by Brenda Joyce
“Sean, you’re never going to suffer like that again!”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.”
Their eyes held. How could she not feel sorry for him? She knew that if she dared to speak further, she might push him away, but she had to go on. “Is that what you dream about? Those years spent alone in the darkness and solitude of that cell?”
His face tightened.
“Sean?” She dared. “Is it Peg? Is that who you dream about?”
He leaped to his feet. “Why do you have to pry? Why?”
“I am going to help you, Sean,” she managed to say firmly. “I am going to help you forget all the horror of the past few years.”
He was incredulous. “Like hell!”
“Don’t you want your life back?” she cried. “Or is it Peg that you prefer?” And the minute the words slipped out, she regretted them.
He was furious. “You never stop…do you?”
“Don’t go. I’m sorry! I won’t pry anymore. Sean!”
But it was too late—he was already out the door.
SEAN PAUSED in the courtyard behind the cobbler’s shop, leaning against the building, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. Why did she have to pry? Did she know that her prying was like taking a sharp knife and stabbing it in his gut, then twisting it in the wound?
Peg was dead. He wasn’t going to talk about her, not ever and certainly not to Elle.
He covered his face with his hands. He had the oddest urge to go upstairs and let her put her arms around him. A part of him seemed to think that if he did that, she could chase away the demons. But he would never give in to such an urge, especially not now, not after the other night. He knew how his treacherous body would respond to the innocent act of her comforting him. He had never burned with so much heat; he had never felt so desperate and explosive. She had become such a beautiful woman, and the fact that she was so tempting confused him. But he was certain of one thing: he was going to regret the few moments of passion they had shared for the rest of his life.
And as he stood there, his rigid arousal was proof. He had come to the courtyard because he had been frightened by her question and he’d needed to escape—not just Elle, but Peg, his guilt, the past. But somehow the grief and guilt had turned into need and desire. It was jumbled up now, together, like an unwanted obsession.
That morning he had gone to the banks of the river and had used his spyglass to take a good look at the HMS Gallatine. She was sixth rate, carrying twenty-eight nine-pounders, but she looked as if she was fast. He had also called on O’Connor, who had agreed with him; McBane might be just the escort to take Elle back to Adare. He was a gentleman, so he would behave honorably toward her and probably give his life to protect her. O’Connor had said he would attempt to make contact with McBane. If he could not, he said he could escort Elle back himself.
“Sean?”
He tensed at the sound of the soft feminine voice. He turned.
Kate stood beneath the roof’s overhang, smiling at him. “It’s raining,” she murmured. “Why are you standing outside?” The rain had lightened into a soft but steady drizzle.
He knew exactly what she wanted. He had always known when a woman wanted him, even as a boy, when the women had been girls. He had never really understood why the female of his species looked at him once, looked again and then took up the chase, but he had never lacked for female companionship because of it. He had had his first lover when he was thirteen years old and he had been taking lovers ever since. Like all the O’Neill men, his virility was extreme.
Except for the past two years, when an unnatural celibacy had been forced upon him. And then there was the other night, when he’d briefly lost his mind, taking Elle, not even in a bed.
Kate approached, her gown damp and clinging to her curves. Moisture had gathered on her face, and the skin of her chest above the lace-edged bodice of her dress. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He knew what she wanted and he wanted it, too. He was hard and desperate. And she wouldn’t play games; she wouldn’t demand his love in return for sex. He could simply walk with her to the livery, just across the courtyard, and they could bed down in a clean stall. “I’m fine,” he said, not moving.
Her dark gaze searched his face as she paused before him. “I am glad,” she murmured, cupping his cheek.
There was no reason not to take her hand and put it where he needed it to be—except one. And she was upstairs in that atrocious flat, waiting for him. She would know what he had done the moment he walked in that door. She would take one look at him and know—and she would be hurt, impossibly so, again.
He hated himself for already hurting her. How could he hurt her another time?
Kate slid her hand down his neck and over the bare, warm skin of his chest.
It was hard to breathe, hard to think. But he managed to realize that Kate might not assuage his lust, because she wasn’t the one who had inspired it.
Kate smiled and moved her hand low, dipping her fingers into the waistband of his breeches.
Sean inhaled and grasped her hand firmly to remove it. Her eyes lifted and her cheeks flushed. He began to apologize, the words on the tip of his tongue, when he knew they were not alone.
Elle stood beneath the building’s overhang, eyes wide.
He pushed Kate away, forgetting her in that moment. He knew he should shout at Elle, remind her that ladies do not spy, but no words came. He just stared—and she stared back.
Elle whirled and ran back through the arched overhang and into the building.
Sean realized Kate was standing beside him, her eyes wide with surprise and comprehension. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“She isn’t your sister,” Kate gasped.
He didn’t hear her—he was already racing after Elle.
ELEANOR REACHED THE FLAT and slammed the door closed behind her. She was shaking wildly, uncontrollably. She could not stop seeing Sean standing there with Kate, the moment thick with lust. She didn’t hesitate—she threw one of the bolts.
Then she backed up, breathing hard. Hadn’t she known he was bedding Kate, or preparing to take her to bed? She’d spied on him a dozen times with his lovers and she knew all the signs. Why should she care? He wasn’t even the same man anymore, and she didn’t love the man he had become. Her decision was to heal the man he had become, so she could have her best friend back. If she was ever fortunate enough to succeed, there would be other women, because Sean was virile and passionate. She was going to have to accept it sooner or later, so why not now?
He pounded on the door. “Elle. Open up.”
She stared at the locked door. Being childish, she said, “No.” She hated his chasing other women and being chased by them!
The banging stopped. “Elle. Open the door and let me in. I’m wet…and cold.”
“I doubt that,” she said. “I think you are very hot.” And desire stabbed through her, painful and full.
He wanted a woman, and she had this raging need, too. She turned away from the door, shaken and confused. Why did her body have to be so aroused? Why did she have to feel so feverish whenever she looked at Sean?
“Open the door…so we can speak, damn it.”
She had the inkling that she should not open the door. She went to it, slammed the bolt free and backed up.
He walked in, gave her a dark look and closed the door, locking it. “I would have thought…you’d outgrow your need…to spy on me.”
“I wasn’t spying,” she lied. She had seen Kate from the window and her every instinct had urged her to go down to the courtyard. “We needed water and you forgot to take a bucket. I was bringing one to you.”
“You were spying.” He folded his arms against his chest. Eleanor stared, because unfortunately, it remained bare. His forearms thickened, both pectoral muscles bulged. Eleanor was aware of staring but could not look away. Couldn’t she help him through his torment and share his bed at the same time? If she did not, there would
be someone else, and it wasn’t as if she were a virgin anymore.
“Listen,” he said, his tone thick. “I don’t want Kate.”
She met his gaze. “Yes, you do.”
His cheeks were flushed. “No…not Kate.”
She went still. The air pulsed around them, and her own body pulsed, as well. “What do you mean?” she said breathlessly.
He made a helpless gesture, and then his gaze slammed to her chest and lower, to her hips. Abruptly he closed his eyes, as if that might stop him from looking at her in such a bold and male manner, and he turned his back to her.
Eleanor swallowed. Was he telling her that he wanted her? Because she wanted him desperately, as much as she ever had, if not more.
He was fighting for control, but whether it was to manage his anger or his lust, Eleanor did not know. “Elle…I didn’t sleep with Kate…I haven’t and I won’t.”
She did not understand. She stared at the horrific web of scars on his back. “Why not? You never were very discriminating in the past.”
He just stood there, his head almost hanging, his back rigid, his shoulders stiff, and he did not speak.
Eleanor managed to inhale, although she continued to shake. She laid her hand on a vein of scars. “I don’t understand. You could be through with Kate by now.”
“Don’t,” he breathed.
She stroked her hand down the vein of scars. “Sean,” she murmured. A tremor passed through him. She laid her other hand on a different set of scars; leaning closer, she pressed her mouth to the apex of puckered-up tissue.
“Not…good,” he gasped.
She sensed that his surrender was imminent. Barely able to breathe, she shifted forward until her soft breasts, the tips aching and erect, pressed into his back. She moved her mouth against his skin, against the ribbed scars, kissing him slowly, repeatedly. He shuddered and whispered hoarsely, “Do you want me…to hurt you?”
She clasped his shoulders and when she spoke, her mouth moved against his hot, rough skin. “No. I’ve been hurt enough. Sean, you won’t hurt me.” And she kissed the side of his neck, which in contrast to the scars, was soft and smooth.
He moved, breaking free of her, facing her, eyes wild and hot. “Why? Why do this…seduce me… again?” There was desire in his tone but there was so much panic, too.
Her body was so feverish she felt insane. “Because I need to be with you, too! Because you are a passionate man—and I am a passionate woman.” And because I love you, she thought.
“Don’t,” he said harshly, “make this any harder… than it is.”
Her mind raced, but blankly, and her blood hummed. “Sean, you’ve changed,” she whispered, “but I still want you, even more than before.”
He was still, his gaze wide—a battle there. And very slowly, he said, “I can’t hurt you…again. Please!”
“You won’t.” Even as she spoke, she knew she was lying—she knew she was going to become hurt, hugely so. Her heart told her that. But everything had vanished, all logic, all of her plans, her resolve, were gone. There was only a dully lit, sparsely furnished and cheap room; there was only her and Sean.
“You need to go back to Adare.” His eyes were intense, brilliant, on hers. “You need to marry Sinclair.”
“And you need to go to America. I know that. But what does that have to do with today, tonight?” she asked softly.
He just stood there, breathing hard.
She was breathless, too. “Sean?”
He was begging her now with his eyes. “I can’t give you…love.”
“I’m not asking for you to give me anything more than pleasure,” she whispered, and in that moment, she meant her words. He blanched. “I am asking you for pleasure, Sean. I need you to give me pleasure, now.”
And his face turned crimson, his gaze silver and bright. He moved, groaning.
Eleanor cried out and then she was in his arms and their mouths were open and fusing. His body was pressing against hers. “Elle,” he gasped against her mouth, already unbuttoning her shirt. “Elle.”
Eleanor gasped as his hands covered her breasts, beneath shirt and chemise. Briefly he tore his mouth from hers to look into her eyes. He smiled.
She was stunned, but there was no time to think. He arched her backward over his arm, kissing her hard and furiously. And then he half lifted and half dragged her to the bed, climbing over her and finding her nipple with his mouth.
Exquisite sensation, part pleasure, part pain, shot though her. Eleanor felt faint and she began to seek the wild pleasure that was cresting over her. She wanted Sean to hurry.
And he was fumbling with her trousers. She felt him pulling them off, her drawers vanished. His mouth moved back to her face, her lips, her throat, her breasts. His hands were shaking, covering her skin in the wake of his mouth. Eleanor could not stand the sheer pleasure his mouth and hands were inflicting; her body had become so turgid, she thought it might break.
Suddenly his hands settled on her hips, anchoring her to the bed. He started exploring the flat expanse of flesh around her belly button with his mouth and tongue. Eleanor tensed; his mouth was causing the flesh of her sex to expand impossibly, to throb with a terrible urgency. She wriggled helplessly beneath his laving tongue as it delved lower and lower still. She gasped when he began to stroke the cleft of her sex. She went still, while her heart threatened to explode in her breast, her body surging.
Eleanor began to break apart and as she shattered, his tongue became bold and insistent, reckless and adept. She shattered again and again and he fed her cries relentlessly, until she had nothing left to give.
He lifted himself up and moved over her. She looked at him and he met her gaze, his eyes impossibly hot. “I need you,” he said roughly.
She knew and she smiled, cupping his cheek.
He slid one strong arm beneath her, bent and kissed her again, the kiss filled with urgency but controlled, restrained. Then he reached down to free himself. And his heavy loins pressed swiftly against hers. Eleanor gasped, new stirrings building rapidly again.
And Sean hesitated. Eleanor met his searching gaze. “Are you certain?” he asked.
She touched his face, the curved scar there. “Yes.” She had never been more certain of anything, sh realized.
Sean nodded, eyes drifting closed. Sheer need written all over his face, he moved against her, pressing into her warmth. “Elle.”
Eleanor took his face in her hands—his beloved face. “You won’t hurt me,” she whispered. “Hurry, Sean, I love you!”
He cried out. Sweat—or tears—trickled. He kissed her, and then began to move, eyes tightly closed. The love swelling in her chest was replaced with something urgent and intense. Eleanor held on to his shoulders, the tension spiraling quickly, impossibly, and then it broke apart.
Sean gasped, moving harder and faster, as she spun wildly through the room, the ceiling, the universe. His cries became harsh, mingling with hers, and he reached completion, too.
Eleanor slowly floated back to the bed and the earth. She held his damp body as he moved to his side and she began to think. She was afraid that she loved Sean as he was, as much as she loved the man he had once been. In fact, no matter how he had changed, she had never loved him more. She kissed his moist cheek, afraid of what might come next.
His body had been utterly limp and relaxed. Now he stiffened. His head lifted and their gazes met. His stare turned blank. “Are…you all right?”
Eleanor was alarmed. How could she love the man he had turned into? How could she not? And where did that leave her? Even though he had so much passion, that wasn’t necessarily love and she had promised herself that she didn’t need his love—she only needed him whole and healed again.
“Elle…Eleanor?”
And she hated it when he corrected himself. “I’m still Elle, just grown-up.”
His stare was odd and unhappy.
Eleanor reached for her shirt, drawing it closed over her breasts. She sli
d her bare legs under the sheet, pulling it up to her waist. “Yes.” She swallowed, smiled. “I am fine. That was…lovely.”
His eyes held hers.
She somehow kept smiling.
He didn’t smile back. But he hesitated, as if he was uncertain, too.
She forced lightness into her tone. “I am fine. Making love—I mean, sharing your bed—was wonderful. And that is all it was, of course. That is all I want, I mean.”
He stared at her as if she were the Loch Ness monster.
Her smile vanished. She fought the rising hurt. “Because that is all you want. Passion, a bedmate, a lover.”
He sat up, turning aside so she couldn’t see him straighten his breeches. Then he glanced at her. She was now hugging the sheets to her neck. “I want you safe…that is what I want.” He stepped from the bed. “I’ll go for water so you can bathe.”
She didn’t want to bathe. She knew she must not push. “You want me safe—at Adare.”
He started for the door. “Yes.”
She knew she must not add, with Sinclair. But one conclusion was inescapable. He was very attracted to her, but if he had any deeper feelings for her, he would not be able to send her home to her fiancé. If he had any deeper feelings for her, he would want to take her to America with him.
At the door he suddenly turned. “You are impossibly beautiful…Eleanor.”
She tensed. She did not like his expression or his tone, and she knew a “but” was coming.
“You deserve more than a night…in my bed.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I do.” And she almost wished she hadn’t verbalized what remained in her heart.
He was so clearly unhappy and resigned. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Eleanor pulled the covers higher and watched him walk out once again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FLAT WAS SUDDENLY achingly empty. Eleanor inhaled, trembling. A few moments ago, when they had been making love, she had felt closer to him than she ever had. Yet now, clearly, he was regretting what they had just done and what they had just shared. She knew he had been through more suffering than any one man should ever bear, but she just couldn’t understand why he couldn’t accept their need for one another—why he couldn’t allow love to grow between them.