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.”
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