The Stolen Bride

by Brenda Joyce

  Flynn approached, beaming. “I was wondering if you’d ever get here, my lord.”

  “Flynn!” Sean grinned, hugging him warmly. “It is Mr. O’Neill, and you damn well know it. I am not titled.”

  “You’re his lordship to me,” Flynn said stubbornly. “You said you were coming in February, and you truly come back.” He had left Limerick two months ago, after giving his testimony.

  “Yes, I have come back—with my wife. And we are here to stay.”

  Flynn was thrilled. “I thought you meant you’d come to visit!”

  “We have other plans,” Sean said softly, and he smiled at Eleanor, pulling her close.

  “You heard we got a new lord up at the house—but no one’s seen him yet.”

  Sean exchanged a glance with Eleanor. She had to smile as he spoke. “I know. Times have changed, Flynn. It’s a new day, and a new era. There’ll be no more instances of tyranny here.”

  Flynn was confused. “My lord, I mean, sir. How do you know? Do you know his lordship? Can he be a good man?”

  Sean continued to smile. “I am the new lord, Flynn,” he said softly. “I bought Darby’s estate.”

  In fact, the earl had bought the estate for them as their wedding gift. Flynn was stunned, gaping, tears filling his eyes. “My lord, this is a grand day, indeed! I got to tell everyone!” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “And, my lord? This is a great day for you, too.”

  “What do you mean?” Sean asked, bemused.

  “Look over there,” Flynn murmured, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

  Eleanor turned to glance in the direction Flynn had indicated. A young boy had paused just outside of the cemetery gates. The boy was bundled up in a heavy winter coat and a knit cap, but he turned to stare at them as Flynn waved him forward. The boy hesitated, and then started walking toward them.

  “I got to go tell everyone the news,” Flynn cried, rushing past the boy and from the cemetery.

  “Oh, God,” Sean suddenly gasped, his eyes widening.

  Eleanor was alarmed. “What is it?”

  But he didn’t hear her. “Michael?” he cried, starting toward the boy. “Michael Boyle O’Neill—is that you?” He began to run, stumbling.

  Eleanor cried out, incredulous.

  The boy nodded, his eyes huge. “I’m Michael Boyle O’Neill,” he whispered. “Papa? Have you really come back?”

  Sean cried out, throwing his arms around the small boy. To his credit—as Michael was only eight years old and he hadn’t seen Sean in two years—Michael accepted the embrace without protest. Suddenly realizing what the separation might have done, Sean released him. “Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?” he asked, dropping to one knee.

  Michael nodded seriously. “You married me mum. Ye were me papa. Flynn told me, but I remember, too.”

  “I’m still your papa,” Sean said, clasping his cheek. “I thought you died in the fire! What happened, Michael? Where have you been staying?”

  “The O’Rourke family took me in after the fire and moved to Raharney, where there’s more family,” he said, starting to smile. “But they came back here in the fall. Flynn saw me when he came back from the courts. He said you would come back, and you did. Do ye mean it? Ye’ll still be my papa? Missus O’Rourke says it’s real hard to feed us all—she’s got five of her own children.”

  Sean stood, tears slowly falling, and he nodded, wiping the tears with the back of his hand. Then he reached into his pocket, retrieving the small, carved boat. Michael’s eyes went wide. Sean clasped his shoulder. “Do you remember this? It belongs to you.”

  Michael nodded, speechless.

  “I have kept this in my pocket since the fire. Do you want it back?”

  Michael nodded, taking the boat and holding it tightly to his chest.

  Sean took Michael’s small hand and he turned to face Eleanor. “Elle,” he said thickly. “This is Michael. My son.”

  Eleanor’s heart was thundering in her chest. Sometimes, she thought, still stunned, life could be fair. Sometimes, there was justice in this world. And she looked at the little boy and felt joy and love. She thanked God for such a miracle. “Hello.” She came forward. “I’m Eleanor. I am so happy to meet you, Michael.” She had never meant anything more.

  As astute as children so often are, he looked from her to Sean and then back again. “Are you going to live with me and my papa, too?” His eyes held curiosity.

  “I would love to—if you don’t mind.”

  He blushed. “I don’t mind.” He looked at Sean. “She’s tall,” he said, making Sean laugh. “And pretty.”

  “She is very tall and she is very pretty,” Sean agreed, taking Michael’s hand. “And she is my wife, now, Michael. Do you mind?”

  He bit his lip, flushing anew. “No,” he said slowly, clearly thinking about it. “I don’t mind.”

  He patted the boy’s back. “Let’s go see our new home.” Sean turned to Eleanor. “Thank you.”

  She let him take her other hand. She said softly, “You have nothing to thank me for.”

  “I have everything to thank you for,” he corrected as softly. “Shall we walk?”

  Arm in arm, they started up the street, Michael now dancing ahead of them and pointing out every home and person they passed. That cottage belonged to the O’Briens, who were cobblers by trade, and that was the baker’s, John O’Dare. Villagers came out of their shops and homes to greet them, smiling and doffing their hats, the women curtsying. Sean and Eleanor were greeted as “my lord” and “my lady,” no matter how often Sean corrected the mistake. A gap-toothed vendor pressed hot chestnuts into their hands and the butcher offered them a leg of lamb, wrapped in paper. A woman came out to hand Eleanor a silk scarf. Eleanor thanked her profusely. More offerings followed—cups of hot tea, a jug of whiskey, cookies still warm from the oven—and their coach, traveling slowly behind them, was the repository of all the gifts.

  And then they had left the last house behind. Ahead were two tall stone walls and wrought-iron gates; on the hill behind the fence was the big house. It remained charred by the fires that had destroyed it but the dark stone and gaping windows were oddly welcoming. Eleanor glanced at Sean and their gazes locked. It would take many months to renovate the estate, and she could not wait to get down on her hands and knees with him to tear up the floors, not that he would let her do too much in her state. But when they were done, their home was going to be as magnificent as Askeaton, of that there was no doubt. She thought about her child tottering through the halls—she thought about Michael chasing after the toddler to catch him or her before he or she fell.

  And for the first time, Eleanor knew she was having a girl.

  “It’s burned,” Michael said in an awed voice. “An’ they say it’s got ghosts!”

  “I doubt there are ghosts.” Sean smiled. “We are going to rebuild, Michael, room by room, the three of us. Will you help Elle and I?”

  Michael nodded eagerly.

  And as they passed through the front gates, Eleanor glanced at the inscription on the brass plaque that she had ordered placed there. The estate has been renamed in Peter’s honor. It was now Sinclair Hall.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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  First published in Great Britain 2008

  by Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

  © Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited 2006

  ISBN: 9781408905548