Brenda Joyce - The Stolen Bride

“Did I say something wrong?” Sinclair asked in bewilderment. “Cliff has not arrived yet, but he would make four.”

Eleanor stared at the linen table cloth, suddenly sad in spite of the wine. Where was Sean? Why wasn’t he here? Didn’t he want to come home?

The wine had made her a lackwit. Sean wasn’t there, so how could she get married? There couldn’t be a wedding without Sean, because he was the one she was supposed to be marrying. Suddenly Eleanor felt a surge of panic.

“I am sorry, Eleanor,” Tyrell murmured.

She looked at him, the effects of the wine gone just like that, like being thrown in a tub of frigid water. She was marrying Peter , not Sean. She loved Peter —or she almost did—and she had to have a third glass of wine before the evening was ruined .

Devlin O’Neill spoke. Once an infamous captain in the British Royal navy, he remained bronzed, his hair sun-streaked. “I am sure you have heard the rumors, Peter. I have a younger brother but he disappeared four years ago. No one has seen or heard from Sean since.”

Sinclair started. “No, I hadn’t heard. Good God, I am terribly sorry, Sir Captain!”

There was no wine left in her glass. Eleanor stared at the crystal, almost wishing that she had never met Sean, because he was ruining what was supposed to be the happiest day in her life. And she was happy, wasn’t she? She liked the way Peter looked at her and the way he smiled. She had been happy a moment ago! She was going to miss Sean forever—she missed him now—but she was marrying a wonderful man, the most perfect man, even if he was English.

And she was overcome with confusion. She liked Peter very much; sometimes she thought she loved him. Missing Sean—who had gray eyes—had nothing— nothing —to do with her wedding.

“Peter?” She smiled at him. “I should like another glass of wine. Very much,” she added, but he was not given the chance to respond.

“To Sinclair,” Rex de Warenne said. He had lost his right leg in the war and now he reached for his crutch and pushed to his left foot. “The perfect husband for our sister, as he will dedicate his life to her. Eleanor, no bride could be as fortunate.”

Eleanor just stared at Rex, wondering if he was mocking her. He had changed so much since he had come home from the war. “I am the most fortunate woman in Ireland,” she said with the heat of utter conviction.

Everyone looked at her.

Eleanor wondered, aghast, if she had just slurred .

Rex’s dark brows lifted in skepticism. “Really?”

Eleanor met his dark, penetrating gaze and thought he might know exactly how she was feeling. But then, he was very fond of wine—and brandy—especially since he had lost his leg. Maybe he would get her another glass of wine— discreetly , just in case she had committed the terrible faux pas of becoming foxed in polite company.

Ladies don’t get foxed, Elle .

Eleanor jumped in her seat, whirling to find Sean. But no one was standing behind her.

“Eleanor? What is it?” Peter asked quickly, concerned.

“Is he here?” she managed, clinging to the back of her chair.

The earl stood decisively. “I think we should adjourn to our brandies. Eleanor?”

Eleanor realized she had been about to sit backward in her chair. Sean wasn’t there. She was so disappointed it was hard to face the right way as the men all stood. She felt far too many curious regards coming her way.

Peter remained seated beside her. As the men left, Rex limped over to them, using his single crutch. He was very dark and muscular, and almost the spitting image of Tyrell, except that his eyes were brown, not blue. “I am sorry, Eleanor. I should not burden you with my foul mood on this, your joyous occasion.”

She had stopped understanding him years ago, when he had first returned from the war, embittered as well as wounded, but she did not have a clue as to what he meant now. She smiled. “Oh, Rex.” She waved at him. “You are my favorite brother and you can do no wrong. You do know that, don’t you?”

He glanced at Peter. “I beg your pardon.” He took her arm, tugging her away from the table, which he somehow did in spite of the fact that he had to rely so heavily upon his crutch. “You are in your cups!” he exclaimed, keeping his tone low.

“I am, aren’t I?” She beamed. “Now I begin to understand why you so enjoy drink. Would you sneak me another glass of wine? Red, if you please?”

“I will not,” he said, appearing torn between amusement and horror. “Do you think to purposefully sabotage your wedding?”

Eleanor decided to analyze the word sabotage . “Hmm. Sabotage, that means ruin, does it not? But in a political manner? Is sabotage a political act? Why are we discussing sabotage?”

“You should go to your rooms,” Rex said firmly, but his mouth was quirking as if he were trying very hard not to smile.

“Not until I have been kissed—and soundly, too, I might add.” She walked away from him, smiling at her betrothed.

The ladies had adjourned to a separate salon. Peter was waiting by himself at the table. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

She was surprised by the question. “Of course it is.” She took his arm, looping hers with his. “I am with you,” she added.

He blushed. “Eleanor, you never imbibe. Maybe I should summon one of your sisters-in-law and bid you good-night for the evening.”

“That is a stunningly bad idea!” She pressed closer. “We haven’t had a moment to ourselves all day,” she said softly. “Won’t you join me for a look at the stars?” She wondered if she should tell him that she would love a kiss.

He blushed. “I was going to suggest just that. You have beaten me to it,” he said.

“I am good at beating boys—and men,” she told him frankly. “I ride and shoot better than everyone.”

He started, his eyes widening with surprise.

“Oops,” she murmured. Ladies don’t ride and shoot, she thought. Ladies don’t swear and they don’t lie . “Ladies don’t lie,” she added.

“I beg your pardon?”

Maybe conversing wasn’t the best idea. She smiled and pulled him toward the terrace doors. He relaxed, allowing her to lead.

SEAN LEAPED UP the terrace steps. The terrace was deserted and unlit, and even before he crossed it, he could see into the house, where a gathering of some sort was in progress. He rushed to one of the huge windows and stared into the dining room.

Standing at the head of the table was the man who had taken him in after the murder of his own father, who had raised him as his son, who had fed him and clothed him, who had taught him nobility and honor, who had loved him as if he were his natural-born son. Sean clung to the stone wall of the house, his knees useless.

And then he saw his brother.

Devlin stood, a tall, powerfully built leonine man, his wife at his side. Sean had rebuilt Askeaton for Devlin, and he would do it all over again in an instant, if he had to—just as he would give his life for his older brother, too.

He swallowed hard. Devlin’s beautiful wife, Virginia, seemed very happy, and he was fiercely glad for her and for them. She had saved his brother’s soul years ago and for that, he would always love her.

His stepbrothers were also rising to their feet and he could vaguely hear them speaking. The mood was festive, warm, light.

And it was almost impossible not to recall every moment spent in that room with his father, his brothers, his mother and Elle. Like the surging tides of the Irish Sea, moments and feelings swept through him, over him, demanding attention, inspection, remembrance. He fought his recollection of an early Christmas morning, of a dark, wintry afternoon, of pleasant evenings in front of the fire, of family, male camaraderie and brandy. He had to shake himself hard to free himself from the past.