The Stolen Bride. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ in the hills behind the house, beneath the blush of first light.

      He had rebuilt the estate with his sweat, his blood and even at times, his tears. He had rebuilt Askeaton for his older brother in the years Devlin had been at sea, a captain in the royal navy, engaged in war with the French. Devlin had returned home a few days earlier with his American bride and their daughter. He had resigned his commission and was, Sean knew, at Askeaton to stay. And that was how it should be.

      The restlessness overcame him then. He wasn’t sure what it was that he wanted, but he knew that his task here was done. Something was out there waiting for him, something huge, calling to him the ways the sirens did the sailors lost at sea. He was only twenty-four years old and he smiled at the rising sun, exhilarated and ready for whatever adventure Fate thought to hand him.

      “Sean! Wait!”

      He was briefly incredulous at the sound of Eleanor de Warenne’s voice. But then, he should have known she would be up at this hour and that she would catch him as he prepared to leave. She had been his shadow since the day his mother had married her father, when she was a demanding and irrepressible toddler of two and he was a somber boy of eight. As a child, she followed him around like a puppy its new master, at times amusing him and at other times annoying him. And when he had begun the restoration of his family lands, she had been at his side on her knees, chipping out broken stones with him. When she had turned sixteen, she had been sent to England. Since then, she didn’t really seem like little Elle anymore. Uncomfortable, he turned to face her.

      She hurried toward him. She had always had a long aggressive stride, never the graceful gait of a proper lady. That hadn’t changed, but everything else had. He stiffened, because she rushed toward him barefoot and clad only in a white cotton nightgown.

      And in that heartbeat, he simply did not know the woman who was calling out to him. The nightgown caressed her body like a silk glove, indicating curves he could not recognize, flattened against her by the dawn breeze.

      “Where are you going? Why didn’t you wake me? I’ll ride with you! We can race to the chapel and back.” She halted abruptly, her eyes going wide, staring at the saddlebags and the satchel. Her smile had vanished.

      He saw her shock, followed by comprehension, but he was still struggling with his own surprise. He would always think of Elle as an awkward child, tall and skinny no matter her age, her face thin and angular, with her hair in waist-length braids. What had happened to her in the past two years? He wasn’t sure when her body had developed such immodest and feminine curves or when her face had filled out, making it a perfect oval.

      He looked away from the neckline of her gown, which he decided was indecent. Then he looked away from the swell of her hips, hips that simply could not belong to her. His cheeks were warm. “You can’t walk around in nightclothes. Someone might see you!” he exclaimed. He had sat across from her at supper last night. But he had been uncomfortable then, too, especially because every time he glanced at her, she had smiled at him, trying to hold his gaze. He had done his best to avoid eye contact.

      “You’ve seen me in my nightclothes a hundred times,” she said slowly. “Where are you going?”

      He dragged his gaze directly to hers. Her eyes hadn’t changed, and for that, he was relieved. Amber in hue, almond in shape, he had always been able to look at her eyes and read her every mood, her every thought, her every expression and emotion. He saw that she was afraid. His reaction was immediate, and he smiled reassuringly at her. Somehow his duty had always been to ease her fears, whenever she had them. “I need to go,” he said quietly. “But I’ll be back.”

      “What do you mean?” she gasped in disbelief.

      The Elle of his childhood had always been able to read his every thought and mood, too. She had grown up, but she still understood him, even without his having to elaborate. Carefully, he said, “Elle, something is out there and I need to find it.”

      “What?” Her eyes were filled with growing horror. “No! Nothing is out there—I am here!”

      He became still, their gazes locked. He knew, as did everyone in their two families, that she had harbored a wild and foolish infatuation for him for as long as anyone could remember. No one knew precisely when, but as a child she had decided she loved him and that she would marry him one day. Sean had been amused by her claims. He had always known that she would outgrow such nonsense. They didn’t share a drop of blood, but he considered her a sister. She was the daughter of an earl—she would marry a title or wealth, or both. “Elle.” He spoke calmly now. He chose to ignore that remark. Surely she no longer clung to such beliefs. “Askeaton belongs to Devlin. He’s home now. I have this feeling that there is something more out there for me. I need to go. I want to go.”

      She was pale. “No! You can’t leave! There is nothing out there—what are you speaking of? Your life is here! We are here—your family, me! And Askeaton is yours as much as Devlin’s!”

      He decided not to refute that, as Devlin had actually purchased Askeaton from the earl eight years ago. He hesitated, trying to find the right words, words she might understand. “I have to go. Besides, you don’t need me now. You’ve grown-up.” His smile failed him. “You’ll be sent back to England soon and you won’t be thinking of me then. Not with all your suitors.” He found that notion odd and unpleasant. “Go back to bed.”

      A look of pure determination crossed her face and he tensed. When Elle had an objective, nothing could stop her from attaining it. “I am coming with you,” she declared.

      “Absolutely not!”

      “Don’t you dare leave without me! I am going to get dressed. Have a horse saddled for me!” she cried, whirling to race back inside.

      He seized her arm, pulling her back around. The moment he felt her soft full body against his, his brain failed him. He instantly jerked away from her. “I know you have always gotten your way with everyone, including me. But not this time.”

      “You have been acting like an idiot ever since I came over last night! You’ve been avoiding me! And don’t you dare try and deny it. You won’t even look at me,” she exclaimed. “Now you say you’re leaving me?” She was so distressed and angry that she was breathing hard.

      He folded his arms across his chest, his gaze dropping to the bodice of her nightgown, where he could clearly see the shape of her full breasts. He was shocked with himself. He lifted his eyes instantly to her face. “I’m leaving—not you, I’m just leaving.”

      “I don’t understand,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “Just take me with you!”

      “You’re going back to England.”

      “I hate it there!”

      Of course she did. She was a wildflower, not a hothouse rose. Elle had been raised amongst five boys, and she had been born to ride the Irish hills on her horse, not to dance the quadrille in a London ballroom. She stood there, looking devastated, and in that moment time fell away and she appeared all of eight years old, not eighteen, crushed with disappointment and hugely vulnerable. Tears tracked down her cheeks.

      And instantly he took her in his arms, as he’d done a thousand times before. “It’s all right,” he began. But the moment he felt her breasts between them, instead of her bony chest, he pushed away. He felt his cheeks flame.

      “Are you ever coming back?” she demanded, clinging to his arms.

      “Of СКАЧАТЬ