The Stolen Bride (23 page)

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 slid 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.

T
HE 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.

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.

T
HIS 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.”