Читать книгу The Stolen Bride - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

“BEFORE THE GENTLEMEN retire to our 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.

Peter murmured, so no one else might hear, “Are you all right?”

She smiled at him. “It has been a lovely evening.”

His brows arched in mild surprise. “Every evening is lovely if I share it with you.”

She felt herself melt, oh so pleasantly. Had she really been in doubt of their union? “You are a romantic, Peter.” She laughed, playfully poking his arm.

He started. “I have always been a romantic when around you.”

She fluttered her lashes at him. How fortunate could one get? Why had she been so upset earlier? She could not quite recall.

The countess was seated at the foot of the table. Lord Henredon, Peter’s father on her right. Mary said softly, “Darling? We are all waiting.”

The earl cleared his throat, his gaze going from his daughter back to the table of expectant faces. “I cannot begin to say how pleased I am that my dear, beautiful daughter has finally decided to marry. I am even more pleased that she is marrying young Sinclair. Obviously her change of heart required the right man. I do not think I have ever seen her happier. To the bride and groom. May your future be filled with love, peace, joy and laughter.” He raised his glass.

Eleanor smiled at her father, not able to decipher what he was talking about, and she looked at Peter, who was looking at her as if she were a goddess from Mount Olympus. His eyes were shining. Or was her vision dancing? Maybe Tyrell was right. Maybe this man was in love with her and she would one day find herself in love with him. Eleanor smiled at Peter. Maybe she was falling in love, then and there. Maybe she was already in love. Hadn’t she agreed to marry him because he was the right man for her?

Her father had said something about a change of heart. She frowned. How could her heart change? She had found the right man, obviously—although he did not have gray eyes.

She felt confused. Peter’s eyes were blue, not gray. Maybe she needed more wine. If she were not already in love, another glass would certainly do the trick.

“I would also like to thank Lord and Lady Henredon for their aid in planning this monumental wedding, and I want to thank all of our guests for being here. I especially want to thank Mr. and Mrs. McBane, Lord and Lady Houghton, Lord and Lady Barton, for being here with us tonight, on this first of hopefully many more joyous family occasions. And finally, I want to thank young Sinclair. Peter, thank you for making my daughter so happy.” He sat down, glancing at Eleanor again with a fond smile.

“I should like to second that toast and add one of my own,” Tyrell said, smiling as he stood. “To the man who dares to marry my sister. Keep her happy or you will have to account to all five of her brothers,” he said.

Sinclair smiled. “I will live to keep Eleanor happy,” he said gallantly. Then he seemed perplexed. “I beg your pardon—Eleanor has four brothers, does she not?”

Eleanor felt her smile fade. She had three brothers and two stepbrothers. Everyone knew that. Didn’t Peter know it, too? But Sean was gone, missing—and he was the one who had gray eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?” Sinclair asked in bewilderment. “Cliff has not arrived yet, but he would make four.”

Eleanor stared at the linen table cloth, suddenly sad in spite of the wine. Where was Sean? Why wasn’t he here? Didn’t he want to come home?

The wine had made her a lackwit. Sean wasn’t there, so how could she get married? There couldn’t be a wedding without Sean, because he was the one she was supposed to be marrying. Suddenly Eleanor felt a surge of panic.

“I am sorry, Eleanor,” Tyrell murmured.

She looked at him, the effects of the wine gone just like that, like being thrown in a tub of frigid water. She was marrying Peter, not Sean. She loved Peter—or she almost did—and she had to have a third glass of wine before the evening was ruined.

Devlin O’Neill spoke. Once an infamous captain in the British Royal navy, he remained bronzed, his hair sun-streaked. “I am sure you have heard the rumors, Peter. I have a younger brother but he disappeared four years ago. No one has seen or heard from Sean since.”

Sinclair started. “No, I hadn’t heard. Good God, I am terribly sorry, Sir Captain!”

There was no wine left in her glass. Eleanor stared at the crystal, almost wishing that she had never met Sean, because he was ruining what was supposed to be the happiest day in her life. And she was happy, wasn’t she? She liked the way Peter looked at her and the way he smiled. She had been happy a moment ago! She was going to miss Sean forever—she missed him now—but she was marrying a wonderful man, the most perfect man, even if he was English.

And she was overcome with confusion. She liked Peter very much; sometimes she thought she loved him. Missing Sean—who had gray eyes—had nothing—nothing—to do with her wedding.

“Peter?” She smiled at him. “I should like another glass of wine. Very much,” she added, but he was not given the chance to respond.

“To Sinclair,” Rex de Warenne said. He had lost his right leg in the war and now he reached for his crutch and pushed to his left foot. “The perfect husband for our sister, as he will dedicate his life to her. Eleanor, no bride could be as fortunate.”

Eleanor just stared at Rex, wondering if he was mocking her. He had changed so much since he had come home from the war. “I am the most fortunate woman in Ireland,” she said with the heat of utter conviction.

Everyone looked at her.

Eleanor wondered, aghast, if she had just slurred.

Rex’s dark brows lifted in skepticism. “Really?”

Eleanor met his dark, penetrating gaze and thought he might know exactly how she was feeling. But then, he was very fond of wine—and brandy—especially since he had lost his leg. Maybe he would get her another glass of wine—discreetly, just in case she had committed the terrible faux pas of becoming foxed in polite company.

Ladies don’t get foxed, Elle.

Eleanor jumped in her seat, whirling to find Sean. But no one was standing behind her.

“Eleanor? What is it?” Peter asked quickly, concerned.

“Is he here?” she managed, clinging to the back of her chair.

The earl stood decisively. “I think we should adjourn to our brandies. Eleanor?”

Eleanor realized she had been about to sit backward in her chair. Sean wasn’t there. She was so disappointed it was hard to face the right way as the men all stood. She felt far too many curious regards coming her way.

Peter remained seated beside her. As the men left, Rex limped over to them, using his single crutch. He was very dark and muscular, and almost the spitting image of Tyrell, except that his eyes were brown, not blue. “I am sorry, Eleanor. I should not burden you with my foul mood on this, your joyous occasion.”

She had stopped understanding him years ago, when he had first returned from the war, embittered as well as wounded, but she did not have a clue as to what he meant now. She smiled. “Oh, Rex.” She waved at him. “You are my favorite brother and you can do no wrong. You do know that, don’t you?”

He glanced at Peter. “I beg your pardon.” He took her arm, tugging her away from the table, which he somehow did in spite of the fact that he had to rely so heavily upon his crutch. “You are in your cups!” he exclaimed, keeping his tone low.

“I am, aren’t I?” She beamed. “Now I begin to understand why you so enjoy drink. Would you sneak me another glass of wine? Red, if you please?”

“I will not,” he said, appearing torn between amusement and horror. “Do you think to purposefully sabotage your wedding?”

Eleanor decided to analyze the word sabotage. “Hmm. Sabotage, that means ruin, does it not? But in a political manner? Is sabotage a political act? Why are we discussing sabotage?”

“You should go to your rooms,” Rex said firmly, but his mouth was quirking as if he were trying very hard not to smile.

“Not until I have been kissed—and soundly, too, I might add.” She walked away from him, smiling at her betrothed.

The ladies had adjourned to a separate salon. Peter was waiting by himself at the table. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

She was surprised by the question. “Of course it is.” She took his arm, looping hers with his. “I am with you,” she added.

He blushed. “Eleanor, you never imbibe. Maybe I should summon one of your sisters-in-law and bid you good-night for the evening.”

“That is a stunningly bad idea!” She pressed closer. “We haven’t had a moment to ourselves all day,” she said softly. “Won’t you join me for a look at the stars?” She wondered if she should tell him that she would love a kiss.

He blushed. “I was going to suggest just that. You have beaten me to it,” he said.

“I am good at beating boys—and men,” she told him frankly. “I ride and shoot better than everyone.”

He started, his eyes widening with surprise.

“Oops,” she murmured. Ladies don’t ride and shoot, she thought. Ladies don’t swear and they don’t lie. “Ladies don’t lie,” she added.

“I beg your pardon?”

Maybe conversing wasn’t the best idea. She smiled and pulled him toward the terrace doors. He relaxed, allowing her to lead.

SEAN LEAPED UP the terrace steps. The terrace was deserted and unlit, and even before he crossed it, he could see into the house, where a gathering of some sort was in progress. He rushed to one of the huge windows and stared into the dining room.

Standing at the head of the table was the man who had taken him in after the murder of his own father, who had raised him as his son, who had fed him and clothed him, who had taught him nobility and honor, who had loved him as if he were his natural-born son. Sean clung to the stone wall of the house, his knees useless.

And then he saw his brother.

Devlin stood, a tall, powerfully built leonine man, his wife at his side. Sean had rebuilt Askeaton for Devlin, and he would do it all over again in an instant, if he had to—just as he would give his life for his older brother, too.

He swallowed hard. Devlin’s beautiful wife, Virginia, seemed very happy, and he was fiercely glad for her and for them. She had saved his brother’s soul years ago and for that, he would always love her.

His stepbrothers were also rising to their feet and he could vaguely hear them speaking. The mood was festive, warm, light.

And it was almost impossible not to recall every moment spent in that room with his father, his brothers, his mother and Elle. Like the surging tides of the Irish Sea, moments and feelings swept through him, over him, demanding attention, inspection, remembrance. He fought his recollection of an early Christmas morning, of a dark, wintry afternoon, of pleasant evenings in front of the fire, of family, male camaraderie and brandy. He had to shake himself hard to free himself from the past.

Why was he doing this? Reminding himself of the life he had left behind was not going to help him elude the British and flee the country. In a few minutes, he would steal a fresh mount from the stables and return to Cork. He would be there before dawn, and when his ship set sail from Cobh he would be on it.

But he wouldn’t leave just yet.

He was doing this because Elle was getting married, he reminded himself.

Sean pressed his face to the cold glass, watching Tyrell clasp Devlin’s shoulder. The two men were laughing about something as they followed the other men from the room, and it became impossible to deny the yearning to go inside and become a part of that family one more time. He desired it so badly he could taste it, but he made no move to do so. He was wanted for treason and he had no intention of bringing the earl and his brother and stepbrothers down with him.

The women were rising now and preparing to leave. He recognized Virginia, and Tyrell had his arm around a lady with titian hair. The rest of the departing crowd was meaningless to him, except for his mother. She was smiling as she led the ladies from the room. The countess remained as graceful and elegant as ever, but he saw that she seemed older. He didn’t fool himself—his disappearance must have distressed her to no end.

Then Sean realized that one woman had walked away with Rex. His gaze slammed back to her—and his heart stopped.

For one instant, he was paralyzed. She had changed—but he would know her anywhere. And there was so much relief, huge and consuming, that he almost collapsed against the window. Elle.

Nothing was left of the gawky, intrepid child—but then, if he dared to recall his last night at home, the young blossoming woman he had left four years ago had been anything but childlike. He hadn’t forgotten how tall she was, but the planes and angles of her face, like the planes and angles of her body, had finally vanished. She had become lush and voluptuous. The gawky child was now a beautiful woman, capable of stunning a man senseless.

Watching her charm his brother, he felt his world turn upside down.

Sean panicked. What was he doing, anyway? He had expected to return to a slender young woman who had never been kissed, a young woman whom he saw only as a friend and sister. Now she laughed at Rex, her smile dazzling, and he could almost hear her then.

Have I ever told you that you are my favorite brother?

Words Elle had said to every one of his stepbrothers and to Devlin, to everyone but him.

Realization struck him with the force of lightning, causing him to stagger. He was staring at Elle with need and hunger.

It was impossible, he thought, incredulous and aghast. He could not desire the woman he had considered a sister for most of his life. His body was responding as it would to any beautiful female, due to two years of celibacy, his only relief inflicted by his own hand.

She was walking away from Rex and smiling at a blond gentleman, looping her arm in his. He briefly looked at her escort, realizing that he was her intended, Sinclair. The man was handsome and privileged, with the bearing of a born aristocrat. Sean despised him on sight.

Sean realized he was shaking and desperate. He was furious with her, with Sinclair, with himself. Of course Elle had grown up. He had every right to be surprised by the beauty she had become, but he had no right to any other feelings. And where the hell was she going with Sinclair, anyway? He returned to the window and realized that the dining room was empty.

The moment he heard the terrace door open, he also heard her laughter, and while the sound was familiar, it was also strange and new. Her laughter had changed. It had become sultry; it was seductive.

He pressed his back to the wall, waiting for them to come into view, and as he waited, he realized that his loins were stiff and full. But he barely had time to absorb that terrible fact when they appeared, strolling to the balustrade. They were so engrossed in one another that he did not think they would notice him in the shadows against the house. She moved differently now, too. Her stride was long but there was a sensuous quality to the sway of her hips—a quality he instantly hated. She moved like a woman who knew she was being appreciated and admired, pursued and watched.

“Have I told you how lovely you are tonight?” Sinclair asked, taking both of her hands in his.

Sean felt like choking him into silence.

“I don’t think so,” Eleanor said, a smile in her voice. “But if you did, you can always tell me again.”

She was flirting! Since when had Elle learned to flirt?

“You are so beautiful,” Sinclair said thickly, and Sean hated the rough tone of his voice. They should not be out on the terrace alone, at night. Where the hell was everyone, anyway? She had four brothers to chaperone her. Why wasn’t someone doing precisely that?

“And you, sir, are far too gallant and far too charming,” Elle returned softly. “I am so fortunate to be marrying such a man!”

“A man cannot possibly be too charming or too gallant, not where you are concerned,” Sinclair whispered.

Did he know that his lady love was a hellion? Or had Elle given up her wild gallops, her fist fighting, her swear words? Did she still hunt and fish? Or was she now a debutante and a flirt?

“I am pleased that you are so charming,” Elle whispered back. “I find you very charming indeed, even if your eyes are blue.”

Sean had not a clue as to what that meant, and apparently, neither did Sinclair.

There was a strained silence then.

Sean felt like smashing the wall, because he knew that Sinclair was preparing to kiss her.

“May I? May I kiss you, Eleanor?” he asked.

“I thought you would wait forever to ask.” She laughed.

In disbelief, Sean watched Sinclair take her into his arms, slowly lowering his face to Elle’s. The moon chose that moment to come out from behind a single cloud, vividly illuminating the lovers. Sinclair had fused his mouth to hers—and she was kissing him back wildly, clinging to his shoulders.

He leaned against the stone wall, furious and paralyzed, panting hard, but he refused to look away. He could not comprehend the sensual woman in the other man’s arms— Elle, who was kissing him and making small, breathy sounds of pleasure and delight. He pulled at his breeches. She might be a woman now, a very desirable woman, but they had grown up together and he had no right to the lust in his loins.

“I’ve been kissed, Sean!”

He jerked, words she had spoken many years ago suddenly coming to mind. And it was as if she was eleven years old again to his seventeen, and they were standing there in the stables at Adare, amidst the straw and the horses, and she was grinning mischievously at him.

HE HAD SPENT WEEKS pursuing a tenant’s daughter—a buxom blonde with a pretty smile and two dimples. Suddenly he was in the straw with her, his hands beneath her skirts, and she was weeping in pleasure and he was so close to unbuttoning his breeches and moving inside her. He began to do so, taking her hand and guiding it to where he was stiff and hard. And he heard a giggle.

Instantly, he knew Elle was spying—again. All lust vanished. Furious, he leaped to his feet, pulling his pants together as he did so—only to find her perched on the top edge of the stall, grinning at him. Realizing that she had seen everything, he felt his cheeks burst into flames, and his anger erupted. She knew, because she leaped down from the top of the stall, alarmed.

He threw open the bolt and ran through the stables after her. But instead of fleeing, she stood in the stable yard, warily waiting for him. He halted abruptly, as wary. “You are in jeopardy now,” he warned, meaning it.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“I am going to box your ears—hard—and tell Father what you have done.”

She pranced, just a little. “But you can’t catch me.”

She was right—she was as fleet and as lithe as a deer. “I don’t enjoy being spied on.”

“Do you love her?” she suddenly asked.

“No!” The moment he spoke, he regretted it, as it was none of her affair. “Come here, Elle.” He took a step toward her.

She shook her head, backing away. Then she grinned. “I’ve been kissed.”

He felt his world become oddly still. “I hope you are lying, Elle.”

She grinned hugely at him. “No. Jack O’Connor kissed me last week behind the chapel.”

Sean was shocked. And then he whirled into action, striding back to the stables, calling for a groom and a horse.

Eleanor ran after him. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to kill young Jack O’Connor.” He meant it. He had never been more furious—Elle was just a child!

Eleanor grabbed his arm. “Wait! Don’t! It was my fault!”

Sean faced her grimly. “Did he kiss you, or not?”

She bit her lip. “I kissed him. Like this.” And she threw her arms around Sean, actually leaping up to kiss his lips.

He hauled her off. “You threw yourself at that boy?”

“Why not? You kiss all the girls! And all the ladies! You are a rake! Father says so.”

Recently, he and his brothers had been tearing up the countryside, testosterone raging. He flushed. “You can’t spy on me anymore! I’m not a boy now, Elle! You’ll see things you shouldn’t!” He was truly aghast.

“Like you putting your hands down her bodice—and touching her between her legs?” She smiled mischievously at him, then mimed, “Oh, oh, OOHH!”

He’d had enough—a boxing of the ears would not do. Sean reaced for her, but she darted quickly away. He set chase, determined to somehow corner her so he could thrash her at least once. She started to laugh, putting a tree between them and dancing just out of his reach every time he tried to seize her. She might be as quick as a hare, but he had fortitude, and sure enough, in a few more moments, she started to scowl, clearly becoming bored.

“All right, I give up,” he said quietly, turning away.

She sighed and left the safety of the tree, and he whirled and grabbed her by her ear.

“Ow! Ow!”

He shook her well, not once, but twice. “The next time I catch you spying on me, I am turning you over my knee, as if you were five or six.”

“All right! I’m sorry! I swear!” she begged, wild-eyed.

“Ladies don’t swear—but then, you’re a hellion not a lady. Let’s go.” Not releasing her ear, he started to walk away from the stable, Elle in tow.

“I am sorry—and I won’t swear!”

“You’re not sorry—and you’ll probably swear at your wedding!”

“Don’t take me to Father!” she begged, a tear falling.

He halted. In spite of what she had done—and what she had seen—he did feel sorry for her. He transferred his grip to her arm. “Did you really kiss Jack?”

She hesitated. “Yes, I did, but on the cheek—not the mouth.”

“I thought so.” He sighed. “Ladies don’t lie, Elle, they don’t kiss boys, and they don’t swear.”

“I hate being a lady,” she pouted.

He had to smile—and she smiled back.

“ELEANOR—I LOVE YOU.”

Sinclair’s breathless declaration jerked Sean back into the present. He didn’t want to remember the past, but he didn’t want to watch Elle making love to another man, either. Sinclair held her face in his hands. The man was visibly shaking and Elle, damn it, was smiling at him—as if she were in love.

“I am trying very hard to be a gentleman,” Sinclair whispered, “but you make it almost impossible.”

“It’s only the two of us,” Elle murmured. “No one will ever know if you are being a gentleman tonight or not.”

Sean started to step forward to intervene but caught himself in the nick of time. Was she suggesting that Sinclair take even more liberties? She had been such a wild and headstrong child, he knew she was a wild and passionate woman. Had she already taken her fiancé to bed? Elle never denied herself anything that she wanted and he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t care at all about her virginity, but that she would most certainly like bed sport.

And they were kissing again.

Sean slammed his fist into the wall then. Where the hell were her brothers, damn it? Was he going to have to witness her lovemaking all night? Because he didn’t think he could stand it.

Elle leaped out of Sinclair’s arms. “What was that?” she cried, glancing quickly around.

He forgot about his dilemma, willing himself into invisibility as he sank as tightly as he could against the wall.

“What was what?” Sinclair asked, his tone disgustingly thick again.

“Didn’t you hear that?” Elle asked, appearing bewildered. “Are we being spied on?”

“Darling, who would spy on us?”

“Rex, is that you?” Eleanor demanded, scowling now.

“Oh, God,” Sinclair said. “Your brothers are very protective of you—which is laudable, of course, but each and every one has privately made it very clear to me that I had better be a perfect gentleman until we are wed.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

Elle shook her head. “Oh, don’t mind them! They are all swagger and high commands. I can manage Ty, Rex and Cliff. Have no fear! I am enjoying being kissed, Peter,” she added boldly.

Sean felt like grabbing her by the ear as if she were eleven years old and shaking her until time went backward and she was an innocent, if vexing, child once more.

Suddenly the terrace door opened and an odd footfall sounded. Sean recognized Rex—and then he realized that he had lost half of his right leg and he was using a crutch. He stared, shocked.

He hadn’t known.

But then, he had been gone for so long, how would he have known that his stepbrother had suffered such a wound?

Rex limped over to the lovebirds. “I thought it might be wise to interrupt this enchanting tryst. The two of you are not married yet.” He smiled, but without mirth.

And in that single instant, Sean recognized a kindred spirit—Rex had changed from the inside out. Although he had never mourned the loss of his own soul, he ached for Rex’s loss now.

“I am twenty-two,” Elle exclaimed. No other woman would ever refer to her advanced age. “I hardly need a chaperone.”

“Oh, I think I can easily disagree with you,” Rex said. “Shall we?” And it was not a question, but an order.

Elle was annoyed. “Oh, I forgot, you outrank me, Sir Rex,” she said with heat.

So Rex had been knighted, Sean thought. He had undoubtedly won that title on the field of battle and Sean was pleased for him.

“Only until you are wed,” he said calmly, gesturing the lovers inside.

Sean watched Elle display her infamous temper, huffing as she swept by him, with Sinclair, chagrined, following. Sinclair would never be able to keep up with Elle, he thought, but he felt no satisfaction. He was thinking now about the fact that in two nights, if he had understood correctly, Elle was going to be in that man’s bed, with every right to be there.

Suddenly Rex stiffened.

Sean stopped breathing, aware that Rex had just sensed his presence on the terrace.

Rex, posed 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.