The Stolen Bride. Brenda Joyce
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heart ripped from her chest while it continued beating.
He did not move, but he made a noise, raw and harsh.
That sound cut through her exhilaration, her relief. She realized she was clinging as tightly to his lean, muscular frame as she could. She was afraid to let go, afraid that if she did, he might vanish into thin air. His chin cupped her head and her face was tucked into his chest. Sean had always been lean but now he was only muscle and bone, with no flesh to spare. And that rough sound had been filled with pain and anguish. What was wrong?
But he had come home—he had come back to her, for her. A huge pressure swelled inside of her, a powerful combination of all her feelings both past and present, of having missed him so much and of needing him now. She still loved him; she had never stopped. Eleanor smiled up at him.
He did not smile back. His face was wary and he moved stiffly away from her.
Eleanor started—he could not be wary of her? She reached for him to embrace him again. “I knew you would come back.”
But he deftly dodged her. “Don’t.”
She somehow breathed. “Sean, don’t what? You’re home!” she cried.
He didn’t answer, but his intense regard never wavered. When she looked into his eyes, trying to make some sense of his behavior, they became flat and blank before he looked away.
She was shocked. They had never kept secrets from one another; his expressive eyes had always been open and unguarded with her. His beautiful gray eyes could shine with laughter, with affection, with kindness, or they could darken with intent, with determination, with anger. How often had they shared a private look and each had known exactly what the other one was thinking?
And his face had changed, too, she realized. It was gaunt and hollowed. She saw the scars on his cheek and throat and she shuddered—someone had slashed him with a knife! “Oh, Sean,” she began, reaching up to touch a white crescent on his face, but he flinched.
She went still. His expression was guarded. Her first instinct was right—something was very wrong. Whatever he had suffered, she was there now, to help him though it. “Are you all right?”
“You’re engaged,” he said. He spoke in a whisper that was barely audible and his voice was hoarse, as if had recently lost it. He was looking at her with such shattering intensity that she hesitated.
“What?” she began, confused.
But he was not looking into her eyes now. His gaze had slipped to her mouth and then it veered abruptly to her chest. She was, in fact, wearing one of his old, cast-off shirts. His gaze slammed to the knotted leather belt at her waist—or to her hips. Suddenly Eleanor was aware of how she must look in a man’s breeches. She had been wearing men’s attire for years—Sean had seen her dressed in such a bold fashion a thousand times—but in that instant, she felt immodest, indecent, naked.
Her body hollowed.
For the first time in her life, Eleanor understood desire. For the space inside her was so empty that she ached, and in that instant, she understood the necessity of taking him inside so he could fill it.
She had thought she had felt desire before. She had enjoyed Peter’s kisses, certainly, and before Sean had left Askeaton, she had looked at him and wished to be the recipient of his flattery, to be taken into his arms, to be kissed by him. In that moment, she realized she had been playacting, pretending or even hoping to feel the way a woman was supposed to feel when she loved a man. But she had been too young and too innocent and she hadn’t felt this way at all. The pressure in her was combustible and consuming.
It was so hard to speak. “You came home,” she said slowly, trembling. Now, she was cautious. She wanted to take his hand—as she used to do, lightly and innocently—but she was afraid to reach out. Somehow, in the previous moment, everything between them had changed. “What happened? Where have you been?” she asked.
His eyes locked with hers, just for an instant before he looked aside. “I heard you’re getting married,” he said again, slowly, spacing out his low, rough words. And he lifted his silver gaze.
She bit her lip, taken aback. Hadn’t she secretly fantasized about his return in the nick of time to save her from wedlock to another man? “Sean. I am affianced,” she began. But she did not want to discuss Peter or her marriage now.
“The wedding—” he paused, as if it was hard to speak “—is in two days.”
She didn’t even think about what she would say. She smiled tremulously at him. “It is a mistake. I’m not marrying Peter.”
His eyes flickered.
And she had to touch him one more time, even though she was afraid to perform such a simple gesture. She reached out to him, brushing his hand. She wanted to seize it and never let go. “It’s been so long! Everyone thinks you’re dead, Sean. I almost believed it, too. But you promised. You promised me you would come back and you did!”
He didn’t look at her now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want…to hurt anyone.”
He was acting so oddly and speaking so strangely. It had become awkward, as if they were strangers now, but that was impossible—they were best friends. “What’s happened to you? What happened to your voice? Why are you so thin? Why didn’t you send word? Sean…you’ve changed so much!”
“I couldn’t send word.” He looked briefly, unemotionally, at her. His eyes had become even flatter and darker than before. “I’ve been…in prison.”
“Prison?” She gasped in absolute disbelief. “Is that where you got those scars? Oh, God! Is that why you’re so thin? But why would you be in prison? You’re the most honest man I know!” But this began to explain his prolonged absence and his utter lack of communication with her and the family.
He stared at the ground. “I shouldn’t be here.” He glanced up, at her, through her. “I escaped.”
The implications of what he said hit her then, hard. “Are they looking for you?”
“Yes.”
Her mind scrambled, fear rising. He was not going back to prison. Nothing would stand in her way of helping him now! “You must hide! Were you followed here?”
“No.”
She was relieved. “The stables? You could hide in a spare stall there.”
He did not reply.
She was unnerved. What did that intense look mean? “We’re best friends, but I am so nervous!” She laughed and the sound was high and anxious. “You need to hide.”
“I am not…staying.”
She had misheard. He had just returned; he could not leave her now. It was a moment before she could find her voice. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.
He looked away, at the branches overhead, or at the skies beyond. “I am leaving…the country.”
“You just came home!” she cried, desperate and frightened, and she seized his hand. It was hard and calloused and that, at least, was familiar.
He pulled his hand free, his eyes wide and incredulous. He shook his head, not speaking.
It was dawning on her now that he would not let her touch him. But they had grown up together and in the past, she had done more than reach for his hand—she’d leaped on his back as a small child and crept into his bed after a nightmare. She’d ridden astride behind him. Even when she’d been older, she held his hand when she felt like it, and he must have clasped her shoulder or her elbow a million times.
His rough whisper brought her eyes to his. “You’ve changed.”
Of course she had changed. And although his words were entirely dispassionate and without any innuendo, that shattering intensity had returned. In response, she went