The Stolen Bride

by Brenda Joyce

  She instantly understood. “How could I forget? The new governess was blond and beautiful and you were in her bed the moment she came to Adare!”

  He just stared at her.

  Eleanor was aware of the tension instantly changing, becoming hot and sexual. Her heart had picked up a slow, heavy beat. “She was slender and for a woman, tall.”

  His lashes drifted down.

  She stared at him now. Sean had been besotted with Lady Celia that summer and, at ten years of age, his infatuation with the slightly older woman had been entertaining in every possible way. As Eleanor was now, Celia had been dark blond, slender and tall. Eleanor tried to tell herself not to read too much into that slight coincidence.

  “You should eat,” he said.

  She had watched him dancing with her outside on the terrace while a midsummer ball was in progress, inside. They had been so engrossed, they had never noticed her spying from the shadows. “Were you in love?”

  He shrugged. “I was always in love…it never lasted.”

  She met his unwavering, too bright gaze. “Then it wasn’t love. True love never dies.”

  He made a slight and harsh sound again. “I was sixteen.”

  She smiled. “And when I was sixteen, Mother and Father forced me to come out. Do you remember that?”

  His mouth twitched. “I felt so sorry for you.”

  “No one was sorrier than I!” she cried, then sobered. She had hated her Season in London and she had hated being sent to Bath, too. It had been a blur of misery and constraints; for her, coming out had been a prison, too.

  But Sean had rescued her even then. She suddenly looked up and found him watching her closely and steadily. Her insides shifted. “Sean, you came down to London for my coming-out ball. God, I haven’t thought about that in years. It was so awful!”

  He glanced away. “I am sorry,” he said slowly, “that I made fun of you in your gown.”

  She had forgotten. Her first ball gown had been very beautiful, but she had felt like a tall, skinny fool in it—she had been tall and skinny, then. Sean had laughed at her and she had punched him in the stomach, hard enough to cause him to gasp in pain and double over. She had hated him for that one moment, because he was right—a ball gown hadn’t changed who she was. But when he had asked her for her very first dance, when he had escorted her onto the floor, her arm linked firmly in his, she had been both grateful and proud. She had missed some steps, but he had guided her through the figure so adroitly that no one had known. She had been terrified to begin the dance, but in the end, she had enjoyed herself.

  “You danced with me,” she said slowly. Her heart turning over too many times to count, she added, “And now I know exactly why I have always loved you so much.”

  He stood. “Eat.”

  She shook her head, shoving the plate aside. She also stood. “Sean, I need you. You have to come back to me the way you used to be.”

  He moved away, shaking his head fiercely.

  “Please!” she cried. “We need to speak about the past like this. We need to go to Askeaton together and wander upstairs. Devlin never finished the third floor.”

  He was incredulous—or afraid.

  “We can finish those last few rooms together. And whatever is bothering you will go away, I just know it!”

  “It will never…go away!” He exploded in bursts of words. “Stop begging me…for what I don’t have…to give!”

  “I am not asking for your love,” she exclaimed fiercely. “I can forsake your love. I can! But I want you back, damn it!”

  He held his hand up, warding her off.

  “No!” She strode to face him, pausing so close that his hand almost touched her nose. “No, you can’t raise your hand and send me away as if I am a ghost haunting you. I am not haunting you, but God knows, something or someone else is. I know I can help.”

  He was breathless now. “Some secrets…are meant to be…secrets. I have changed. Prison does that to a man!”

  “How bad was it?” She had to know. “Is that what happened to your voice? Is that why you are so thin?”

  “It was bad…very bad…like being buried alive in a black hole.”

  She didn’t understand. Surely he wasn’t speaking literally?

  “You have changed…. And you belong to someone else…. I have changed—I am a criminal… fleeing to America.”

  “There’s one thing that will never change.”

  He looked at her as if he did not want to hear what was coming next.

  “We can’t change the past. We can’t change our past. You are different now. It took a very painful lesson for me to learn that. But the past remains—and we share it. I don’t want to forget it. I will never forget it. And if I can help you heal your wounds, if I can help you return to me, then I am going to do just that.”

  “No.” He whirled and started for the door

  She ran after him, because she had to know. “Sean, you didn’t mean that you were really imprisoned in a hole, did you?” She was ill with dread.

  He turned and stared at her.

  “Oh, my God,” she gasped, shocked, because the answer was not just in his refusal to speak, it was in his eyes. “You were in a pit—for two years?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he rasped.

  “It matters to me!” He was even more deeply scarred than she had thought. But the physical horrors he had suffered had to pale in comparison to the guilt he was afflicted with. “I am sorry, so sorry,” she tried.

  “Don’t.” He reached for the door.

  She seized his arm. “I know you are not a coward, yet you are running away from me, and from something and someone else. That’s it, isn’t it? You are running away, not from the British, but from whatever it is that you blame yourself for!”

  He faced her, shaking her off. “You should hate me for what I did the other night.”

  “Oh, so now you try to change the subject? The subject isn’t your taking my innocence—which I freely offered and gave. The subject is your running away now, from me, yourself and whatever you think you did.”

  He stabbed at the air and turned to unbolt the door.

  Her anger vanished. “Sean, stop. Where are you going?”

  He leaned his forehead against the door, breathing hard.

  “I’ll cease and desist. But my feelings won’t change.”

  He made a harsh, disparaging sound.

  “It’s not safe to keep going out and you know it,” she added firmly. “We are in hiding.”

  He turned away from the door. “You eat and sleep…. I’ll keep watch.”

  She smiled a little at him. “Very well.” But as she sat down at the table, aware of Sean crossing to stand by the window, her mind was not on her supper. He was running, not from her but from himself, and she was going to somehow stop that flight. She was going to find the man she loved, and bring him back to life.

  A SMALL FIRE BURNED in the iron stove, but otherwise, the flat was entirely dark. They had taken turns sleeping this time; Eleanor had insisted on it. It was the darkest and earliest point of the morning, perhaps an hour or so before dawn’s first light. Sean was soundly asleep in the room’s single bed. Eleanor sat by the window, but as the street below was entirely dark, there was simply nothing to see. She didn’t mind. She had rested well and she was very pleased that she had managed to convince Sean to take a turn in the bed. She knew he remained exhausted, because the minute he had lain down, he had become utterly still, clearly falling asleep in that single moment.

  She was glad to have some solitude; now, she could think carefully and she could plan.

  Sean had been cruelly imprisoned in solitary confinement in a pit. Whenever she thought about it, she ached, and she had never hated the British forces more. One day, someone was going to pay for what they had done to Sean. Her mind was made up.

  But that was the past. If she was really going to make every effort to resurrect the old Sean, she certainly wasn’t going home
anytime soon. She sensed she was making progress. Every moment they spent together was raising old and important memories. He was beginning to welcome them and he was beginning to smile.

  Their past was going to pave the way for their future; it had to. And even if he never loved her the way she had always wanted him to, she would settle for far less now. She was committed and determined. One way or another, she was going to help Sean heal his wounds and find himself again.

  She stole another glance at him as he slept. It was hard not to watch him, and when she did, her heart stirred with so much longing and so much love. His chest was rising and falling in a slow, even manner and he hadn’t moved a muscle since first falling into the bed.

  But watching him while he slept had other effects on her, too. He was dying inside from guilt, self-loathing and God only knew what else, but he remained the most virile, attractive man she had ever seen. Now she was intimately familiar with his long lean body, and when she thought about the brief interlude of passion that they had shared, her mouth became dry and her body quickened. She was always going to desire him and that desire would always feel explosive, she thought. But because she was making a bargain with herself and God, if He was listening, she would have to control that longing.

  Suddenly he stirred on the bed. Eleanor thought he might be waking up.

  He thrashed restlessly and muttered something in his sleep.

  He was dreaming. She decided not to disturb him and turned back to the window, finally noticing a gray finger of light in the dark sky.

  Sean cried out.

  Alarmed, Eleanor turned, only to see that he was apparently still dreaming. Sweat was shining on his brow and his shirt was wet, molding to his hard frame. In concern, she stood, trying to decide whether to wake him or not.

  He began sobbing. “No.”

  Eleanor froze at the sound of broken male weeping. And then she hurried over to him, aghast. “Sean.” She laid her hand on his shoulder.

  But he was still now, his breathing deep and even once again. His cheeks were damp with tears, however. What had he been dreaming about? What had he been crying over? It had only been a dream, but there was no doubt in her mind of his torment. Whatever haunted him in his waking hours was haunting him in his sleep, too.

  She hesitated, then gave in to every urge she had. She sat down by his hip and took his hands in hers. Comforting him was a double-edged sword and she wet her lips before saying his name, the need to slip into his bed with him stunning her. If she dared, she would put her arms around him and hold him close, but only to comfort him. She was afraid her treacherous mind and body would attempt far more.

  His hand covered hers, grasping her tightly. “Elle!”

  Eleanor started, because his cry was one of alarm and fear and even panic. “Sean, wake up,” she began.

  “No! Elle, damn it, not you, it’s Peg!” Suddenly he threw her hand away, shooting to a sitting position, his face blanching. His gaze was horrified but unfocused.

  And she clasped his shoulder to comfort him, but her mind raced. Who was Peg? Had she even heard him correctly? Was he dreaming about another woman?

  Suddenly his gaze met hers. He was turning an odd, sickly shade of green. He leaped from the bed and ran to the opposite side of the room, where he retched into a chamber pot.

  Eleanor became very still, hugging herself.

  He continued to retch, the heaves now dry.

  She slid from the bed, too concerned to be afraid of his rejection. Eleanor went to him and laid her hand gently on his back as he knelt over the chamber pot. “Sean, it’s all right. It’s me, Elle. You were having a terrible dream, but it’s over now.”

  He remained kneeling, breathing hard. Tension had turned his back into an unyielding knot of muscles.

  “Sean?”

  He breathed again. “I hear you.” Another ragged breath. “I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t fine but she did not say so.

  “Elle, give me a moment. Please,” he said harshly.

  She nodded and moved away, so he could recover his composure and clean up.

  He stood, staggering a little, as if on a storm-tossed ship and not quite balanced. Then he went to the sink. She carefully avoided watching him now while her mind raced with possibilities. He washed his mouth out with wine. She saw him use his sleeve to wipe the leftover tears from his face.

  What did a woman named Peg have to do with her, with them and with his recent past?

  He slowly turned to face her, staring. “It was just a dream…. I must have eaten rotten food…. Did you get sick?” Only then did he look away, indicating that the conversation was a ruse.

  He was clever, but not as astute as she. “No. I suppose I am fortunate. Can I go downstairs and get some fresh water for you? We need more water anyway.” She smiled as if nothing had happened.

  “I’ll go.”

  “Sean.” She approached. “What were you dreaming about?”

  He froze. “I don’t recall.”

  “You called my name.”

  He turned red but didn’t look her way. “I don’t remember.”

  Eleanor inhaled and touched his sleeve. “Sean, who is Peg?”

  He seemed stunned.

  She swallowed. “I heard you call out to a woman named Peg.”

  “It was a dream,” he cried.

  “I know. But it upset you, and we dream about our lives sometimes—”

  He cut her off rudely. “I don’t know anyone named Peg.” He removed both bolts from the locks and left.

  Eleanor realized that he remained highly distressed. He had forgotten to close the door, but she made no move to do so. Sean was lying. She had seen the lie in his eyes. He knew who Peg was—he just didn’t want to tell her.

  She felt real dread. What had happened to him, to make him dream so graphically and with so much anguish? And who was this other woman? Was he weeping because of her? Did he love this woman?

  Eleanor was stricken by the possibility. She didn’t bother to try to tell herself that he could love someone else and it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would be as hurtful. Nothing he had done could hurt as much. All she had been feeling would be pitiful in comparison to what she would feel then. Sean belonged to her, even if he never loved her back. There couldn’t be another woman—it was beyond impossibility.

  But she had to recover her own composure. She couldn’t help him if she remained so shaken. A part of her wanted to forget she had ever heard him cry out another woman’s name; another part of her was determined to find out the truth about Peg.

  She was so afraid.

  Sean returned with two buckets of water. He kicked the door closed, then placed both pails by the sink. “It’s almost light out. Do you want some fresh scones?” he asked quietly, as if she had never caught him dreaming, weeping and vomiting afterward.

  Succulent aromas were drifting up from the bakery down the street. “I’m not hungry.”

  He glanced at her, then quickly looked away. Walking over to the window, his hands deep in the pockets of his breeches, he stared outside.

  Eleanor’s heart began to thunder inside of her chest. Very carefully, she said, “Do you often have nightmares?”

  He turned, leaning against the wall. “No.”

  “That’s a relief.” She wet her lips, aware of his second lie in as many minutes. “Sean, do you really think the British are looking for you so far south? You said the prison you escaped from was in Drogheda.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “The prison was south of Drogheda,” he said. “What are you trying to ask me?”

  So much for discretion, she thought. “I was just wondering,” she began, “if you were in prison for two years, where were you the other two years?”

  His eyes widened. “I was in a village…you wouldn’t know it.”

  He was reluctant to discuss those two years with her. More dread came. “Maybe I would…”

  “You wouldn’t. What is it that you want to kn
ow?” He stared coldly now.

  She hugged herself. Their gazes held. “I think… you know.”

  He turned away rigidly. “I have no idea,” he finally said.

  “You were gone for four years!” she cried. “Being in prison these past two years explains half of your absence. What were you doing the other two years?”

  He faced her. “You should give up.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why?” she cried.

  “You won’t like…the answer!” he shouted, agonized.

  She had known it. She had simply known it, from the moment she had heard him cry out another woman’s name. “You were with Peg.”

  “Stop,” he demanded. “Just stop!”

  “Were you? Was there another woman? Is there another woman?” she demanded, shocked.

  “I was helping them—that’s all!” he cried back. “Why do you still…snoop…and pry? Why, damn it?”

  He had spent two years helping some other woman? Helping her do what? She was stricken and Sean knew, because he went to her, clearly fighting his own temper. When he had regained some composure, he said harshly, “It doesn’t matter, Elle…. You are going home to Sinclair…. I am going to America.”

  “It matters,” she managed. “It matters very much.” She seized his arm. “Did you love her?”

  He flinched.

  And Eleanor saw that her fears had been right.

  “No,” he said, stunning her. He spoke slowly now.

  “No, I did not.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE,” Tyrell said, pacing. “I am sitting here in my home doing nothing, while Eleanor and Sean are out there, somewhere, Sean fleeing for his very life.”

  He paused in front of the hearth, where his wife was seated on the sofa with the countess. Lizzie stood and went to him. “Rex is in Cork—he sent word. Cliff should be there by the morning. Your father is halfway to London to petition for a pardon. Ty, someone has to be here.”

  “I realize the earldom supercedes everything—believe me, I do.” He was bitter. “Duty traps me once again, it seems.”

  Lizzie exchanged a look with the countess. “I know you would prefer to gallop to Cork and search every shop and house there by yourself, but the earldom does take precedence. Sean would not want you to involve yourself and, in doing so, jeopardize all this family has and stands for.”