reeled. America was so far away! Yet he was right in that her father must not be a conspirator to his crimes. The pages of Irish history were filled with stories of forfeited titles and lands. But Sean must not go to America. “You do not need to run away to America,” she heard herself say with desperation. Panic had overcome her now. “Devlin can help us.”
He jerked, and for one instant, she thought he was reaching for her. But his hand fell to his side. “Not us. And he is not helping me.”
She flinched. “Devlin will want to help you. He is one of the wealthiest men in Ireland and he is still well connected with the government. In fact, he has many cronies in the Admiralty—”
“No!” He suddenly towered over her. His lean body was shaking wildly, uncontrollably. “Why won’t…you understand? The man who left… four years ago…he isn’t coming back!” He seemed furiously angry, his eyes bright, his face flushed.
Eleanor was almost cowed, but she was relieved to see him passionate about something, anything at all. “He did come back. He’s standing right here!”
“He died,” he shouted in that dismal whisper. “Sean O’Neill is dead.”
Eleanor recoiled, horrified by his words, and worse, by the fact that he wanted her to believe them.
“I am John Collins! I am not dragging Devlin…into hell.” His dark stare glittered wildly, almost madly.
She was terrified, but not of him—she was terrified of what had happened to him. “If Sean were dead, I would know it!” She swatted hard at his chest. He jumped, eyes widening in shock. She hit him again, this time with her fist, the blow a solid one. “If Sean were dead, he would not be trying to protect his brother! I don’t know who John Collins is and I don’t care to know!” Then she swatted at her tears.
And she saw that he was fighting for composure now. Realizing the enormity of the struggle, she became still. She slid her hand over his cheek just as the tremors ceased. He started, his gaze flying to hers. He was roughly shaven, but she didn’t care. She loved him more than she ever had, and that was impossible. Touching him, even in such a simple caress, instantly sent a vast churning into motion inside her. There was so much love, so much fear and so much need. If only he would take her into his arms, she might settle for that, never mind the urgency in her body.
“Don’t cry.”
She hadn’t realized that tears continued to well in her eyes. The dam broke then, and the tears raced hard and fast down her face. “How can you ask me not to cry when you are a fugitive from the British? When you plan to leave your home again? When I need to hold you and touch you and you won’t let me? Will you ever come back? And you are so thin!” She wept.
“Don’t,” he said, his tone thick. “Elle.”
The tears ceased. It had been so long since he had called her his own private nickname and her heart yearned for what suddenly felt impossible—to have him smile at her the way he always had when he was no longer furious with her. She did not move, because she still cupped his rough cheek and his oddly flat eyes had a light in them now, or was it the glimmer of tears?
He shifted so that her hand dropped to her side. “The earl can’t help…Devlin can’t help,” he said very quietly. “You need to understand.”
“No! I do understand. But Devlin can help. He would never run away from this, from you, like a coward! He has missed you, Sean, almost as much as I have.”
“I killed a soldier.” He cut her off. “There was a trial. I am a traitor. No one…can help. I am going to America…tomorrow.”
Had he hit her with his fist she could not have been more stricken. He would leave tomorrow? She reeled, staggering backward. And he instinctively reached out to steady her.
His large hand, strong and hard and capable, painfully familiar, closed on hers as it had countless times before. But his touch had changed. His touch now went through her entire body, because it was that of a man and she had become, just moments ago, a woman. She met his gaze. There was no choice to make. She was going with him.
“Sit down…before you swoon.”
He knew very well that she had never fainted once in her entire life. She ignored him. “When does your ship sail?”
His thick black lashes lowered, hiding his eyes, and he let go of her, turning his back to her.
“When does your ship sail?” she demanded, moving to step in front of him and forcing him to look directly at her.
“Tomorrow night,” he said slowly. And when he finally met her eyes, she saw a shimmer of guilt there.
He was lying to her. Eleanor was disbelieving—Sean had never lied to her. So much had happened to him, and so much was happening now. Two facts were glaring, though. He needed to hide until he left—and she was going with him. “I’m coming with you.”
He flinched and stared, wide-eyed. “You’re getting married.”
“I am coming with you and don’t even think to stop me,” she said fiercely. He had left her once and she would never allow him to leave her behind another time.
This time their gazes clashed. “No…you’re not,” he said very firmly. “You have a wedding to attend. Your wedding.”
And for the first time since Sean had so suddenly appeared on the trail, she really faced that fact. What was she going to do about Peter? She could not marry him now.
“What’s wrong?”
“Can you still discern my every mood and feeling?” Her question was sincere.
He hesitated. Clearly reluctant, he said, low and harsh, “Perhaps.”
She searched his gaze, but it was impossible to fathom any of his thoughts or feelings. “Then you must know I can’t marry Peter now.”
He was still. “You were fond of him…last night.”
Because he spoke so strangely, in a low whisper, and because his voice had changed, his tones rough and raspy, it took her a moment to comprehend his words. “What are you speaking about?” she began, and then she felt her cheeks flame. “You were there? No, it is impossible! You were not there, last night? Were you?” Eleanor suddenly recalled the evening in some very humiliating detail. She had been foxed. She had slurred at the table in front of Peter’s family and fifty other guests.
His face didn’t move, except for his lips. His tone was incredulous. “Why were you not chaperoned?” His stance had changed. His legs were braced defensively, as if he rode one of his brother’s ships.
Eleanor was stunned—and horrified. For she thought of being outside on the terrace with her fiancé being kissed and wanting even more kisses. Her cheeks burned. “How much did you see?” she managed. She had been worse than improper. She had been brazen. She had been bold.
“Everything,” he said, turning away from her. His strides were restless now. Eleanor suddenly noticed that he was moving differently, as if he was stiff and sore.
She
