Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
WHAT HAD HE DONE?
And how far behind were they?
Eleanor remained behind him as they galloped through the woods.
Her hands were light but firm on his waist. She could ride just as well behind a man as she could alone—her balance when on a horse hadn’t changed, even if everything else had.
What had he done? Her breasts, soft and full, teased his back and he was acutely aware of her just as he was acutely aware of the house that was now far behind them, filled with hundreds of wedding guests.
Devlin was there, too, as was the earl and his mother, and he knew they must be shocked. He had just stolen the bride.
He was stunned by his deed, but it didn’t matter now.
Sean still knew the woods as well as he had when he was a young man, racing through them in pursuit of a vagrant Elle when she was just a wild girl.
He veered for the tenth time onto another deer trail, this one finally bringing them to a wide, shallow river that ran southeast from the Shannon.
Eleanor had her cheek pressed to his shoulder, but now, as he halted the stallion, she shifted and straightened in the saddle. It was a relief.
Elle was no longer that blossoming girl but a full-blown woman now. They should not be running away together, just as they should not have shared a bed last night—except they had never made it to the bed. He had taken her on the wall, as if she were a whore in an alley.
“Sean,” she said hoarsely. “We can lose them in the river.”
Of course she knew what he intended. She remained the most intelligent woman he had ever met.
He threw his right leg over the black’s neck.
He slid to the ground and finally looked up at her.
He had been sick ever since he’d left her room last night and nothing had changed.
She had said that it didn’t matter. He felt ill.
It did matter. It mattered to him. He had become a beast, not a man, and last night he had proved it.
Her golden eyes met his.
His heart seemed to catch.
She was stunningly beautiful in her white wedding dress, her cheeks wildly flushed, her eyes terribly bright.
Although her hair remained pinned up, a few strands had escaped and were curling around her face.
One strand lay low, a curl at the cleavage on her chest. The long train, once elegant and now filthy, still trailed behind the horse on the ground.
It was torn and tattered. He was afraid that pieces of it had left a trail for the soldiers to follow.
He shouldn’t be admiring her, not now, not ever. He had only returned to try to tell her how to deceive Sinclair on her wedding night and more importantly, to apologize and beg for the forgiveness he would never deserve. And he’d wanted a chance for a final goodbye. Instead, he had abducted her.
Panic surged in his chest. He still didn’t know what had made him turn around.
He had seen the soldiers riding up the drive.
He should have kept on going straight for the woods.
But she had cried his name, as she had so many times as a child, in need, in desperation, in terror and fear.
He’d turned the stallion back for her without even thinking twice about it.
“Sean?” she whispered nervously, her gaze riveted to his. She was waiting for him to act.
The panic escalated wildly, consuming him. With it came fear and dread.
The British were after them both now. He had just put Elle in grave, mortal danger.
“Sean? What are we going to do?”
He jerked. He could not do this to her. “We’ll lose them in the river,” he said slowly.
“I’ll walk, too,” she said decisively, cutting into his thoughts. “We can move more swiftly. But I can’t walk in the water in this dress.”
That was obvious. The huge skirts and train would weigh her down.
The words weren’t even out of her mouth when he had his dagger in hand.
“Sit still,” he said grimly. She nodded, her eyes widening as he gripped the edge of the train and cut it from her dress.
He gathered it up. They weren’t going to leave clues behind for the troops, and he hoped very much that no one had espied any torn pieces of her gown on the trail.
“Give me the knife,” she said in the same low, tense voice as she slid to her feet.
He suddenly realized what she was going to do.
He had an image of her half naked, her nightgown ripped down the front, her face strained and flushed with passion.
He felt his cheeks flame and his loins stir.
He handed the blade to her. Their hands brushed, bringing a rigid response to his body and another more graphic recollection of being with her last night.
She had been very soft in some places and very hard in others.
He turned away, finding a broken branch on the ground.
As he went to retrieve it, he heard the fabric of her dress ripping apart.
He kept his gaze down, walking some distance away.
He began sweeping away their tracks, working backward to the edge of the river where she stood with the stud.
He placed all of his concentration on the task at hand, but even so, he strained to hear.
The sound of her dress being cut had stopped.
His heart had an odd rhythm now, slow and heavy, painful. He finally looked up.
She stared back at him, as if daring him to say a word.
The skirt was gone. She wore a single linen underskirt that was all lace and pink ribbons; she’d left the beaded white bodice of her dress intact.
She still looked like a bride—but one who had been abducted for all the wrong reasons; she looked like a bride who’d had her skirts cut off in order to be ravaged.
He flushed and went to the stallion’s head.
“How far ahead of them do you think we are?” she asked quietly.
He led the stallion into the water. The river was shallow, but the bed was all rock. He tried to think about the footing. Elle followed him into the water.
He avoided looking at her. “We could have lost them…completely,” he said, wondering how she was going to walk a mile or so in that underskirt. “Or they could be…minutes behind.”
She was moving very quietly behind him—a feat for a woman dragging sodden skirts. “They would have interfered.”
He glanced back, saw she’d tied her petticoat around her waist, and jerked to look ahead.
She was wearing lace-trimmed drawers that ended above her knees.
The garments matched her petticoat exactly.
He’d bet his life the corset was white lace and pink ribbons, too. He wiped some sweat from his brow.
“Devlin and Cliff were behind me when you came back for me. I know they’d do something to help us escape.”
She was right. He hoped that whatever they’d done, it had been very discreet. And he began to realize that Elle wasn’t the only one he’d placed in jeopardy. His entire family was at risk because of his actions now.
“What are we going to do, Sean?” she asked worriedly.
“We’ll travel until dark…rest…then keep going.” He kept his tone flat and calm.
“Where are we going?”
He glanced at her, then wished he hadn’t. The water had molded her drawers to her long legs. She had strong muscular legs, and last night, they’d been wrapped around him, hard. He had never known a woman could have such legs. “Cork.”
“Cliff has a ship in Limerick.”
He told himself not to respond. The less she knew, the better. She was in danger now. They could make her pay for his crimes—the way they’d made Peg and Michael pay.
He was ill, unable to stop his thoughts.
HER FACE WAS WHITE with fear. “You have to stop them. Don’t let them go,” Peg begged. “They’ll be killed, all of them. Sean, please!”
Her fear was real, and he would never forget it.
He had gone after her father, a leader of the mob, because he had promised her he would intervene.
Since his arrival in the village the previous year, the entire village had looked to him for advice and leadership.
And because he had been overlord of Askeaton for all of the years his brother had been at sea, he had naturally assumed that position.
He had promised Peg he would stop a catastrophe, but now it was too late.
Two dozen men, pitifully armed, had already confronted Lord Darby.
They had lined up, not allowing his coach to enter through his own front gates.
Darby had an escort—Lieutenant Colonel Reed and five men.
Before he knew it, he was somehow negotiating with Darby for the reversal of an eviction, in the hopes of preventing a riot. Darby had refused.
The men had gone berserk, overturning the coach and dragging Darby out of it.
Two soldiers were pulled from their horses and beaten to death; Reed and the remaining soldiers had fled.
Darby was dragged to the nearest tree, weeping and incontinent.
Sean had begged for his life; the Englishman had been promptly hanged.
The mob had descended on Darby’s home to destroy it, ignoring him yet again when he begged them to retreat. In fury, they had set the house and grounds on fire. Defeated, unable to watch such destruction, he had turned to go home. Then the reinforcements had arrived and the massacre had begun.