The Stolen Bride

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.