by Brenda Joyce
Sean stood very still, his breathing hard, the ugly sounds of the drunken crowd still surging over him and through him, waves of disturbing sound pounding inside his head. Maybe it would be better once he was on a ship, once he was put to sea.
He pushed through the crowd, carefully avoiding all physical contact. He had glimpsed a small corner table far in the back, in the shadows, against a wall, and he made his way to it. When he reached it, he felt safer, relieved. Two crooked chairs were there, but neither satisfied him. With his foot, he shoved one chair against the wall and only then did he sit. His back was protected, and he could see the entire public room and everyone inside it.
He gazed out at the thirty or forty men present, all drinking, laughing, speaking, some playing at die or cards, and he once again felt like an outcast. These men were Irishmen, just as he was. Once, he had been prepared to give his life defending them against tyranny and injustice, and he almost had. Now he felt no kinship with them. Except for confusion and surprise, he felt nothing at all.
It was then that he saw the man in the fine blue wool jacket approaching, a wildflower in his lapel, a small satchel in hand. Because he feared a trap, Sean carefully let the dagger reverse itself in his hand, and he laid it on his thigh, beneath the table.
The gentleman saw him and paused before the table. “Collins?”
Sean nodded, responding to his alias. Then he gestured at a chair.
The man sat. “I was given your description,” he said. “Unfortunately, you look exactly as a dangerous escaped felon might.” He was grim.
Sean ignored the remark. The man was tall, with tawny hair. His jacket was well made, his trousers tan, a fine wool. He noticed his waxed shoes. This man was clearly from a privileged background. The odds were that this was the gentleman Connelly had described, someone named Rory McBane.
It took him a moment to speak. It seemed easier than it had been that morning. “Are you…alone?”
“I haven’t been followed,” McBane said, studying him as warily. “I was very careful. And you?” He leaned closer, as if he hadn’t been able to clearly hear Sean when he had spoken.
Sean shook his head. The man continued to stare, far too closely, as if trying to decide whom he was aiding and abetting now. Perhaps McBane knew he was wanted for murder—perhaps he knew he was a murderer—perhaps he was afraid.
“Everything you need is in the satchel.” McBane broke the tense silence. With his boot, he moved the satchel toward Sean. “There’s some coin and a change of clothes. Passage has been booked to Hampton, Virginia, on an American merchantman, the U.S. Hero. She sails the day after tomorrow on the first tide.”
He would soon be free. In a matter of days, he would be sailing across the ocean, away from the British, away from Ireland, the land where he had been born, the land where he had spent most of his life. He knew he must thank McBane, but instead, his heart stirred unpleasantly, as if trying to tell him something.
Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear. In a few days, he would no longer be hunted. Soon, he would be able to look at the sun, hopefully without using his hand as a shield, and he would never have to hide in the dark again. He would never be surrounded by cold stone walls and a barred iron door. He would never sleep on ragged stone floors with only the rags on his body for warmth, for comfort. He would never have to eat water laced with potato skins and bread crawling with maggots. He was going to America and he would be free. They would not find him there.
He should be elated or relieved, but he was neither of those things.
Crystal tinkled. Perfume wafted. Soft conversation sounded. And amber eyes, bright with laughter, held his.
Sean stiffened, shocked that his mind would suddenly do this to him. He felt ill, almost seasick. Maybe he was losing his mind, once and for all. He simply could not go to where his mind wanted to take him. There was no returning to that other lifetime! Panic claimed him.
“You need a good razor,” McBane said, cutting into his thoughts, the interruption a welcome one. “I saw a Wanted poster. You look too much like it. You need to get rid of that beard.”
Sean just stared. He had used Connelly’s blade but it hadn’t been of a good quality. McBane was right. He needed a real razor, a brush, well-milled soap.
And his mind had become intent on mayhem.
Silver eyes, bright and pleasant, stared back at him from a looking glass. A handsome, dark-haired man was reflected there, shaving in the morning. In that reflection, velvet draperies were parted. Outside, the sky was brilliantly blue and the overgrown lawns were fantastically green. The ruins of a tower were just visible from the window. So was the sea.
Sean! Are you going to dally or are we riding to the Rock?
“Are you all right?” McBane asked.
Sean tensed. He could not understand the question. What was happening to him? He could not think about the ancient past. When he married Peg Boyle, hoping to one day love her and determined to be a father to her child, as well as to the child she carried, he had made his decision. The only woman he had to remember was Peg. Now, he deliberately recalled her lying in his arms, battered and beaten and bleeding to death.
“Look, Collins, I understand you have been through hell. We are on the same side. I’m an Irishman, just like you. I heard it whispered that you’re noble by birth, which gives us a common bond. You don’t look well. Can I be of some help somehow?” McBane seemed perplexed but he was also concerned.
Sean could not find any relief in the present now. He found his voice but made no attempt to raise it. “Why…are you doing this?” He had to know why a gentleman would risk his life for him.
McBane started. “I told you. We are countrymen, and I am a patriot. You fought for freedom one way. I fight for it another way—usually with my pen—but sometimes I aid men like you.”
Sean forced his teeth to bare, trying to smile, but McBane flinched. “Thank you,” he heard himself say roughly.
“Is there anything else that you need?” McBane asked.
Sean shook his head. All he needed was to sail far away to a different land, a different life. Once he did that, maybe his mind would stop trying to torture him with glimpses of a life he was afraid to recall.
McBane leaned across the table. “Lie low then, until the Hero departs. I am leaving Cork tonight, but I can be reached at Adare. It’s only a half day’s ride from here and our mutual friends can get word to me there.”
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 breakin
g 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. “I know 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 o
ur 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.
