by Brenda Joyce
She began to dress, refusing to feel hurt, trying to understand, yet failing. Maybe, when she knew more about the past four years, his behavior would be comprehensible. But how much time did she have before he left for America and she was forced to return home?
Eleanor suddenly winced. She realized she had stepped on a sharp object with her bare foot. She glanced down, surprised to see a very tiny carved figurine on the floor. Instantly she knew it had fallen out of the pocket of Sean’s breeches earlier and she retrieved it. It was a ship with a single mast, the details exquisite. Because of its size, she felt certain it had been carved for a child.
Unease filled her. Why had Sean kept this tiny boat in his pocket? How many secrets was he keeping? First there was Peg, and now there was some child in his past, as well?
He entered the room. Their gazes collided and he looked away, going to the wood bathing tub in the room’s corner. “I’ll fill it so you can bathe,” he said, not looking at her. He tossed the pail of water in, but before he could leave Eleanor went to him.
“Sean. Wait.”
He stiffened, glancing at her. “Don’t.”
“I don’t understand you!” she cried. She knew she should leave this subject alone now, but she couldn’t.
“I know. You can’t…not anymore.” His gaze held hers now, searching and agonized. “I’ve changed. We have agreed on that…. I was honest. I said I couldn’t give you anything but an hour in bed…you said you understood me. But you weren’t being honest, were you?” He was accusing.
She hesitated. “I thought I could settle for passion, but I was wrong.”
He paled. “I need to get more water.”
She seized his arm. “That was far more than passion, Sean!”
He turned, incredulous. “You don’t…know anything. You were innocent…until the other night. I don’t want to discuss this.” He jerked away and left the room.
Eleanor sat down hard on a chair at the table, and then realized she still held the carved ship. She put it down. He had come very close to saying that she was wrong—that their lovemaking had meant nothing to him. Had he been so blunt, it would have been too hurtful to bear.
She hugged herself. One thing was clear. She needed time to be with Sean, to help him through his misery and to change his mind about what he intended. But the British were on their trail and in a matter of days, he could be bound for America and she could be on her way home. Her heart lurched with panic at the thought.
He returned, not looking at her, his cheeks flushed. He added another bucket of water to the tub. “I’ll wait in the courtyard,” he said tersely.
She leaped to her feet. “Did you book a passage to America?”
It was a moment before he spoke. “Not yet.”
She was so relieved that she exhaled loudly.
He faced her grimly. “Elle. I mean, Eleanor.” He wet his lips. “It was a bad idea. This is my fault, again. I take full blame…. Please don’t cry,” he added, a sharp plea.
“I’m not crying.”
“But you’re hurt…. I can see it in your eyes and on your face,” he exclaimed. “I have hurt you.”
“I don’t understand how you could touch me and kiss me the way that you did, and then try to claim that it was bedsport! You loved me when I was a child—don’t you dare deny it!” she cried, when he seemed about to protest. “And when I became older, we were best friends—we did almost everything together! Now I’m a woman and we also share passion—we have done everything together, haven’t we?”
“Don’t do this,” he warned.
But she could not stop. “I know you were locked away by yourself for two years. I know they flogged you brutally. I know that soldiers died that night in the village— I know you blame yourself! But Sean, that is over now. It’s the past. Why don’t you want to take me with you?” she cried, genuinely bewildered. “Why? Are you trying to punish yourself for something? Do you think to deny yourself any happiness, ever again? I made you happy a few minutes ago—I could make you happy again! We could share a bed every night, and a life! We’re already best friends! I could have your children, Sean!”
He was rigid now and stark white. “You need pride. You can’t beg a man…for love.”
She felt like slapping him silly. “I’m not begging you for love. I am pointing out the obvious. I think you do love me—or at least care, deeply. Can you deny it?” she challenged. And then she was afraid to breathe.
He was silent, clearly refusing to speak. His temples throbbed.
“I didn’t think you could,” she said firmly, but she was trembling.
“I do not…want…to hurt you…again,” he ground out.
“You will hurt me very much if you disappear from my life forever,” she said fiercely. “And who will take care of you in America? Who will heal those scars?”
He jerked. “I already said…they’re healed.”
“And we both know that is a lie,” she retorted.
Their eyes clashed. “And if…we’re captured?”
Her heart leaped with hope. She dared to go to him and touch his arm. “What if we’re not captured?”
He stepped back, shaking his head. “You don’t understand…the British soldiers…what they can do.”
“But not to me!” she cried. “I’m a woman, a lady, the daughter of an earl. Sean, if we let Cliff help us, we won’t be caught. He’s as dangerous as any Barbary pirate.”
“I don’t want him hanging beside me!” Sean shouted at her. “And I don’t want you hurt because of me!”
She jerked. He was so distressed that she despised herself for pushing him. She hesitated, then whispered, “There’s more, isn’t there? There’s something terrible that you haven’t told me. Something that is making you so afraid for me, for Cliff, for all of us. Oh God, Sean—what really happened to you in that prison?”
His face appeared so stiff it might crack. He shook his head as if he could not speak, and a terrible silence ensued.
Eleanor was afraid to even begin to imagine what demon really haunted him. “You know you can trust me,” she finally said. “Whatever you are hiding, you know your secret is safe with me.”
He inhaled harshly. Another long moment passed before he spoke, and then his tone was low and rough with strain. “I can’t give you what you want…. I can’t, Elle.”
And suddenly she could feel his pain pouring from him in huge, aching waves. Had he begun to cry, she would not have been surprised.
So she walked over to him and put her arms around him. He didn’t move. “I won’t push you anymore, Sean,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke the hair at his nape. “But let me comfort you. Surely you can allow that.”
For one more moment, he was still and she felt him fighting himself, his breathing harsh, uneven and ragged. Then, when he had gained control, he stepped back from her. “You are a fine woman,” he said, his eyes becoming soft. The corners of his mouth lifted in the barest imitation of a smile.
She touched one corner. “You used to have a dimple. I want to see it again. I saw it before. You smiled at me, just before you took me into that bed.”
He shook his head in some kind of denial, but whether he refused to acknowledge that he had actually smiled, perhaps for the first time in years, or that he wished to ever smile again, she did not know. Then his glance fell to the table and he started. “Where did you get that?” he cried.
Surprised, Eleanor watched him rush to the table as if it were a matter of life and death. Instantly the toy boat was gone, shoved into his pocket. He turned, his gaze incredulous and accusing.
And Eleanor was terrified of what that toy boat meant to him. “I found it on the floor,” she explained slowly, her mouth dry. “Sean, why are you carrying that figure around? Is it a keepsake?”
His expression was tight. “Yes.” He turned away, reaching for the bucket.
She went to the door and barred his way. “I don’t understand. What does it mean? Who gave it
to you? Is it a child’s?”
He ground his jaw. “Excuse me.”
“Is that a child’s toy?” she cried again.
For one instant, as if disbelieving, he was silent. And then he exploded. “Yes, it’s a child’s. It belonged to Michael…Michael, my son. Michael…who is dead.”
He pushed past her and slammed down the cramped staircase but she did not move, paralyzed with shock and fear.
Sean had a son? A son who had died?
She was so stunned that it was hard to think. Her heart drummed with painful force. He’d slept with so many women, it would not be strange if he had a bastard. Most men did.
Eleanor sank into a chair. But his son was dead?
She hugged herself, beyond worry now. Was this the cause of his grief, his bitterness, the shadows in his eyes, his sorrow? Was this the real cause of his pain?
Sean returned, dumping the last bucket of water in the tub. His movements were angry.
“I didn’t know you had a son,” she whispered. “Sean, I’m so sorry.” As the final comprehension settled over her—he’d had a child and his son was dead—tears filled her eyes.
He suddenly faced her. “It was my duty to protect him.”
She quickly went to him. She took his hand. “How did he die?”
He met her gaze. “The troops set fire to my home. They couldn’t find me…so they killed him.” He pulled away, shaking. “I don’t want to talk…. Why won’t you let me be?” He went to the stove and knelt there, clearly intending to replenish the fire.
Eleanor followed and knelt behind him. “I understand how painful this is,” she soothed. She caressed his back. He continued to tremble, fighting his emotions for some kind of self-control. She had never loved him more and she had never wanted to protect him as she did now, from this kind of grief and loss. “It’s not your fault,” she said, and without even knowing it, she had slid her arms around him.
He didn’t move. “It is my fault.”
She had been right; he was blaming himself for a terrible tragedy. She wished now she had been wrong. “No. The officers who allowed those men to burn your home, they are the ones responsible for Michael’s death. You are a fine and honorable man. Had you been there that day, you would have died in his place and we both know it. You cannot blame yourself.” She reached for him to turn him to face her. “Sean, look at me.”
He allowed himself to shift and he obeyed, his gray eyes lifting to meet hers.
She clasped his face. “You have to stop blaming yourself. Blaming yourself won’t bring Michael back. But you know that.”
His eyes flickered with anguish. “How many times…did I save you?” he asked in a whisper.
She didn’t answer, trying not to succumb to the same grief he was feeling.
“But I failed Michael,” he said slowly. “Why?”
A tear had finally spilled. Eleanor caught it with her thumb. His gaze locked with hers. She became still, her hands on his face, as the anguish shimmered, becoming desperation. She wanted to tell him that he could not run from Michael’s murder forever. Instead, she slid her thumbs over his skin. He flinched, his eyes turning hot.
Nothing mattered, Eleanor thought, except that he was so wounded, in so much pain, and he needed her now. Even if only temporarily, she could soothe him. She stood, taking his hand as she did so and bringing him to his feet, too. “I love you so much,” she murmured unsteadily.
He stared at her and his eyes filled with tears. And then he shook his head.
She did not know if it was a denial of her declaration or a protest of what she intended, but she knew exactly how to comfort him now. She closed her eyes and floated her lips over his.
He stood utterly still, allowing her to kiss him, and she tasted not just his firm lips, but the salt of his tears.
And then his arms were around her and he was kissing her in return, deep and desperate.
THIS TIME, WHEN HE MOVED onto his back, Eleanor moved against his side, laying her cheek on his chest. She felt his body tense in response and she prayed. Then, slowly, his hand slid over her arm, closing around her. Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut against sudden tears. He wasn’t pushing her away. This was a beginning, and she was acutely aware of it.
He didn’t speak.
She waited until she had recovered some of her own composure, now thinking about his son, Michael. She had so many questions but she did not have to debate with herself to know that now was not the time to raise such a painful subject again. Besides, if possible she wanted to remain just where she was, in his arms, in his bed, being gently held, for as long as possible. This time she wasn’t deluded—their passion did not signify any change of intention of his part. She intended to cherish the moment. Eleanor laid her hand on his chest, caressing him, but in a manner meant to comfort, not arouse. She wanted to press her lips to his skin, with all the love she was feeling, but she restrained herself. Then her stomach growled loudly.
She looked up as he looked down. His eyes were soft and searching. And, very faintly, he smiled. “I will get us supper.”
Her heart leaped in wild elation at the sight she had just witnessed. She smiled back, her chin now on his chest. “It’s dark. Maybe this is not a good time to be roaming the city streets.”
His somber expression had returned, but his eyes didn’t change. He kept staring at her face, as if he were seeing each and every one of her features for the first time and as if he wished to memorize them. “I’m hungry, too,” he said. He added, “Dark is better. I can slip through town without anyone…seeing me. And it’s not far…to the inn.”
For one moment, she laid her hand on his taut belly, relishing the smoothness of his skin and the fact that he was allowing her such liberties. Then she recalled the thick and coarse web of scars on his back and she sobered. She sat up. She never wanted him to suffer that way again. “I’ll get supper. I’ll go to the inn.”
He was staring at her breasts. “No.”
Eleanor realized he was admiring her and she felt a heady sense of allure. Her instinct was to raise the sheets, but she did no such thing. “Sean, I am not a child anymore. I do not need to be protected at every twist and turn. The inn is around the corner….”
“No.” He handed her an edge of the sheet, placing it over her breasts. “Ladies are modest,” he chastised.
She had to smile. “But we agreed long ago that I am not a lady.”
And he smiled in return as he slipped from the bed. “How could I forget?”
She ogled him while he was reaching for his clothes. He suddenly glanced at her while stepping into his breeches and he blushed. “Ladies are not so bold.”
She shrugged. “You are beautiful…. Why can’t I stare? Men stare at women all the time.”
He sighed and reached for his shirt, which was now dry. “You can’t…it’s improper…you know that.”
“I hate being proper,” she declared, meaning it.
He went still, a faraway look coming to his eyes.
Eleanor had a vague recollection of a different time and place, when he was young and she was younger still. “Sean?”
He slowly turned, his gaze drifting over her and from the look in his eyes, she knew he was seeing her as a child in braids, not as the woman he had just taken to bed. Then his gaze sharpened. “You are a lady…just an unconventional one. Do not ever forget it.”
“I pretend to be a lady when I have to—which is most of the time,” she rebutted. “You know I despise wearing dresses and having tea and going to balls. I haven’t even learned to dance properly.”
He glanced at her, amused. “Only you…would dare to be so honest.”
“Sean, I see that dimple,” she said, and it was the truth.
He straightened in surprise, his soft smile vanishing.
She wondered if he was determined to grieve. She slid from the bed. “Sean…seeing you smile is wonderful.”
His eyes widened. “You should get dressed.” As he spoke, his
cheeks turned red.
She was so comfortable with him that she hadn’t even realized she was nude. She jerked the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her. “I think you must know every inch of my body intimately by now.”
His color increased.
“But I don’t mind,” she exclaimed.
He seemed displeased now. “Elle, I hope you only act so bold…with me. No one else could understand… or accept it.”
She folded her arms. “Oh—you mean, like Sinclair?” And her heart raced with anxiety.
He lifted his chin. “Him, too.”
Had someone tied a rope between them, the tension could not have suddenly been greater. But Sean turned away. Eleanor seized his arm. The words slipped out. “You don’t really expect me to return to him? Not after all we have shared this day?”
He pulled away, buttoning his shirt and clearly refusing to answer her.
He still thought to send her back to Sinclair. “You spent the afternoon making love to me!” she cried in genuine shock.
He was angry. “We already discussed this.”
“There was no discussion and that was yesterday. There was an order, a directive—it was your decision, not mine.”
“Why do we have to debate again?” he demanded.
“Because it was one thing to have made a foolish mistake once—a meaningless and foolish one—but it’s another to willfully deceive a good and honest man when we both deliberately chose to be lovers!” She was furious.
He glanced sidelong at her. “Nothing has changed…. Sinclair is protection for you.” He started for the door.
She was so stunned with disbelief she just stood there, staring. Then she said, “I don’t need protection from the British—but you will never believe that, will you?”
He faced her. “I was an animal…in a cage. It was madness…it was hell. This time, I will hang. And you? Do you want to spend your life in the Tower? Or do you prefer a privileged existence as Lady Sinclair?”
She wasn’t furious now; she was determined to understand him. “You are not being rational. No one is going to lock me in the Tower. Is this irrational fear somehow connected to what happened to Michael?”