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Sean knew his body remained perfectly still, but his heart leaped with a painful and consuming force. He felt as if McBane had just stabbed him. Was this a trick, after all? Or was his mind cruelly teasing him again? Had McBane just referred to Adare?
McBane stood. “Godspeed,” he said.
Sean, stunned, did not reply.
McBane made a sound, and something like pity flitted through his eyes. Then he started through the crowd. Sean remained seated, paralyzed. He should let McBane go, otherwise he knew he was going to lose the last of his iron will. But what if McBane was a part of an elaborate trap?
He was not going back to prison and he was not going to hang.
Sean followed McBane with his eyes. He waited until he was almost at the front door. He had been correct to assume that McBane would not look back. Sean leaped up, grabbing the satchel, and reached the door an instant after McBane passed through. Then he followed him into the night.
McBane walked down the narrow and dirty street, his strides long, even jaunty. Making certain that he was soundless and invisible, Sean followed, his longer strides taking him closer and closer to his unsuspecting prey. And then he reached out, seizing him from behind, turning him face-first into the nearest wall. McBane stilled, clearly understanding that a struggle would be futile. “You…do not…go to Adare,” Sean rasped, fury now uncoiling within him. “This…is a jest…or a trap.”
“Collins!” McBane gasped. “Are you mad? What the hell are you doing?”
Sean jerked on the man’s arm, close to breaking it. “What…do you intend? What kind…of clever ruse…is this?”
“What do I intend?” McBane gasped against the wall. “I am trying to help you flee the country, you fool. We should not be seen together! My radical anti-British views are well-known. Damn it! There are soldiers everywhere in town!”
Sean pushed him harder into the wall. “You cannot be going to Adare. This is a trick!” he cried. Speaking a whole sentence without interruption caused his entire body to break out in sweat.
“A trick? You are mad! I heard they had you in solitary for two years. You have lost your mind! I am going to Adare as a friend of the bride and her family.”
And Sean lost all control.
Adare was his home.
The green lawns and abundant gardens of Adare were so spectacular that summer parties from Britain would request permission to stop by to visit them. Huge and grand, the visitors would often request a tour of the house, as well, and it was usually allowed, if the countess or earl were in residence.
He was shaking. No, Sean O’Neill had been raised there. He was John Collins now.
“You are as white as a sheet,” McBane said. “Would you mind releasing me?”
But Sean didn’t hear him.
During the morning, there had been lessons in the sciences and the humanities with the tutor, Mr. Godfrey. The afternoons had been spent fencing with an Italian master, rehearsing steps and figures with the dance master and learning advanced equestrian skills. There had been five of them, all young, handsome, strong, clever, privileged and more than a bit arrogant. And then there had been Elle.
“Collins.”
He came back to the present, to the street in Cork where he continued to hold McBane against the brick wall of a house. The damage was done. He had dared to allow himself the luxury of recalling a piece of the past to which he no longer had any rights. He loosened his hold on McBane, wetting his lips. He had to turn around and go back to his flat over the cobbler’s shop. He did not. “There…is a wedding?”
“Yes, there is. A very consequential wedding, in fact.”
Sean closed his eyes. He did not want to remember a warm and verdant time of belonging, of family, of security and peace, but it was simply too late.
He had a brother and sister-in-law and a niece; he had a mother, a stepfather and stepbrothers, and there was also Elle. He could not breathe, fighting the floodgate, struggling to keep it closed. If he let one memory out, a thousand would follow, and he would never elude the British, he would never flee the country, he would never survive.
He was overcome with longing.
Faces formed in his mind, hazy and blurred. His proud, dangerous brother, a fighting captain of the seas, his charismatic and rakish stepbrothers, the powerful earl, his elegant mother. And a child, in her two braids, all coltish legs…
He stepped away from McBane, sweat running down his body in streams. McBane appeared vastly annoyed as he straightened his jacket and stock, then concern overtook his features. “Are you all right?”
McBane had mentioned a bride. He looked at the man. “Who is getting…married?”
McBane started in surprise. Then, slowly, he said, “Eleanor de Warenne. Do you know the family?”
He was so stunned he simply stood there, his shock removing every barrier he had put up to prevent himself from ever traveling back into the past. And Elle stood there in the doorway of his room at Askeaton, her hair pulled back in one long braid, dressed for riding in one of his shirts and a pair of Cliff’s breeches. This was impossible.
“What is taking you so long?” she demanded. “We are taking the day off! No more scraping burns off wood! You said we could ride to Dolan’s Rock. Cook has packed a picnic and the dogs are outside, having a fit.”
He tried to recall how old she had been. It had been well before her first Season. Perhaps she had been thirteen or fourteen, because she had been tall and skinny. He was helpless to stop the replay in his mind.
He was smiling. “Ladies do not barge into a gentleman’s rooms, Elle.” He was bare-chested. He turned away from the mirror and reached for a soft white shirt.
“But you are not a gentleman, are you?” She grinned.
He calmly buttoned the shirt. “No, you are no lady.”
“Thank the Lord!”
He tried not to laugh. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain!” he exclaimed.
“Why not? You do far worse— I hear you curse when you are angry. Boys are allowed to curse but ladies must wriggle their hips when they walk—while wearing foul corsets!”
He eyed her skinny frame. “You will never have to wear a corset.”
“And that is fortunate!” Her face finally fell. She walked past him and sat down on his unmade bed. “Iknow I am so improper!” She sighed. “I am on a regime to fatten up. I have been eating two desserts every day. Nothing has happened. I am doomed.”
Now he had to laugh.
She was furious. She threw a pillow at him.
“Elle, there are worse things than being thin. You will probably fill out one day.” He could not imagine her being anything but bony and too tall.
She slid off the bed. “You’re saying that to humor me. You told me I’d stop growing two years ago, too.”
“I am trying to make you feel better. Come. If you beat me to the Rock, you can stay here an extra day.”
Her eyes brightened. “Really?”
“Really.” He grinned back. “Last one to the Rock goes home today,” he said, and he started to the door.
She cried out and ran past him, flying down the stairs.
He was laughing, and when he got in the saddle, she was an entire field ahead.
He turned away from McBane, trembling. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stand there in the cool autumn afternoon, letting his mind wander. He needed to get on that ship and sail far away, to America.
How old was she now?
The last time he had seen her she had been eighteen. He desperately wanted to shut his mind down now, but it was too late. The unforgettable image had formed. Elle stood in the white lace nightgown, next to Askeaton’s front gates, a small, forlorn figure as he stared down at her from the rise in the hill. She did not move. He didn’t have to be near her to know she was crying.
Promise me you will come back for me.
He was very ill now, and he could barely breathe. “Who…is she marrying?” Had she fallen in love?
“What is this about?” McBane demanded. “Do you know her?”
Sean looked at McBane, finally seeing him. He had to know. “Who is she marrying?”
McBane seemed taken aback. “The groom is an earl’s son, Peter Sinclair.”
The moment he realized that she was marrying an Englishman, he was disbelieving. “A bloody Brit!”
McBane said carefully, “He has title, a fortune, he is rumored to be handsome, and I have heard it said that they are a very good match. In fact, my wife told me Sinclair is besotted and that she is very happy, too. Look, Collins, I see you are distressed. But you will be even more distressed if a patrol finds us standing about gossiping on the street. You need to go back to wherever it is that you are hiding until you leave for America.”
He was right. Sean fought to come to his senses. He was leaving in another day for America. It was a matter of life and death. What Eleanor did, and whom she was marrying, was none of his affair. Once, he would have protected her with his life. But he had been a different man and that had been a different lifetime. Sean O’Neill was dead, killed shortly after that terrible night in Kilvore. He was a murderer now, with a price on his head.
Even if he wanted to, there was no going back, because Sean O’Neill did not exist.
There was only a pathetic excuse for a man, more beast than human, and his name was John Collins.
He looked at McBane. “You’re right.”
“Godspeed, Collins. Godspeed.”
CHAPTER THREE
“BEFORE THE GENTLEMEN retire to our brandies, I should like to make a toast,” the earl of Adare said.
Everyone became silent. The long, linen-clad table was filled with all fifty houseguests, the entire de Warenne family—except for Cliff, who had yet to arrive—and Devlin and Virginia O’Neill. It was set with Adare’s best crystal and china and gilded flatware from Holland. Two low, lavish floral arrangements were in the center, from the countess’s hothouse gardens. The earl sat at its head, the countess at its foot. Eleanor saw that her father was smiling.
He was a handsome, silver-haired man in his early fifties with the demeanor of a man born to privilege and power. But then, his entire life had been dedicated to serving the earldom, his country and his family. His blue eyes were warm and benign as he looked down the long table, first at his family and then at their guests. Finally his gaze returned to her.
She could not quite look him in the eye. He was so pleased that she was marrying Peter, and she did not want him to guess that she had remained nervous all day—just like the witless debutante brides she scorned. Her earlier conversation with Ty had not had a lasting effect. Peter sat beside her. He had been attentive all evening, and he was very handsome, too, in his dinner clothes. At first, it had been so hard to smile and laugh and pretend that nothing was wrong when she was still so uneasy. Eleanor didn’t care for the taste of wine and more importantly, its effect on her mind, but tonight she’d had not one but two entire glasses of red wine. Miraculously, it had calmed her down.
She had instantly enjoyed Peter’s every single word and had been laughing for most of the night. She hadn’t realized how amusing he was. And she wondered why she had never realized how extremely handsome he was, too.
Those ridiculous, marriage-mad debutantes with whom she’d had to spend so much time during her two Seasons would think that Peter was more than a premier catch—he was the catch of all time. Why hadn’t she invited Lady Margaret Howard and Lady Jane Nettles to her wedding? They would be green with envy. Pea-green with envy, in fact. She had heard their husbands were fat.
If it wouldn’t be remarked upon, she would have another glass of wine, never mind that supper was over. Then she would simply float through the rest of the evening.
Peter murmured, so no one else might hear, “Are you all right?”
She smiled at him. “It has been a lovely evening.”
His brows arched in mild surprise. “Every evening is lovely if I share it with you.”
She felt herself melt, oh so pleasantly. Had she really been in doubt of their union? “You are a romantic, Peter.” She laughed, playfully poking his arm.
He started. “I have always been a romantic when around you.”
She fluttered her lashes at him. How fortunate could one get? Why had she been so upset earlier? She could not quite recall.
The countess was seated at the foot of the table. Lord Henredon, Peter’s father on her right. Mary said softly, “Darling? We are all waiting.”
The earl cleared his throat, his gaze going from his daughter back to the table of expectant faces. “I cannot begin to say how pleased I am that my dear, beautiful daughter has finally decided to marry. I am even more pleased that she is marrying young Sinclair. Obviously her change of heart required the right man. I do not think I have ever seen her happier. To the bride and groom. May your future be filled with love, peace, joy and laughter.” He raised his glass.
Eleanor smiled at her father, not able to decipher what he was talking about, and she looked at Peter, who was looking at her as if she were a goddess from Mount Olympus. His eyes were shining. Or was her vision dancing? Maybe Tyrell was right. Maybe this man was in love with her and she would one day find herself in love with him. Eleanor smiled at Peter. Maybe she was falling in love, then and there. Maybe she was already in love. Hadn’t she agreed to marry him because he was the right man for her?
Her father had said something about a change of heart. She frowned. How could her heart change? She had found the right man, obviously—although he did not have gray eyes.
She felt confused. Peter’s eyes were blue, not gray. Maybe she needed more wine. If she were not already in love, another glass would certainly do the trick.
“I would also like to thank Lord and Lady Henredon for their aid in planning this monumental wedding, and I want to thank all of our guests for being here. I especially want to thank Mr. and Mrs. McBane, Lord and Lady Houghton, Lord and Lady Barton, for being here with us tonight, on this first of hopefully many more joyous family occasions. And finally, I want to thank young Sinclair. Peter, thank you for making my daughter so happy.” He sat down, glancing at Eleanor again with a fond smile.
“I should like to second that toast and add one of my own,” Tyrell said, smiling as he stood. “To the man who dares to marry my sister. Keep her happy or you will have to account to all five of her brothers,” he said.
Sinclair smiled. “I will live to keep Eleanor happy,” he said gallantly. Then he seemed perplexed. “I beg your pardon—Eleanor has four brothers, does she not?”
Eleanor felt her smile fade. She had three brothers and two stepbrothers. Everyone knew that. Didn’t Peter know it, too? But Sean was gone, missing—and he was the one who had gray eyes.
“Did I say something wrong?” Sinclair asked in bewilderment. “Cliff has not arrived yet, but he would make four.”
Eleanor stared at the linen table cloth, suddenly sad in spite of the wine. Where was Sean? Why wasn’t he here? Didn’t he want to come home?
The wine had made her a lackwit. Sean wasn’t there, so how could she get married? There couldn’t be a wedding without Sean, because he was the one she was supposed to be marrying. Suddenly Eleanor felt a surge of panic.
“I am sorry, Eleanor,” Tyrell murmured.
She looked at him, the effects of the wine gone just like that, like being thrown in a tub of frigid water. She was marrying Peter, not Sean. She loved Peter—or she almost did—and she had to have a third glass of wine before the evening was ruined.
Devlin O’Neill spoke. Once an infamous captain in the British Royal navy, he remained bronzed, his hair sun-streaked. “I am sure you have heard the rumors, Peter. I have a younger brother but he disappeared four years ago. No one has seen or heard from Sean since.”
Sinclair started. “No, I hadn’t heard. Good God, I am terribly sorry, Sir Captain!”
There was no wine left in her glass. Eleanor stared at the crystal, almost wishing that she had never met Sean, because he was ruining what was supposed to be the happiest day in her life. And she was happy, wasn’t she? She liked the way Peter looked at her and the way he smiled. She had been happy a moment ago! She was going to miss Sean forever—she missed him now—but she was marrying a wonderful man, the most perfect man, even if he was English.
And she was overcome with confusion. She liked Peter very much; sometimes she thought she loved him. Missing Sean—who had gray eyes—had nothing—nothing—to do with her wedding.
“Peter?” She smiled at him. “I should like another glass of wine. Very much,” she added, but he was not given the chance to respond.
“To Sinclair,” Rex de Warenne said. He had lost his right leg in the war and now he reached for his crutch and pushed to his left foot. “The perfect husband for our sister, as he will dedicate his life to her. Eleanor, no bride could be as fortunate.”
Eleanor just stared at Rex, wondering if he was mocking her. He had changed so much since he had come home from the war. “I am the most fortunate woman in Ireland,” she said with the heat of utter conviction.
Everyone looked at her.
