The Stolen Bride. Brenda Joyce
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seemed to fill the clearing. It crackled like fire, dancing between them, heated and bright. Was she mistaken, or was Sean feeling the same need, the same desire, that she was? He had never before looked at her so intently as he had just done. There had never been so much awkwardness and tension. In the past, the pull between them had been easy and light—a natural affinity, a bond of affection. What else could this strain mean?
She shuddered. “How long were you in prison? What did you do?”
He stared at her, his eyes turning blank. “Two years.”
She gasped.
“There was a village. It’s gone now.”
She had been steeped in the history of her people, her land. That history was one of plunder and outright theft, of birthrights lost or stolen, of rape, murder. One of the worst massacres in Irish history had taken Sean’s father. She didn’t have to know the details to understand him now. There had been a protest or an uprising and the British troops had been called in. Whether rightly or wrongly, defense of the landed gentry had resulted in the destruction of an entire village. And Sean had been involved.
He had spent his entire adult life taking care of Askeaton, and that had included guarding and even defending the rights of every Irish tenant on estate lands. She did not have to ask which side he had been on. She was almost paralyzed with foreboding. “Did British soldiers die? Did you bear arms?” Bearing arms in Limerick County was an act of treason, as was disputing British authority; the county had been placed under the Insurrection Act before Sean had left.
He nodded. “Yes, soldiers died. Arms?” He was angry now. “We had knives and pitchforks.”
Had a chair been available, Eleanor would have sat down. She knew she had blanched. She didn’t know where the uprising he spoke of had occurred, but it didn’t matter. If soldiers had died in a violent confrontation, Sean was in dire jeopardy. He might even be a traitor. She was terrified for him now. “The winter before last, they hanged over a dozen men, Sean, and deported dozens others! The charges were insurrection! Father is no longer the magistrate here—he chose to step down. Accusations of bias were made against him. He dared to defend some of our people! Captain Brawley is the commander of the garrison in the county and he has been acting as chief magistrate.” She realized she was in tears. She wiped her face; she had no time for weeping now.
“I am sorry,” he said, appearing grim and disgusted.
She shook her head. “He and Devlin both perjured themselves in the hopes of saving some of the accused. He stepped down because he could not keep the county under control—because he could no longer protect our people.” She forced herself to recover her composure. She strode to him but he stepped back from her, as if he knew she was going to reach for him. His determination to keep a physical distance between them had already dismayed her, but now, it was beginning to frighten her, too. What had happened to him, to make him so wary, so distant?
“Sean, I don’t care what you did—nothing has changed for us. You’re my best friend and I will do anything for you. Anything!” she stressed fervently. “Sean, why won’t you let me embrace you?”
“Everything has changed.”
She wished she could look into his eyes and comprehend his every thought the way she once had. She was sure he was angry, but she could not fathom why. And she had no clue as to what he meant. “You have been through a terrible ordeal, which is obvious. My feelings for you haven’t changed. My loyalty remains. I will help you hide and then we will go to Father and somehow resolve this, so you can be free to come home.”
His eyes widened. “You are not going to the earl!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Do you want him… named…a conspirator? Do you want the earldom… forfeit? Traitors do not keep their titles…their land!” He was so agitated that he was shouting, but in that terrible whisper of his.
She was aghast. “Were you charged with treason?”
He nodded darkly, his eyes flashing now.
“But they hang traitors!” she cried. Executions were summary and swift.
He waved at her, hard, a dismissal. “Cease.” His chest was rising and falling rapidly, an indication of his stress. “I am going to America.”
She reeled. America was so far away! Yet he was right in that her father must not be a conspirator to his crimes. The pages of Irish history were filled with stories of forfeited titles and lands. But Sean must not go to America. “You do not need to run away to America,” she heard herself say with desperation. Panic had overcome her now. “Devlin can help us.”
He jerked, and for one instant, she thought he was reaching for her. But his hand fell to his side. “Not us. And he is not helping me.”
She flinched. “Devlin will want to help you. He is one of the wealthiest men in Ireland and he is still well connected with the government. In fact, he has many cronies in the Admiralty—”
“No!” He suddenly towered over her. His lean body was shaking wildly, uncontrollably. “Why won’t…you understand? The man who left… four years ago…he isn’t coming back!” He seemed furiously angry, his eyes bright, his face flushed.
Eleanor was almost cowed, but she was relieved to see him passionate about something, anything at all. “He did come back. He’s standing right here!”
“He died,” he shouted in that dismal whisper. “Sean O’Neill is dead.”
Eleanor recoiled, horrified by his words, and worse, by the fact that he wanted her to believe them.
“I am John Collins! I am not dragging Devlin…into hell.” His dark stare glittered wildly, almost madly.
She was terrified, but not of him—she was terrified of what had happened to him. “If Sean were dead, I would know it!” She swatted hard at his chest. He jumped, eyes widening in shock. She hit him again, this time with her fist, the blow a solid one. “If Sean were dead, he would not be trying to protect his brother! I don’t know who John Collins is and I don’t care to know!” Then she swatted at her tears.
And she saw that he was fighting for composure now. Realizing the enormity of the struggle, she became still. She slid her hand over his cheek just as the tremors ceased. He started, his gaze flying to hers. He was roughly shaven, but she didn’t care. She loved him more than she ever had, and that was impossible. Touching him, even in such a simple caress, instantly sent a vast churning into motion inside her. There was so much love, so much fear and so much need. If only he would take her into his arms, she might settle for that, never mind the urgency in her body.
“Don’t cry.”
She hadn’t realized that tears continued to well in her eyes. The dam broke then, and the tears raced hard and fast down her face. “How can you ask me not to cry when you are a fugitive from the British? When you plan to leave your home again? When I need to hold you and touch you and you won’t let me? Will you ever come back? And you are so thin!” She wept.
“Don’t,” he said, his tone thick. “Elle.”
The tears ceased. It had been so long since he had called her his own private nickname and her heart yearned for what suddenly felt impossible—to have him smile at her the way he always had when he was no longer furious with her. She did not move, because she still cupped his rough cheek and his oddly flat eyes had a light in them now, or was it the glimmer of tears?
He shifted so that her hand dropped to her side. “The earl can’t help…Devlin can’t help,” he said very quietly. “You need to understand.”
“No! I do understand. But Devlin can help. He would never run away from this, from you, like a coward! He has missed you, Sean, almost as much as I have.”
“I killed a soldier.” He cut her off. “There was a trial. I am a traitor. No one…can help. I am going to America…tomorrow.”