by Brenda Joyce
Sean awoke in the throes of lust, barely able to comprehend that he had been dreaming. He shot to his feet, trying to control an insatiable need. Wildly, he glanced at Elle, but she remained deeply asleep, in a state of exhaustion. The dream had been painfully real.
Even now, he was aroused. He stroked sweat from his brow, having unwittingly walked to stand over her. He was supposed to be on guard duty but he had fallen asleep. He was supposed to be protecting her from their enemies, but instead, he’d been making love to her in his dreams. He was furious with himself. He quickly turned and walked the perimeter of the glade, but all seemed as it should be. The stallion remained widely awake, the only sentry they needed.
Sean paused, inhaling harshly, trying to shake the physical urgency afflicting his hard, hot body. Was Elle now going to haunt his nightmare? He’d had the exact same dream for two years, but suddenly it had changed and she had taken Peg’s place. He shuddered with fear. What did that mean? Why was his mind playing such tricks on him? She had never been in the small village of Kilvore and she never would be. She would never come face-to-face with his nemesis, Reed. And he was never going to take her in his arms that way, because it was best that she stopped loving him and returned to Sinclair. He could offer her nothing, nothing except a life on the run and the empty shell of a soul.
There was a small trickling stream just beyond the edge of the glade, and he needed to douse himself with cold water. Abruptly, he changed his mind. He could not leave her alone in the glade, not even for a moment. So instead, he crossed back to where he had been originally seated, but he did not sit. Instead he stared at Elle as she slept.
If he wasn’t mistaken, in that damnable dream, he had told Elle he loved her, and it hadn’t been a lie.
It had been a nasty trick of his mind, because it could not possibly be true. He had no heart left and therefore was incapable of loving anyone, which was as it should be.
ELEANOR STOOD RIGIDLY behind Sean as he unlocked a warped pine door, in a dismal, dark and very cramped hallway at the top of impossibly narrow stairs. The single room where Sean and she were about to hide was above a cobbler’s shop on a street overlooking one of the many canals that ran through Cork. It was hard to believe that this was where they would stay, even if only temporarily. A rat had scurried under the stairs when they had first gone inside and there was no lighting in the cubicle entryway downstairs or on the landing where Eleanor now stood. The building smelled suspiciously like vinegar—or was it urine? The door Sean was shoving open had a gaping hole between two of the four planks. Once, it had probably been painted green. Now, it was an ugly shade of gray in most places and a natural hue everywhere else.
Sean stepped aside and looked at her, trying to meet her eyes. “It’s not much…but it’s a good place to hide,” he said slowly.
Eleanor refused to look at him. She walked past him, careful not to let her petticoat brush him, and paused in the center of the sparsely furnished room. Sean followed her in and shut the door, bolting it twice.
They had been traveling since the very early morning. Although Eleanor had not believed she would ever rest, she had fallen asleep almost from the very moment she had lain down and wrapped what was left of her wedding dress around her. She had slept deeply and dreamlessly, in exhaustion. The arrangement had been for Sean to stand guard for two hours and then to take his turn sleeping while she stayed awake, taking the next watch, but he had not awakened her until it was time to leave.
If he wanted gratitude, he was not going to get it. He wasn’t a gentleman and he had proven it by not even considering marriage to her. He had used her body; he had made that very clear. She was never going to understand why he had come back to take her with him, and maybe it was better that she didn’t. She finally understood. The man she had loved her entire life was gone. Some dark and even dangerous stranger was in his place, someone with no respect for ladies and no respect for her.
Eleanor was numb. She glanced around at the interior of the room. A tin sink was on one planked wall. There was a cast-iron stove and a basket of kindling beside it, a small cabinet above. A small rickety table and two equally spindly chairs were in the room’s center, carved from cheap, pale pine. On the opposite wall was a single bed, with a red blanket and some sheets that had once been white and were now beige. Facing the door was a dirty window with faded muslin curtains, and there was one rack of pegs, from which hung a gentleman’s suit, complete with waistcoat and ruffled shirt. Socks and shoes sat on the floor beneath it. The well-tailored ensemble was incongruous with the rest of the room.
“I know…you’ve never been…in a hovel,” Sean said tersely, “but it won’t be for long.”
Eleanor limped over to the window and saw one of the channels of the River Lee. There were a few small barges in the river and one sloop with passengers, about to disembark from a dock. A few street vendors were on the quay, and one horse and cart was passing by. She turned away from the rather charming scene, taking a chair at the table and sitting down. As she removed her very dirty shoes, she debated ignoring him for the rest of their time together, especially as he seemed to want her attention now. But such behavior was very childish, especially when she wanted to answer him, so she finally looked at him.
He was staring at her with such intensity that she was taken aback. But the moment she met his gaze, he glanced away, his long, dark lashes fluttering over his eyes. Why had he been staring at her in such a way?
And her foolish heart turned over, hard. She inhaled. This man was a stranger, someone she did not know—someone she did not wish to know. “Yes, I cannot forget. You are sending me home, at once. And when will that be?” How bitter she sounded!
He folded his arms across his chest, which, in spite of his lean frame, remained broad and hard. Eleanor wished she hadn’t noticed. “As soon as possible… I can’t send you home…with anyone, Elle.” He flushed. “Eleanor,” he corrected himself. “I have to arrange for an escort I can trust… someone to guard you with his life.”
So it was Eleanor now, she thought grimly. “And before I go, are you going to give me precise instructions as to how to delude Peter into thinking I am a virgin?” How cool and unshaken she sounded.
He flinched, his color crimson now. “Yes.” He turned his back to her, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his cloth breeches.
“Maybe you had better instruct me now,” she snapped. “Are you an expert in the subject of taking innocence and then educating the object of your previous affections in the art of pretense and theater?”
He faced her. “I understand…you are angry with me. You have cause!”
“I’m not angry.” She smiled coldly and stood. “I have realized you are right. You have changed. Sean O’Neill is dead. As soon as possible, I should like to go home to my fiancé. I was in love before you came back, and I do not know what possessed me to look at a man like you even twice.”
He paled.
She had wanted to wound Sean, and she still knew him well enough to know that she had done just that. She saw the hurt in his eyes. She should not care. It was time to go home and marry Sinclair. But, dear God, she could not help feeling that Sean had suffered enough.
His face had become a mask with no expression. He strode to the stove and began placing kindling in it.
It was cool in the room; she did not object. She saw that he was tense and angry. Eleanor wished she hadn’t spoken so cruelly. She stood. “Can I help?”
“No.” He used flint to light the fire and once it was burning, firmly closed the door to the stove. He did not look at her now, as he walked to a chair, pulled it away from the table, and sat down. The instant he did so, he shoved out his long legs and his head fell back. In that moment, Eleanor realized he was exhausted.
He had escaped prison just a few days ago and ever since, he had been running from his pursuers. The night before last, he had slept in the woods and last night, he had stayed up all night, watching for troops. She didn’t
want to feel sorry for him but it was obvious that he had no physical resources left. Eleanor hesitated, her gaze taking in every feature of his face; finally, his expression was relaxed. Her glance slid down the hard line of his throat and then to the even harder planes of his chest, rib cage and torso. The soft white shirt he wore clung.
His eyes opened, meeting hers.
She knew she flushed. “You must be tired. Why don’t you take your boots off? I will keep watch.” She didn’t smile at him. But she was a compassionate woman and she couldn’t treat Sean any differently than she would someone else in his position.
He hadn’t moved from the slumped position he had assumed but his eyes remained on her now. And then he straightened, lifting one leg and reaching for his boot. He grunted.
Eleanor turned away, wanting to help him but reminding herself that he was a cad and a rogue with no conscience. I am afraid…for you! She didn’t know why he was afraid for her, when he was the one in trouble, and she did not want to remember him saying so.
Eleanor suddenly realized that Sean was struggling to pull off his boot. He had turned as white as a sheet, sweat was dripping from his brow and he looked as if he were in pain. She could not help herself. She strode to him. “I’ll do it,” she said.
Their gazes collided; he glanced instantly away. “Thank you.”
Facing him, she took hold of his boot and pulled as hard as she could. The boot came off but Sean gasped, blanching impossibly.
She instantly saw why. His socks were tattered rags and his feet were bloody and swollen. What had she been thinking? He had been in a prison cell for two years. He wasn’t used to walking and he wasn’t used to wearing boots. And she had been complaining about her three paltry blisters. “Sean,” she managed to whisper, instantly aching for him.
His color was returning. He peeled off the bloody sock, tossing it aside, and set his foot down. He reached for the other boot—she stopped his hand. “I’ll do it,” she said, her stomach churning.
He lifted his gaze; their eyes met and this time, they held. “Be quick.”
She nodded, pulling off the other boot. This time he didn’t make a sound. Eleanor knelt at his feet, removing the other bloody sock. “I need to get some water. Do we have soap?” She looked up.
He had his head thrown back and he was breathing hard. It was a moment before he spoke and he didn’t glance at her. “I am fine.” His shirt was wet with sweat now, too. Unfortunately she could see every clearly defined plane and line in his muscular chest and torso.
She looked away, fighting to control her fear. “You are hardly fine. And unless you want a serious infection, your feet need to be tended to, Sean.” She was silent for a moment. “Why didn’t you say something?”
He finally looked down at her. “I had other things on my mind.” He started to stand.
She shoved him back into the chair. “I’ll get the water and soap. Just sit still.”
He made no comment, so she stood, seized a pail by the sink, where a bar of brown lye soap lay, and left the flat. There was a small yard behind the shop with a pump. Eleanor filled the bucket quickly, worried about being seen; but no one was in the yard. If his feet had suffered so terribly in the past few days, what other ailments did he have? She had noticed that his stride had changed, that he didn’t move with the same agility that he once had. She realized that every muscle he had was undoubtedly stiff and strained.
When she entered the flat, he was in the chair, his head thrown back, soundly asleep.
In that moment, she forgot about being hurt, rejected, cast aside. She forgot about being angry. She was terribly worried about him and there was no way to fight it or her feelings. He was exhausted, hurt, and wounded somewhere deep and dark in his soul. How could she remain angry at him? If she didn’t help him, who would?
As she knelt before him, she wondered where that left them. But there was no them, she thought as she began to carefully wash his feet. He had made that clear—and he was right. He had changed enough that there would never be a them. They were never going to leap off bridges and cliffs together again. They were never going to toil in a field side by side, or whitewash a wall together and then furiously paint fight. Suddenly she paused, unbearably saddened. Her best friend was gone—and so was the man she loved. She could never forgive him for using her as he had, even if she had encouraged it. But she was going to prevent an infection, and she was also going to help him escape the country with his life.
Eleanor finished washing his feet and looked up. He remained deeply asleep, despite the stiff wood-framed chair and the uncomfortable position that he was in. And in sleep, she had the opportunity to study him. His face might be leaner now, and he had the scar on his right cheek, but his features remained very much the same, hard and handsome, at once painfully and wonderfully familiar. Staying true to her new course and new beliefs was not going to be easy, she realized grimly.
She tossed the rag she had been using in the now soiled water and stood. “Sean?” She took his hand. “Sean, go to bed.” He did not stir. “Sean?”
His eyes drifted open and he gazed at her without focus.
“Come to bed,” she said firmly, tugging on him.
His mouth shifted, the corners lifting. “Elle.”
He was barely awake and she knew it. But the murmur had been a seductive invitation she recognized instantly. And he had smiled. Her heart exulted. She hadn’t seen him smile even once since he had come home, but now, unguarded in his exhaustion, he had tried to do just that.
She would give anything to make him smile again. If she could, would the old Sean return to her?
He was standing, his hand still in hers. Eleanor tensed as his sleepy gaze drifted down to her mouth and slid slowly over her chest. Had he reached out and caressed her, her response could not have been greater. Her blood raced, her skin hummed. And his lips turned up again, his hooded gaze lingering on her hips. Before Eleanor could react, his arm slipped around her waist. He pulled her to his side, against his hard body. Eleanor had stiffened, some alarm rising—and with it, inescapable urgency.
“Come with me,” he whispered, moving to the bed and as he lay down, he pulled her down with him.
Somehow she was in bed with him, in his arms. She could not do this, she thought in alarm. Yet her body had stirred, the pulse between her thighs surging. Eleanor knew he was dreaming, or caught between waking and sleep, and if she did succumb to temptation, she was going to regret it. She could not be used again, even if she wanted him desperately.
“Elle.” He sighed her name, his hands closing over the back of her head, in her hair. His leg covered hers and he pressed his mouth to her lips. Eleanor’s body burst into flames while she waited for his assault. It did not come. His hands slid down her back and he pulled her close while his lips brushed hers, soft, gentle and questing. Eleanor felt her body hollow, the desire so overpowering it was enough to make the room tilt and spin. And then his mouth stilled.
She stared and saw that he was deeply asleep. She hesitated, remaining in his arms, because she didn’t want to move away. She shifted and tugged one arm free and lifted her hand, cupping his rough cheek. Too late, love swelled. It was never going to be over, she thought, and she was caught between elation and despair. But did she love a man who existed, or the ruined remains of one? In that frightening moment, she wasn’t sure she could distinguish between the old Sean and the man lying in bed with her.
But because she remained deeply in love with the old Sean, she lay in his arms, cherishing the interlude and knowing it was only that.
A few hours later, she slipped from the bed. Sean hadn’t moved once since he had passed out. Eleanor went to the window. It was late afternoon now. She hadn’t slept. Being with Sean was an emotional tug-of-war, and she did not know how much longer she could bear it. She was hungry, and their bread and cheese had run out that morning. However, she wasn’t leaving Sean alone, and she wasn’t going to wake him, either. She had the terrible
comprehension that he wasn’t going to find another moment to sleep for days. How much longer could he go on like this?
Suddenly she had the sensation of being observed. She shifted toward the bed. Sean lay on his side now, facing her, regarding her with watchful gray eyes.
“You’re awake,” she said. She smiled a little at him, her heart leaping in excitement she was not prepared for and did not want or need.
“How long did I sleep?” he asked, unmoving.
“Four or five hours. It’s late— I heard the church bells toll five o’clock.”
He suddenly sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He eyed her as he stood. If his feet hurt, he gave no sign. “Did you go out?”
She shook her head.
Sean crossed the room to retrieve his boots, taking the socks from the shoes beneath the rack of pegs.
Eleanor stared as he pulled on the clean socks. “Where are you going?” she asked with care. She did not like the idea of him going out.
He didn’t look up at her. “We need food… linens…more clothes.” He grimaced as he pulled on each boot.
Eleanor bit her lip. He needed to heal, not walk around town in search of necessities while trying to elude any troops he might encounter from the city garrison. “I’ll go.”
He straightened. “No. You wait here.”
She tried to smile at him. “I think you should rest.” He had given the livery man one of her diamond earrings for Saphyr’s feed and board. She reached for the other earring. “There’s a chandler on the corner. It’s not far. I’m sure I can buy bread and cheese there, maybe some bacon. Do we have a fry pan? I’ll use my other earring—we’ll have credit for months.”