“I’m not sure. A year or two.”
“A year or two?” She began to cry. “How can you do this? How can you leave me for so long? I already miss you! You’re my best friend! I’m your best friend! Won’t you miss me?”
He gave in and reached for her hand. “Of course I’ll miss you,” he said quietly. It was the truth.
Their gazes locked. “Promise me. Promise me that you are coming back for me.”
“I promise,” he said.
And he realized as they stared at each other, as the tears rolled down her face, their hands remained tightly clasped. Gently he pried himself loose. It was time to go. He faced his mount, reaching for the stirrup.
“Wait!”
He half turned and before he could react, she threw her arms around him and pressed her mouth to his.
He realized what was happening. Elle, little Elle, tall and skinny, fearless enough to leap off the old ruined stone tower behind the manor and laugh while doing it, was kissing him on the mouth. But that was impossible, because there was a woman in his arms, her body soft and warm, and her lips open and hot.
He jumped away, aghast. “What was that?”
“That was a kiss, you fool!” she shouted at him.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still stunned.
“You didn’t like it?” she said in disbelief.
“No, I didn’t like it,” he almost shouted. Furious now, with her and with himself, he leaped astride his horse. Then he looked down at her. She was sobbing, but soundlessly, covering her mouth with her hands.
He could not stand it when she cried. “Don’t cry,” he said. “Please.”
She nodded, ashen, fighting the tears until they stopped. “Promise me again.”
He inhaled. “I promise.”
She smiled tearfully at him.
He smiled back, and it felt oddly tearful, as well. Then he lifted the reins and spurred his horse into a gallop. He hadn’t meant to leave at a madcap pace, but her distress, which he had caused, was far too much to bear. When it felt safe to do so, he finally glanced back.
She hadn’t moved. She stood by the iron courtyard gates in the white nightgown, watching him leave. She raised her hand, and even from a distance, he felt her sadness and fear.
He raised his hand in return. Maybe this was for the best, he thought, shaken to the core of his being. Then he turned away, cantering down the roadway, not toward Limerick, but to the east.
When he topped the first hill he paused a final time. His heart beat hard and fast, disturbingly. He turned his mount to look down on his home. The manor was as small as a toy house. A small figure in white posed by the front gates. Elle hadn’t moved.
And he wondered if what he was looking for was already within his grasp.
CHAPTER ONE
October 7, 1818, Adare, Ireland
IN THREE DAYS, she was getting married. How had this happened?
In three days, she was going to marry the gentleman everyone thought perfect for her. In three very short days, she was going to be Peter Sinclair’s wife. Eleanor de Warenne was afraid.
She leaned so low over her galloping horse’s neck that she saw nothing but his dark coat and mane. She spurred him, urging him to an even faster, more dangerous pace. She intended to outrun her nervousness —and her dread.
And briefly, she did. The sensation of speed became consuming; there could be no other feeling, no thought. The ground was a blur beneath the pounding hooves of her mount. Finally, the present had vanished. Exhilaration claimed her.
Dawn was breaking in the pale sky overhead. Eventually, Eleanor became tired, as did the stud she rode. She straightened and he slowed, and instantly, she thought about her impending marriage again.
Eleanor brought the bay stallion to a walk. She had reached a high point on the ridge and she looked down at her home. Adare was the seat of her father’s earldom, an estate that reached into three counties, encompassing a hundred villages, thousands of farms and one very lucrative coal mine, as well as several quarries. Below, the ridge turned to thick forest and then into the achingly lush green lawns and riotous gardens surrounding the huge stone mansion that was her home, a river running through them. Although first built in Elizabethan times, very little of the original structure remained. Renovated a hundred years earlier, the front of the house was a long three-story rectangle, with a dozen columns supporting the roof and the triangular pediment above it. Two shorter wings were behind the facade, one reserved for the family, the other for their guests.
Her home was filled with family and guests now. Three hundred people had been invited to the wedding and fifty guests, mostly Peter’s family, had been crammed into the east wing. The rest were staying at village inns and the Grand Hotel in Limerick.
Eleanor stared down at the estate, breathless and perspiring, her long honey-blond hair having come loose from its braid, wearing a pair of breeches she had stolen ages ago from one of her brothers. After her come-out two years earlier, she had been required to ride astride in a lady’s proper riding attire. Having been raised with her three brothers and two stepbrothers, she had decided that was absurd. She had been riding at dawn since then, so she could ride astride and leap fences, an act that was impossible in skirts. Society would find her behavior shocking—and so would her fiancé, if he ever discovered she was inclined to ride and dress like a man.
Of course, she had no intention of letting that happen. She wanted to marry Peter Sinclair. Didn’t she?
Eleanor could not stand it then. She had thought her grief and sorrow long since gone, but now, her heart broke open. She had wanted to marry Peter, but with her wedding just days away, she had to face the terrible and frightening truth. She was no longer certain. More importantly, she had to know if Sean were alive or dead.
Eleanor walked her mount down the hillside. Her heart beat swiftly and painfully, stirring up feelings she had never wanted to again entertain. He had left her four years ago. Last year, she had come to terms with his disappearance. After waiting for his return for three interminable years, after refusing to believe the conclusion her family had drawn, she had woken up one morning with a horrific comprehension. He was gone. He wasn’t coming back. They were right—as there had been no word, he must be dead.
She had locked herself in her room for several days, weeping for the loss of her best friend, the boy she had spent a lifetime with—the man she loved. On the fourth morning, she had left her rooms, going directly to her father.
“I am ready to marry, Father. I should like you to arrange a proper match.”
The earl, alone in the breakfast room, had gaped at her in shock.
“Someone titled and well-off, someone as fond of the hunt as I am, and someone passably attractive,” she had said. She had no emotions left. But she added grimly, “Actually,
