The Stolen Bride by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online

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 minddown 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
    “B EFORE 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