Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FLAT WAS SUDDENLY achingly empty. Eleanor inhaled, trembling.
A few moments ago, when they had been making love, she had felt closer to him than she ever had.
Yet now, clearly, he was regretting what they had just done and what they had just shared.
She knew he had been through more suffering than any one man should ever bear, but she just couldn’t understand why he couldn’t accept their need for one another—why he couldn’t allow love to grow between them.
She began to dress, refusing to feel hurt, trying to understand, yet failing. Maybe, when she knew more about the past four years, his behavior would be comprehensible. But how much time did she have before he left for America and she was forced to return home?
Eleanor suddenly winced. She realized she had stepped on a sharp object with her bare foot.
She glanced down, surprised to see a very tiny carved figurine on the floor.
Instantly she knew it had fallen out of the pocket of Sean’s breeches earlier and she retrieved it.
It was a ship with a single mast, the details exquisite.
Because of its size, she felt certain it had been carved for a child.
Unease filled her. Why had Sean kept this tiny boat in his pocket? How many secrets was he keeping? First there was Peg, and now there was some child in his past, as well?
He entered the room. Their gazes collided and he looked away, going to the wood bathing tub in the room’s corner. “I’ll fill it so you can bathe,” he said, not looking at her. He tossed the pail of water in, but before he could leave Eleanor went to him.
“Sean. Wait.”
He stiffened, glancing at her. “Don’t.”
“I don’t understand you!” she cried. She knew she should leave this subject alone now, but she couldn’t.
“I know. You can’t…not anymore.” His gaze held hers now, searching and agonized. “I’ve changed. We have agreed on that.… I was honest. I said I couldn’t give you anything but an hour in bed…you said you understood me. But you weren’t being honest, were you?” He was accusing.
She hesitated. “I thought I could settle for passion, but I was wrong.”
He paled. “I need to get more water.”
She seized his arm. “That was far more than passion, Sean!”
He turned, incredulous. “You don’t…know anything. You were innocent…until the other night. I don’t want to discuss this.” He jerked away and left the room.
Eleanor sat down hard on a chair at the table, and then realized she still held the carved ship. She put it down. He had come very close to saying that she was wrong—that their lovemaking had meant nothing to him. Had he been so blunt, it would have been too hurtful to bear.
She hugged herself. One thing was clear.
She needed time to be with Sean, to help him through his misery and to change his mind about what he intended.
But the British were on their trail and in a matter of days, he could be bound for America and she could be on her way home.
Her heart lurched with panic at the thought.
He returned, not looking at her, his cheeks flushed. He added another bucket of water to the tub. “I’ll wait in the courtyard,” he said tersely.
She leaped to her feet. “Did you book a passage to America?”
It was a moment before he spoke. “Not yet.”
She was so relieved that she exhaled loudly.
He faced her grimly. “Elle. I mean, Eleanor.” He wet his lips. “It was a bad idea. This is my fault, again. I take full blame.… Please don’t cry,” he added, a sharp plea.
“I’m not crying.”
“But you’re hurt.… I can see it in your eyes and on your face,” he exclaimed. “I have hurt you.”
“I don’t understand how you could touch me and kiss me the way that you did, and then try to claim that it was bedsport!
You loved me when I was a child—don’t you dare deny it!
” she cried, when he seemed about to protest. “And when I became older, we were best friends—we did almost everything together! Now I’m a woman and we also share passion—we have done everything together, haven’t we? ”
“Don’t do this,” he warned.
But she could not stop. “I know you were locked away by yourself for two years. I know they flogged you brutally. I know that soldiers died that night in the village—I know you blame yourself! But Sean, that is over now. It’s the past. Why don’t you want to take me with you?
” she cried, genuinely bewildered. “Why? Are you trying to punish yourself for something? Do you think to deny yourself any happiness, ever again? I made you happy a few minutes ago—I could make you happy again! We could share a bed every night, and a life! We’re already best friends! I could have your children, Sean!”
He was rigid now and stark white. “You need pride. You can’t beg a man…for love.”
She felt like slapping him silly. “I’m not begging you for love. I am pointing out the obvious. I think you do love me—or at least care, deeply. Can you deny it?” she challenged. And then she was afraid to breathe.
He was silent, clearly refusing to speak. His temples throbbed.
“I didn’t think you could,” she said firmly, but she was trembling.
“I do not…want…to hurt you…again,” he ground out.
“You will hurt me very much if you disappear from my life forever,” she said fiercely. “And who will take care of you in America? Who will heal those scars?”
He jerked. “I already said…they’re healed.”
“And we both know that is a lie,” she retorted.
Their eyes clashed. “And if…we’re captured?”
Her heart leaped with hope. She dared to go to him and touch his arm. “What if we’re not captured?”
He stepped back, shaking his head. “You don’t understand…the British soldiers…what they can do.”
“But not to me!” she cried. “I’m a woman, a lady, the daughter of an earl. Sean, if we let Cliff help us, we won’t be caught. He’s as dangerous as any Barbary pirate.”
“I don’t want him hanging beside me!” Sean shouted at her. “And I don’t want you hurt because of me!”
She jerked. He was so distressed that she despised herself for pushing him.
She hesitated, then whispered, “There’s more, isn’t there?
There’s something terrible that you haven’t told me.
Something that is making you so afraid for me, for Cliff, for all of us.
Oh God, Sean—what really happened to you in that prison? ”
His face appeared so stiff it might crack. He shook his head as if he could not speak, and a terrible silence ensued.
Eleanor was afraid to even begin to imagine what demon really haunted him. “You know you can trust me,” she finally said. “Whatever you are hiding, you know your secret is safe with me.”
He inhaled harshly. Another long moment passed before he spoke, and then his tone was low and rough with strain. “I can’t give you what you want.… I can’t, Elle.”
And suddenly she could feel his pain pouring from him in huge, aching waves. Had he begun to cry, she would not have been surprised.
So she walked over to him and put her arms around him. He didn’t move. “I won’t push you anymore, Sean,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke the hair at his nape. “But let me comfort you. Surely you can allow that.”
For one more moment, he was still and she felt him fighting himself, his breathing harsh, uneven and ragged. Then, when he had gained control, he stepped back from her. “You are a fine woman,” he said, his eyes becoming soft. The corners of his mouth lifted in the barest imitation of a smile.
She touched one corner. “You used to have a dimple. I want to see it again. I saw it before. You smiled at me, just before you took me into that bed.”
He shook his head in some kind of denial, but whether he refused to acknowledge that he had actually smiled, perhaps for the first time in years, or that he wished to ever smile again, she did not know. Then his glance fell to the table and he started. “Where did you get that?” he cried.
Surprised, Eleanor watched him rush to the table as if it were a matter of life and death. Instantly the toy boat was gone, shoved into his pocket. He turned, his gaze incredulous and accusing.
And Eleanor was terrified of what that toy boat meant to him. “I found it on the floor,” she explained slowly, her mouth dry. “Sean, why are you carrying that figure around? Is it a keepsake?”
His expression was tight. “Yes.” He turned away, reaching for the bucket.
She went to the door and barred his way. “I don’t understand. What does it mean? Who gave it to you? Is it a child’s?”
He ground his jaw. “Excuse me.”
“Is that a child’s toy?” she cried again.
For one instant, as if disbelieving, he was silent. And then he exploded. “Yes, it’s a child’s. It belonged to Michael…Michael, my son. Michael…who is dead.”
He pushed past her and slammed down the cramped staircase but she did not move, paralyzed with shock and fear.
Sean had a son? A son who had died?
She was so stunned that it was hard to think. Her heart drummed with painful force. He’d slept with so many women, it would not be strange if he had a bastard. Most men did.
Eleanor sank into a chair. But his son was dead?
She hugged herself, beyond worry now. Was this the cause of his grief, his bitterness, the shadows in his eyes, his sorrow? Was this the real cause of his pain?
Sean returned, dumping the last bucket of water in the tub. His movements were angry.
“I didn’t know you had a son,” she whispered. “Sean, I’m so sorry.” As the final comprehension settled over her—he’d had a child and his son was dead—tears filled her eyes.
He suddenly faced her. “It was my duty to protect him.”
She quickly went to him. She took his hand. “How did he die?”
He met her gaze. “The troops set fire to my home. They couldn’t find me…so they killed him.” He pulled away, shaking. “I don’t want to talk.… Why won’t you let me be?” He went to the stove and knelt there, clearly intending to replenish the fire.