“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 found a rock and sat down. Should she attempt an explanation? What could she say? “I am fond of Peter—”
“I don’t care,” he said, uttering the words rapidly, and surprising her because of it. He had now turned red, too.
“He is my fiancé,” she tried.
“So you will become English?” His tone was mocking.
She shook her head. “We will live in Yorkshire—I mean, we were going to live there, in Chatton, but—”
“You’ve changed!” he exclaimed, and for the first time that day, his voice rose above a whisper. “You hated those two Seasons…. Elle would never leave Ireland!” He paused, but whether it was because of the exertion of speaking so rapidly and angrily or because he had said all he intended to, she did not know.
“I don’t want to leave Adare!” she cried.
“Then don’t!” he cried back, his voice rougher than before. He coughed and seemed angry that his voice had begun to fail him. “Does he know… that you can shoot…antlers off…a buck…moving in the woods?”
She was dismayed. “Sean, stop. I see that it hurts you to speak so much.” She was on her feet, reaching for him. His voice was getting lower and more inaudible with every word he spoke.
But he shook his head furiously. “Has he…seen you…dressed…like a man?” he cried, tripping over his words now, his voice dripping sarcasm as well as wrath. “Has he seen you…in breeches! Boots! The knotted belt!”
“Sean, stop!”
“He doesn’t want Elle!”
“Why are you doing this?” she begged.
“He wants that woman…the coquette!”
She shook her head in denial. “I have changed. I am a woman now and you had no right watching me kiss Peter! And you’re right—he doesn’t know me. But how could you disappear for four years? How? And then you come back and spy on me? And now you think to leave again—without me!”
“Yes!”
She struck at him with her open hand.
He caught her wrist before she could hit him.
She hadn’t meant to strike at him, for he was hurt and she loved him. But he had been badgering her so cruelly about Peter—and Peter was irrelevant to them now. She wanted to tell him all of that, but her own voice failed.
For she looked into his eyes and they were blazing. And she realized the light she saw there was not just anger but jealousy. He hadn’t let her wrist go; in fact, in seizing her wrist he had pulled her forward and her thighs were pressed against his legs. Her heart was already speeding uncontrollably but now it skipped, wildly, as she realized how hard his muscular thighs were. Hard…and male. Instinctively she shifted her weight and her breasts brushed his chest. Her nipples stiffened, hurting her, and she began to swell. She thought she might explode if he pulled her forward another fraction of an inch.
He became utterly still, except for his harsh breathing. And in that moment she realized that she would give anything to be in Sean’s arms and his bed, making love to him wildly, passionately, with no inhibition, touching his hard, scarred body everywhere, with her hands and her mouth, and letting him touch and kiss her that way in return. And he knew, because his gaze veered sharply to her mouth.
“You’re right,” she breathed. “Peter doesn’t want Elle. But you do.”
His grip tightened and he pulled her even closer.
Her nipples scraped her chemise and shirt and through the linen, his chest. His eyes widened and then he let her go.
“No. Elle was a child. Elle is gone.”
Eleanor stared at him, trying to recover her composure, while he paced, tense and shaken. “Sean. I am here. I have grown up, that’s all.”
He made a harsh sound, an attempt at mirthless laughter.
She walked slowly toward him. His expression twisted and he stared for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to speak. Then she realized he was summoning up his words. “You…belong…to Sinclair.”
“No! I belong to you!”
He jerked in shock, turned and began hurrying away.
She ran after him, drawing abreast of him. “You need to hide. I can help.”
“I’ll hide in the woods…for tonight.”
“And