almost the spitting image of Tyrell, except that his eyes were brown, not blue. “I am sorry, Eleanor. I should not burden you with my foul mood on this, your joyous occasion.”

She had stopped understanding him years ago, when he had first returned from the war, embittered as well as wounded, but she did not have a clue as to what he meant now. She smiled. “Oh, Rex.” She waved at him. “You are my favorite brother and you can do no wrong. You do know that, don’t you?”

He glanced at Peter. “I beg your pardon.” He took her arm, tugging her away from the table, which he somehow did in spite of the fact that he had to rely so heavily upon his crutch. “You are in your cups!” he exclaimed, keeping his tone low.

“I am, aren’t I?” She beamed. “Now I begin to understand why you so enjoy drink. Would you sneak me another glass of wine? Red, if you please?”

“I will not,” he said, appearing torn between amusement and horror. “Do you think to purposefully sabotage your wedding?”

Eleanor decided to analyze the word sabotage. “Hmm. Sabotage, that means ruin, does it not? But in a political manner? Is sabotage a political act? Why are we discussing sabotage?”

“You should go to your rooms,” Rex said firmly, but his mouth was quirking as if he were trying very hard not to smile.

“Not until I have been kissed—and soundly, too, I might add.” She walked away from him, smiling at her betrothed.

The ladies had adjourned to a separate salon. Peter was waiting by himself at the table. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

She was surprised by the question. “Of course it is.” She took his arm, looping hers with his. “I am with you,” she added.

He blushed. “Eleanor, you never imbibe. Maybe I should summon one of your sisters-in-law and bid you good-night for the evening.”

“That is a stunningly bad idea!” She pressed closer. “We haven’t had a moment to ourselves all day,” she said softly. “Won’t you join me for a look at the stars?” She wondered if she should tell him that she would love a kiss.

He blushed. “I was going to suggest just that. You have beaten me to it,” he said.

“I am good at beating boys—and men,” she told him frankly. “I ride and shoot better than everyone.”

He started, his eyes widening with surprise.

“Oops,” she murmured. Ladies don’t ride and shoot, she thought. Ladies don’t swear and they don’t lie. “Ladies don’t lie,” she added.

“I beg your pardon?”

Maybe conversing wasn’t the best idea. She smiled and pulled him toward the terrace doors. He relaxed, allowing her to lead.

SEAN LEAPED UP the terrace steps. The terrace was deserted and unlit, and even before he crossed it, he could see into the house, where a gathering of some sort was in progress. He rushed to one of the huge windows and stared into the dining room.

Standing at the head of the table was the man who had taken him in after the murder of his own father, who had raised him as his son, who had fed him and clothed him, who had taught him nobility and honor, who had loved him as if he were his natural-born son. Sean clung to the stone wall of the house, his knees useless.

And then he saw his brother.

Devlin stood, a tall, powerfully built leonine man, his wife at his side. Sean had rebuilt Askeaton for Devlin, and he would do it all over again in an instant, if he had to—just as he would give his life for his older brother, too.

He swallowed hard. Devlin’s beautiful wife, Virginia, seemed very happy, and he was fiercely glad for her and for them. She had saved his brother’s soul years ago and for that, he would always love her.

His stepbrothers were also rising to their feet and he could vaguely hear them speaking. The mood was festive, warm, light.

And it was almost impossible not to recall every moment spent in that room with his father, his brothers, his mother and Elle. Like the surging tides of the Irish Sea, moments and feelings swept through him, over him, demanding attention, inspection, remembrance. He fought his recollection of an early Christmas morning, of a dark, wintry afternoon, of pleasant evenings in front of the fire, of family, male camaraderie and brandy. He had to shake himself hard to free himself from the past.

Why was he doing this? Reminding himself of the life he had left behind was not going to help him elude the British and flee the country. In a few minutes, he would steal a fresh mount from the stables and return to Cork. He would be there before dawn, and when his ship set sail from Cobh he would be on it.

But he wouldn’t leave just yet.

He was doing this because Elle was getting married, he reminded himself.

Sean pressed his face to the cold glass, watching Tyrell clasp Devlin’s shoulder. The two men were laughing about something as they followed the other men from the room, and it became impossible to deny the yearning to go inside and become a part of that family one more time. He desired it so badly he could taste it, but he made no move to do so. He was wanted for treason and he had no intention of bringing the earl and his brother and stepbrothers down with him.

The women were rising now and preparing to leave. He recognized Virginia, and Tyrell had his arm around a lady with titian hair. The rest of the departing crowd was meaningless to him, except for his mother. She was smiling as she led the ladies from the room. The countess remained as graceful and elegant as ever, but he saw that she seemed older. He didn’t fool himself—his disappearance must have distressed her to no end.

Then Sean realized that one woman had walked away with Rex. His gaze slammed back to her—and his heart stopped.

For one instant, he was paralyzed. She had changed—but he would know her anywhere. And there was so much relief, huge and consuming, that he almost collapsed against the window. Elle.

Nothing was left of the gawky, intrepid child—but then, if he dared to recall his last night at home, the young blossoming woman he had left four years ago had been anything but childlike. He hadn’t forgotten how tall she was, but the planes and angles of her face, like the planes and angles of her body, had finally vanished. She had become lush and voluptuous. The gawky child was now a beautiful woman, capable of stunning a man senseless.

Watching her charm his brother, he felt his world turn upside down.

Sean panicked. What was he doing, anyway? He had expected to return to a slender young woman who had never been kissed, a young woman whom he saw only as a friend and sister. Now she laughed at Rex, her smile dazzling, and he could almost hear her then.

Have I ever told you that you are my favorite brother?

Words Elle had said to every one of his stepbrothers and to Devlin, to everyone but him.

Realization struck him with the force of lightning, causing him to stagger. He was staring at Elle with need and hunger.

It was impossible, he thought, incredulous and aghast. He could not desire the woman he had considered a sister for most of his life. His body was responding as it would to any beautiful female, due to two years of celibacy, his only relief inflicted by his own hand.

She was walking away from Rex and smiling at a blond gentleman, looping her arm in his. He briefly looked at her escort, realizing that he was her intended, Sinclair. The man was handsome and privileged, with the bearing of a born aristocrat. Sean despised him on sight.

Sean realized he was shaking and desperate. He was furious with her, with Sinclair, with himself. Of course Elle had grown up. He had every right to be surprised by the beauty she had become, but he had no right to any other feelings. And where the hell was she going with Sinclair, anyway? He returned to the window and realized that the dining room was empty.

The moment he heard the terrace door open, he also heard her laughter, and while the sound was familiar, it was also strange and new. Her laughter had changed. It had become sultry; it was seductive.

He pressed his back to the wall, waiting for them to come into view, and as he waited, he realized that his loins were stiff and full. But he barely had time to absorb that terrible fact when they appeared, strolling to the balustrade. They were so engrossed in one another that he did not think they would notice him in the shadows against the house. She moved differently now, too. Her stride was long but there was a sensuous quality to the sway of her hips—a quality he instantly hated. She moved like a woman who knew she was being appreciated and admired, pursued and watched.

“Have I told you how lovely you are tonight?” Sinclair asked, taking both of her hands in his.

Sean felt like choking him into silence.

“I don’t think so,” Eleanor said, a smile in her voice. “But if you did, you can always tell me again.”

She was flirting! Since when had Elle learned to flirt?

“You are so beautiful,” Sinclair said thickly, and Sean hated the rough tone of his voice. They should not be out on the terrace alone, at night. Where the hell was everyone, anyway? She had four brothers to chaperone her. Why wasn’t someone doing precisely that?

“And you, sir, are far too gallant and far too charming,” Elle returned softly. “I am so fortunate to be marrying such a man!”

“A man cannot possibly be too charming or too gallant, not where you are concerned,” Sinclair whispered.

Did he know that his lady love was a hellion? Or had Elle given up her wild gallops, her fist fighting, her swear words? Did she still hunt and fish? Or was she now a debutante and a flirt?

“I am pleased that you are so charming,” Elle whispered back. “I find you very charming indeed, even if your eyes are blue.”

Sean had not a clue as to what that meant, and apparently, neither did Sinclair.

There was a strained silence then.

Sean felt like smashing the wall, because he knew that Sinclair was preparing to kiss her.

“May I? May I kiss you, Eleanor?” he asked.

“I thought you would wait forever to ask.” She laughed.

In disbelief, Sean watched Sinclair take her into his arms, slowly lowering his face to Elle’s. The moon chose that moment to come out from behind a single cloud, vividly illuminating the lovers. Sinclair had fused his mouth to hers—and she was kissing him back wildly, clinging to his shoulders.

He leaned against the stone wall, furious and paralyzed, panting hard, but he refused to look away. He could not comprehend the sensual woman in the other man’s arms— Elle, who was kissing him and making small, breathy sounds of pleasure and delight. He pulled at his breeches. She might be a woman now, a very desirable woman, but they had grown up together and he had no right to the lust in his loins.

“I’ve been kissed, Sean!”

He jerked, words she had spoken many years ago suddenly coming to mind. And it was as if she was eleven years old again to his seventeen, and they were standing there in the stables at Adare, amidst the straw and the horses, and she was grinning mischievously at him.

HE HAD SPENT WEEKS pursuing a tenant’s daughter—a buxom blonde with a pretty smile and two dimples. Suddenly he was in the straw with her, his hands beneath her skirts, and she was weeping in pleasure and he was so close to unbuttoning his breeches and moving inside her. He began to do so, taking her hand and guiding it to where he was stiff and hard. And he heard a giggle.

Instantly, he knew Elle was spying—again. All lust vanished. Furious, he leaped to his feet, pulling his pants together as he did so—only to find her perched on the top edge of the stall, grinning at him. Realizing that she had seen everything, he felt his cheeks burst into flames, and his anger erupted. She knew, because she leaped down from the top of the stall, alarmed.

He threw open the bolt and ran through the stables after her. But instead of fleeing, she stood in the stable yard, warily waiting for him. He halted abruptly, as wary. “You are in jeopardy now,” he warned, meaning it.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“I am going to box your ears—hard—and tell Father what you have done.”

She pranced, just a little. “But you can’t catch me.”

She was right—she was as fleet and as lithe as a deer. “I don’t enjoy being spied on.”

“Do you love her?” she suddenly asked.

“No!” The moment he spoke, he regretted it, as it was none of her affair. “Come here, Elle.” He took a step toward her.

She shook her head, backing away. Then she grinned. “I’ve been kissed.”

He felt his world become oddly still. “I hope you are lying, Elle.”

She grinned hugely at him. “No. Jack O’Connor kissed me last week behind the chapel.”

Sean was shocked. And then he whirled into action, striding back to the stables, calling for a groom and a horse.

Eleanor ran after him. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to kill young Jack O’Connor.” He meant it. He had never been more furious—Elle was just a child!

Eleanor grabbed his arm. “Wait! Don’t! It was my fault!”

Sean faced her grimly. “Did he kiss you, or not?”

She bit her lip. “I kissed him. Like this.” And she threw her arms around Sean, actually leaping up to kiss his lips.

He hauled her off. “You threw yourself at that boy?”

“Why not? You kiss all the girls! And all the ladies! You are a rake! Father says so.”

Recently, he and his brothers had been tearing up the countryside, testosterone raging. He flushed. “You can’t spy on me anymore! I’m not a boy now, Elle! You’ll see things you shouldn’t!” He was truly aghast.

“Like you putting your hands down her bodice—and touching her between her legs?” She smiled mischievously at him, then mimed, “Oh, oh, OOHH!”

He’d had enough—a boxing of the ears would not do. Sean reaced for her, but she darted quickly away. He set chase, determined to somehow corner her so he could thrash her at least once. She started to laugh, putting a tree between them and dancing just out of his reach every time he tried to seize her. She might be as quick as a hare, but he had fortitude, and sure enough, in a few more moments, she started to scowl, clearly becoming bored.

“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.”

He knew very well that she had never fainted once in her entire life. She ignored him. “When does your ship sail?”

His thick black lashes lowered, hiding his eyes, and he let go of her, turning his back to her.

“When does your ship sail?” she demanded, moving to step in front of him and forcing him to look directly at her.

“Tomorrow night,” he said slowly. And when he finally met her eyes, she saw a shimmer of guilt there.

He was lying to her. Eleanor was disbelieving—Sean had never lied to her. So much had happened to him, and so much was happening now. Two facts were glaring, though. He needed to hide until he left—and she was going with him. “I’m coming with you.”

He flinched and stared, wide-eyed. “You’re getting married.”

“I am coming with you and don’t even think to stop me,” she said fiercely. He had left her once and she would never allow him to leave her behind another time.

This time their gazes clashed. “No…you’re not,” he said very firmly. “You have a wedding to attend. Your wedding.”

And for the first time since Sean had so suddenly appeared on the trail, she really faced that fact. What was she going to do about Peter? She could not marry him now.

“What’s wrong?”

“Can you still discern my every mood and feeling?” Her question was sincere.

He hesitated. Clearly reluctant, he said, low and harsh, “Perhaps.”

She searched his gaze, but it was impossible to fathom any of his thoughts or feelings. “Then you must know I can’t marry Peter now.”

He was still. “You were fond of him…last night.”

Because he spoke so strangely, in a low whisper, and because his voice had changed, his tones rough and raspy, it took her a moment to comprehend his words. “What are you speaking about?” she began, and then she felt her cheeks flame. “You were there? No, it is impossible! You were not there, last night? Were you?” Eleanor suddenly recalled the evening in some very humiliating detail. She had been foxed. She had slurred at the table in front of Peter’s family and fifty other guests.

His face didn’t move, except for his lips. His tone was incredulous. “Why were you not chaperoned?” His stance had changed. His legs were braced defensively, as if he rode one of his brother’s ships.

Eleanor was stunned—and horrified. For she thought of being outside on the terrace with her fiancé being kissed and wanting even more kisses. Her cheeks burned. “How much did you see?” she managed. She had been worse than improper. She had been brazen. She had been bold.

“Everything,” he said, turning away from her. His strides were restless now. Eleanor suddenly noticed that he was moving differently, as if he was stiff and sore.

She found a rock and sat down. Should she attempt an explanation? What could she say? “I am fond of Peter—”

“I don’t care,” he said, uttering the words rapidly, and surprising her because of it. He had now turned red, too.

“He is my fiancé,” she tried.

“So you will become English?” His tone was mocking.

She shook her head. “We will live in Yorkshire—I mean, we were going to live there, in Chatton, but—”

“You’ve changed!” he exclaimed, and for the first time that day, his voice rose above a whisper. “You hated those two Seasons…. Elle would never leave Ireland!” He paused, but whether it was because of the exertion of speaking so rapidly and angrily or because he had said all he intended to, she did not know.

“I don’t want to leave Adare!” she cried.

“Then don’t!” he cried back, his voice rougher than before. He coughed and seemed angry that his voice had begun to fail him. “Does he know… that you can shoot…antlers off…a buck…moving in the woods?”

She was dismayed. “Sean, stop. I see that it hurts you to speak so much.” She was on her feet, reaching for him. His voice was getting lower and more inaudible with every word he spoke.

But he shook his head furiously. “Has he…seen you…dressed…like a man?” he cried, tripping over his words now, his voice dripping sarcasm as well as wrath. “Has he seen you…in breeches! Boots! The knotted belt!”

“Sean, stop!”

“He doesn’t want Elle!”

“Why are you doing this?” she begged.

“He wants that woman…the coquette!”

She shook her head in denial. “I have changed. I am a woman now and you had no right watching me kiss Peter! And you’re right—he doesn’t know me. But how could you disappear for four years? How? And then you come back and spy on me? And now you think to leave again—without me!”

“Yes!”

She struck at him with her open hand.

He caught her wrist before she could hit him.

She hadn’t meant to strike at him, for he was hurt and she loved him. But he had been badgering her so cruelly about Peter—and Peter was irrelevant to them now. She wanted to tell him all of that, but her own voice failed.

For she looked into his eyes and they were blazing. And she realized the light she saw there was not just anger but jealousy. He hadn’t let her wrist go; in fact, in seizing her wrist he had pulled her forward and her thighs were pressed against his legs. Her heart was already speeding uncontrollably but now it skipped, wildly, as she realized how hard his muscular thighs were. Hard…and male. Instinctively she shifted her weight and her breasts brushed his chest. Her nipples stiffened, hurting her, and she began to swell. She thought she might explode if he pulled her forward another fraction of an inch.

He became utterly still, except for his harsh breathing. And in that moment she realized that she would give anything to be in Sean’s arms and his bed, making love to him wildly, passionately, with no inhibition, touching his hard, scarred body everywhere, with her hands and her mouth, and letting him touch and kiss her that way in return. And he knew, because his gaze veered sharply to her mouth.

“You’re right,” she breathed. “Peter doesn’t want Elle. But you do.”

His grip tightened and he pulled her even closer.

Her nipples scraped her chemise and shirt and through the linen, his chest. His eyes widened and then he let her go.

“No. Elle was a child. Elle is gone.”

Eleanor stared at him, trying to recover her composure, while he paced, tense and shaken. “Sean. I am here. I have grown up, that’s all.”

He made a harsh sound, an attempt at mirthless laughter.

She walked slowly toward him. His expression twisted and he stared for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to speak. Then she realized he was summoning up his words. “You…belong…to Sinclair.”

“No! I belong to you!”

He jerked in shock, turned and began hurrying away.

She ran after him, drawing abreast of him. “You need to hide. I can help.”

“I’ll hide in the woods…for tonight.”

“And then you will leave? At dawn?” she demanded. He hesitated. “Yes.”

Her resolve strengthened. She would be packed and ready to leave at dawn, as well. In fact, she had the beginnings of a bloody brilliant idea. “No, not in the woods, it’s too dangerous.”

He glanced at her, his face filled with wariness.

“You can hide in my rooms.”

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