Читать книгу The Stolen Bride - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

EVERYONE KNEW that hell was blazing fire. Everyone was wrong.

Hell was darkness. It was darkness, silence, isolation. He knew—he had just spent two years in it. Three days ago, he had escaped.

And because the light of day hurt his eyes, because everyday sounds startled and frightened him, because he was being pursued by the British and he did not intend to hang, he had been hiding in the woods by day and making his way south by night. He had been told that there were men in Cork who would help him flee the country. Radical men, men who were traitors, too, men who had nothing to lose except for their lives.

It was almost dawn. He was covered with sweat, having traveled from the prison in Dublin to the outskirts of Cork in just three nights by foot. Once he had realized he might never be let out of the black hole that was his cell, he had started to use his body to keep it strong, beginning to plan his escape. Exercising his body had been simple—he had found a ledge on the wall and he had used it to hang from or to pull up on. He had used the floor in a similar manner, pushing up until his shoulders and arms ached. He had tried to keep his legs strong by practicing fencing exercises, concentrating on lunges and squats, but his body was not used to walking or running or covering any distance at all. The muscles he had not used for two years now screamed at him in protest and pain. His feet hurt most of all.

Exercising his mind had been excruciatingly difficult. He had focused on mathematical problems, geography, philosophy and poems. He had quickly realized he must keep his mind occupied at all times—otherwise, there was thought. Thought led to memory and memory led to despair and worse, to fear. Thought was to be avoided at all cost.

In his hand, he carried a burning torch. The torch was his greatest treasure. Having been immersed in almost total darkness for two years, a source of light was as important to him as the air he breathed, or as his freedom. The torch felt as weighty in his hand as a king’s ransom. Sean O’Neill looked up at the sky as it turned a dark, dismal gray. He no longer needed the light if he dared to go on. The sole other survivor from the village of Kilvore had instructed him to proceed to a specific farm as swiftly as possible, and he knew he must go on, somehow transcending his fear. He carefully extinguished the torch.

The Blarney Road he was on was made of rough and rutted dirt, and led into the town’s center. Somewhere up ahead was the Connelly farm. He had been assured that there he would find comfort and aid.

His heart beat hard and heavily as he walked through the woods, not daring to use the roadway but keeping parallel to it. From the width of it and the wheel ruts, he saw that it was well used. In the three long nights he had been traveling, he’d avoided all roads and even dirt paths, keeping to the hills and the forest. He’d heard troops once, but that had been a hundred miles north of where he now was. Only hours from Dublin, he’d heard the cavalcade of horses and had peered out from some high rocks on a hilltop. Below, he’d seen the blue uniforms of a horse regiment. The last time he’d seen cavalry, two dozen men had died—as had innocent women and children. In real fear, he had melted back into the woods.

The sky began to turn a pale pink. Today, clearly, it would not rain. His tension began, creeping over him, a companion both familiar and despised. But he was too close to run to the ground now. He would suffer the daylight, no matter what it cost him. Already the sounds of an awakening forest were making him start and jump, the birds beginning to sing merrily from their perches in the branches overhead. As had been the case each morning since his escape, their song brought tears to his eyes. It was as precious, as priceless, as the unlit torch he carried.

The road rounded and a cottage became visible, the roof thatched, the walls stuccoed, two sows rooting in the mud in the front yard by the well. A single cleared cornfield was behind the house, a smaller lodge there.

Sean paused behind a tree, breathing hard, but not from exertion. As alert as he was, it was hard to see across the road and to the house and the hut beyond. His eyes had become so weak. He finally glimpsed a movement between the house and the field—it was a man, or so he thought. He hoped it was Connelly.

Sean looked up and down the road but saw nothing and no one. Not trusting his poor eyesight, he strained to hear. The only sound he heard was that of myriad birds, and after a moment, he also decided that he could detect a soft rustling of leaves, the whisper of a fall breeze.

He thought he was very much alone.

More sweat pooled.

His heart pumped with painful force now. He stepped from the woods and onto the road, almost expecting a column of troops to mow him mercilessly down. But not a single soldier appeared, much less an entire column. He tried to breathe more easily, but he simply could not. He was too afraid.

He blinked against the brightening sky and pushed across the road.

The man saw him and halted.

Sean cursed his vision and strode on. He tried to summon up his voice, the effort huge. Just before his solitary confinement, there had been a murder within the prison, and much mayhem had followed. He had been badly beaten, and in the riot, his throat had been cut. No physician had been sent to attend him and for a while, he had been at death’s door. He had healed, but not fully. He could no longer speak with any ease; in fact, forming each word took tiring and painstaking effort. Of course, there had been no one to speak to for two years, and once he realized that he could barely talk, he had not even tried.

Now, he forced the word from his throat and mouth. “Conn…elly?” And he heard how hoarse and unpleasant he sounded.

The man hurried forward. “Ye be O’Neill,” he said, taking his arm.

Sean was shocked by his touch, and alarmed to realize he had been expected. He flinched and jerked away from the other man. “How?” He stopped and fought for the words a child could so easily utter. “How…do…you know?”

“We got our own secret post, if ye get my meaning,” Connelly said. He was a big, burly man with a long red nose and bright blue eyes. “I been sent word. Ye better get inside.”

A flurry of messages must have been relayed, sending the news of his escape and his need ahead of him. Sean followed the big man into the house, allowing himself to feel a small amount of relief when the front door was solidly closed, barring the outside world.

“The missus is already with the hens,” Connelly said. “Ye be John Collins now.” He spoke swiftly, but as he did, his gaze took in Sean’s appearance with growing concern. “Ye look like a skeleton, me boy. I’ll feed ye and give ye a blade fer your face. Damn those bloody Brits!”

Sean simply nodded, but he reached for the thick beard on his face. There’d been no shaving for two years.

Connelly hesitated, then spoke, “I’m sorry about what happened in Kilvore. I’m sorry about it all, an’ I’m sorry about yer wife and child.”

Sean stiffened. An image formed, blurred, a sweet face with kind and hopeful eyes. Peg had faded into an indistinct and painful memory that was colorless, even though he knew her hair had been shockingly red. His gut twisted, aching.

He had grieved at first, for many months; now, there was only guilt. They were dead because of him.

“Ye got no choice but to leave the country. Ye know that, don’t you?”

Sean nodded, glad to have his thoughts interrupted. He had learned how to avoid all memory of his brief marriage, except in the wee hours of the night. “Yes.”

“Good. Ye go straight down Blarney Road to Blarney Street. Ye can cross the river at the first bridge. Follow the river, it’ll take you to Anderson Quay. Cobbler O’Dell will put you up.”

Sean nodded again. He had questions, especially as to when he would be able to find a passage and how it would be paid for, but he was suddenly exhausted and he was also starving. He’d had a single loaf of stale bread in the past three days. Worse, speaking was a terrible chore. He tried to find and form the words. “When? When…will…I…leave the country?”

“Sit down, boyo,” Connelly said, his expression grim. “I don’t know. Every day at noon, ye go to Oliver Street. The pub there, it’s right around the corner from O’Dell. Ye look fer a gentleman with a white flower pinned to his jacket. He will be able to tell you what ye need to know. I’m only a farmer, Sean.”

Sean struggled. “Noon.” He tried to clear his throat. Even his jaw felt odd, rusty, weak. “Today? Should I…go today?”

“I don’t know if the gent will be there today or tomorrow or the next day. But he’s good. He’s real good at helpin’ patriots. His name is McBane. Ye don’t want to miss him.”

McBane, Sean thought. He nodded again.

Connelly turned and went to the larder. He returned with a plate of boiled potatoes and a large chunk of bread and cheese. Sean felt saliva gathering in his mouth.

The supper table was set in white linens, with Waterford crystal wineglasses, imported china and gilded flatware. Huge chandeliers were overhead, towering candles flickered on the table and liveried footmen carried sterling platters of venison, lamb and salmon. The women wore silks and jewels, the men black dinner coats and white shirts and ties. Perfume wafted in the air….

He jerked, shocked by a memory he had no right to have. He refused to identify it or the man it belonged to.

Instead, he tore off pieces of bread and cheese, devouring them almost in the same instant. The only past he wished to remember was the recent one—his life at the Boyle farm. Otherwise, he would never be able to pay for what he had done to them.

THE NOISE WAS DEAFENING.

Sean paused once inside the barroom’s door, overwhelmed by the cacophony of sound. The instinct to clap his hands over his ears to dim the sound was almost impossible to resist. The raucous conversation and laughter, the scraping of wood chairs, the clink of tin, was a barrage of sound that threatened to immobilize him. As it was, he was rigid with the tension it had engendered in him. And the bright lights were blinding.

He had left the farm within an hour of first arriving there and had followed Connelly’s instructions. It had been easy to find the cobbler, who had put him up in a small room over his shop. It had been hugely difficult to make his way through the awakening and bustling city. He had been shocked by the sight of so many people, both on foot and on horseback, or driving wagons and carts. There had been so much pedestrian and vehicular traffic. He had seen one-horse gigs and two-horse curricles and even large coaches. And then there had been all those barges on the river. There had simply been so much movement, so many people, so much chatter, conversation and noise. And there had been so much dirt, soot, smoke and refuse. He felt strange and alien, like a farmer from the far Northwest who had never been in a city before.

In the few short hours he had been in town, his senses had not become accustomed to the sensory overload. Now, in the pub, he had to hold a hand over his eyes. Briefly, he felt a surge of panic and it was not for the first time. There were too many loud people in this single room, he thought, and his first instinct was to flee.

Yet he remained capable of reason. His mind knew that the overcrowded public room was far preferable to the small box that had been his cell. And he told himself that he would eventually become accustomed to the noise and the crowd.

Someone entered the barroom, brushing past him as he did so.

Sean did not think. The dagger appeared in his hand, a reflex meant to ensure his survival, so swiftly that no observer would have seen any movement. But the moment he grasped the carved handle above the lethal blade, the moment he held the dagger chest high, poised to slice the intruder’s throat, some sanity and even humanity returned. Sean stopped himself. He braced hard against the wall, panting, subduing the urge to defend himself, the urge to kill in that defense, reminding himself that he was not a beast, never mind the past two years of being caged and fed like one. He was a man, even if he was the only one who might think so.

He leaned his head against the wall. In truth, he no longer knew who or what he was. Maybe he had genuinely become this creature of the night, a man who would kill without provocation, John Collins.

Despair suddenly clawed at him, but he had enough talons in his flesh and he shoved it savagely aside.

“Hey, boyo, beg yer pardon,” the very drunken man said, glancing at him.

He had stolen the dagger from the warden when he had taken him hostage. Sean now hid the weapon, having flipped it deftly so that the blade faced up his arm, against his shirtsleeve, the worn handle hidden in his hand. He knew he needed to smile—it was the polite thing to do, the way a gentleman would behave—but he could not perform the task. Suddenly, he desperately wanted to manage the act. He ordered his facial muscles to do so, but they were so ill-used that a brief attempt produced no change in his expression. Sean gave up, staring at the unwanted interloper.

The man’s eyes widened with fear. He hurried away.

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 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. “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.”