to enter the house, shifted on his crutch and turned, his glance taking in the entire terrace—including the wall where Sean stood hiding.
And for one moment, Sean could have sworn that Rex had seen him, that their eyes had met.
But he was wrong, because Rex turned and limped into the house, leaving Sean alone outside, swallowing the bitter aftertaste of all he had just seen and heard.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS A NEW DAWN. Eleanor had not been able to sleep more than an hour or two, fighting the effects of the wine, and when she had, she had dreamed not of Peter, but of Sean. In her dreams, Sean had come home, but he had changed, and there had been something dark and disturbing about him. She had woken stunned, for one moment believing that her dreams were real. And when she had realized they were only dreams, utter disappointment had claimed her.
Today she raced her stud as hard as he could go. Bending low over the bay stallion’s neck like a Newmarket jockey, she urged him around a particularly sharp turn.
A man stepped directly into her path.
Eleanor hauled hard on her reins. The man just stood there, unflinching, as if he were made of stone. The animal lunged back to stand and Eleanor reacted. She had never been more furious. “Fool!” she shouted, raising her crop, her instinct to strike him down. “Do you wish to die? Did it not cross your mind to get out of my way, or are you a madman seeking suicide?”
She urged the bay forward, intent on going around him, but he seized her reins.
Her fury escalated dangerously, but with it came fear. No one had ever accosted her on her father’s estate before. She spurred the bay—and their gazes clashed, then held.
Her heart ceased beating, and then thundered wildly, in disbelief and elation.
Sean was standing there on the trail before her. Sean had come home.
And she knew, immediately, that something terrible had befallen him. In that space of a single heartbeat, she saw that he was thin and scarred. But it was Sean. With a glad cry, she leaped from her horse. She rushed him so swiftly that she almost knocked him off his feet. Throwing her arms around him, she clung.
She began to cry.
She had missed him so much. Only then did she fully realize that it had been like having her heart ripped from her chest while it continued beating.
He did not move, but he made a noise, raw and harsh.
That sound cut through her exhilaration, her relief. She realized she was clinging as tightly to his lean, muscular frame as she could. She was afraid to let go, afraid that if she did, he might vanish into thin air. His chin cupped her head and her face was tucked into his chest. Sean had always been lean but now he was only muscle and bone, with no flesh to spare. And that rough sound had been filled with pain and anguish. What was wrong?
But he had come home—he had come back to her, for her. A huge pressure swelled inside of her, a powerful combination of all her feelings both past and present, of having missed him so much and of needing him now. She still loved him; she had never stopped. Eleanor smiled up at him.
He did not smile back. His face was wary and he moved stiffly away from her.
Eleanor started—he could not be wary of her? She reached for him to embrace him again. “I knew you would come back.”
But he deftly dodged her. “Don’t.”
She somehow breathed. “Sean, don’t what? You’re home!” she cried.
He didn’t answer, but his intense regard never wavered. When she looked into his eyes, trying to make some sense of his behavior, they became flat and blank before he looked away.
She was shocked. They had never kept secrets from one another; his expressive eyes had always been open and unguarded with her. His beautiful gray eyes could shine with laughter, with affection, with kindness, or they could darken with intent, with determination, with anger. How often had they shared a private look and each had known exactly what the other one was thinking?
And his face had changed, too, she realized. It was gaunt and hollowed. She saw the scars on his cheek and throat and she shuddered—someone had slashed him with a knife! “Oh, Sean,” she began, reaching up to touch a white crescent on his face, but he flinched.
She went still. His expression was guarded. Her first instinct was right—something was very wrong. Whatever he had suffered, she was there now, to help him though it. “Are you all right?”
“You’re engaged,” he said. He spoke in a whisper that was barely audible and his voice was hoarse, as if had recently lost it. He was looking at her with such shattering intensity that she hesitated.
“What?” she began, confused.
But he was not looking into her eyes now. His gaze had slipped to her mouth and then it veered abruptly to her chest. She was, in fact, wearing one of his old, cast-off shirts. His gaze slammed to the knotted leather belt at her waist—or to her hips. Suddenly Eleanor was aware of how she must look in a man’s breeches. She had been wearing men’s attire for years—Sean had seen her dressed in such a bold fashion a thousand times—but in that instant, she felt immodest, indecent, naked.
Her body hollowed.
For the first time in her life, Eleanor understood desire. For the space inside her was so empty that she ached, and in that instant, she understood the necessity of taking him inside so he could fill it.
She had thought she had felt desire before. She had enjoyed Peter’s kisses, certainly, and before Sean had left Askeaton, she had looked at him and wished to be the recipient of his flattery, to be taken into his arms, to be kissed by him. In that moment, she realized she had been playacting, pretending or even hoping to feel the way a woman was supposed to feel when she loved a man. But she had been too young and too innocent and she hadn’t felt this way at all. The pressure in her was combustible and consuming.
It was so hard to speak. “You came home,” she said slowly, trembling. Now, she was cautious. She wanted to take his hand—as she used to do, lightly and innocently—but she was afraid to reach out. Somehow, in the previous moment, everything between them had changed. “What happened? Where have you been?” she asked.
His eyes locked with hers, just for an instant before he looked aside. “I heard you’re getting married,” he said again, slowly, spacing out his low, rough words. And he lifted his silver gaze.
She bit her lip, taken aback. Hadn’t she secretly fantasized about his return in the nick of time to save her from wedlock to another man? “Sean. I am affianced,” she began. But she did not want to discuss Peter or her marriage now.
“The wedding—” he paused, as if it was hard to speak “—is in two days.”
She didn’t even think about what she would say. She smiled tremulously at him. “It is a mistake. I’m not marrying Peter.”
His eyes flickered.
And she had to touch him one more time, even though she was afraid to perform such a simple gesture. She reached out to him, brushing his hand. She wanted to seize it and never let go. “It’s been
