Читать книгу: «The Stolen Bride»
Praise for Brenda Joyce
“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight,
which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her fast-
paced story keeps the pages turning.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride
“An emotionally sweeping tale of heartache,
redemption, and rebirth, The Stolen Bride lives up to this reader’s high expectations for a Perfect 10 read.” —Romance Reviews Today
The Masquerade “dances on slippered feet, belying its heft with spellbinding dips, spins and twists. Jane Austen aficionados will delve happily into heroine Elizabeth “Lizzie” Fitzgerald’s family… Joyce’s tale of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will enchant those who like their reads long and rich.” —Publishers Weekly
“Joyce brilliantly delivers an intensely emotional and
engrossing romance where love overcomes deceit,
scandal and pride… An intelligent love story with smart,
appealing and strong characters. Readers will savour
this latest from a grand mistress of the genre.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub on The Masquerade
“The latest from Joyce offers readers a passionate,
swashbuckling voyage in her newest addition to the de
Warenne dynasty series. Joyce brings her keen sense
of humour and storytelling prowess to bear on
her witty fully formed characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last
“The latest in the de Warenne series is a warm
wonderfully sensual feast about the joys and pains
following in love. Joyce breathes life into extraordinary
characters – from her sprightly Cinderella heroine and
roguish hero to everyone in between – then sets them in
the glittering Regency, where anything can happen.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub on A Lady at Last
“I knew you would come back!”
“You’re engaged,” he said. He spoke in a whisper that was barely audible and his voice was hoarse. He was looking at her with such shattering intensity that she hesitated.
“What?” she began, confused.
But he was not looking into her eyes now. His gaze had slipped to her mouth and then it veered abruptly to her chest. In that instant she felt immodest, indecent, naked.
Her body hollowed.
For the first time in her life, Eleanor understood desire. For the space inside her was so empty that she ached, and in that instant, she understood the necessity of taking him inside so he could fill it.
“The wedding –” he paused, as if it was hard to speak “– is in two days.”
She reached out to him, brushing his hand. “It’s been so long! Everyone thinks you’re dead, Sean. I almost believed it, too. But you promised. You promised me you would come back and you did!”
Brenda Joyce is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and novellas. She wrote her first novella when she was sixteen years old and her first novel when she was twenty-five – and was published shortly thereafter. She has won many awards and her first novel, Innocent Fire, won the Best Western Romance Award. She has also won the highly coveted Best Historical Romance award for Splendor and the Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. She is the author of the critically acclaimed Deadly series, which is set in turn-of-the-century New York and features amateur sleuth Francesca Cahill. There are over eleven million copies of her novels in print and she is published in over a dozen countries. A native New Yorker, she now lives in southern Arizona with her husband, son, dogs, cat and numerous Arabian and half-Arabian reining horses. For more information about Brenda and her upcoming novels, please visit her website at www.brendajoyce.com.
The Stolen Bride
Brenda Joyce
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to thank Lucy Childs once again for reading everything I write and always being so enthusiastic and supportive while offering really helpful criticism. I want to thank my editor, Miranda Stecyk, for being as enthusiastic, as supportive and a great editor (keep on cutting!) as well as being willing to work with me on an insane and manic schedule. I also want to thank Cissy Hartley at Writerspace for her support, patience and utter diplomacy, time and again, and the great job she has done taking care of my websites. I want to thank Theresa Myers for her enthusiasm and brilliance and always taking on copywriting at the last moment! And I want to welcome two new members to my team, designers of dewarennedynasty.com and mastersoftimebooks.com! Thank you, Laurel Letherby and Dorie Hensley, for such wonderful support, unflagging enthusiasm and unfailing creativity!
THE STOLEN BRIDE
This one is for the new team! Cissy Hartley,
Laurel Letherby, Dorie Hensley, Theresa Myers
and Miranda Stecyk. I couldn’t do it all without
you guys. Thank you so much!
PROLOGUE
Askeaton, Ireland, June, 1814
THE CALL OF THE UNKNOWN. It was there, around him, inside him, an urgent restlessness, the call to adventure. It had never been stronger, and it was impossible to ignore for a single moment longer.
Sean O’Neill paused in the courtyard of the manor home that had been in his family for almost four hundred years. With his own hands, he had rebuilt the stone walls he faced. With his own hands, he had helped the town craftsmen replace the empty husks where the windows had once been gorgeously colored stained glass. He had knelt on the ancient floors inside, carefully replacing the broken stones alongside the Limerick masons. With an army of housemaids, he had carefully salvaged every burned sword in the front hall, all family heirlooms. The huge tapestry there had been burned beyond repair, however.
And he had plowed the charred and blackened fields alongside the O’Neill tenants, day after day and week after week, until the earth was brown and fertile again. He had overseen the selection, purchase and transport of the cattle and sheep that had replaced the herds and flocks destroyed by the British troops in that fateful summer of 1798. Now, as he stood by his mount, the saddlebags full, a small satchel attached to the saddle horn, lambs frolicked with their dams in the hills behind the house, beneath the blush of first light.
He had rebuilt the estate with his sweat, his blood and even at times, his tears. He had rebuilt Askeaton for his older brother in the years Devlin had been at sea, a captain in the royal navy, engaged in war with the French. Devlin had returned home a few days earlier with his American bride and their daughter. He had resigned his commission and was, Sean knew, at Askeaton to stay. And that was how it should be.
The restlessness overcame him then. He wasn’t sure what it was that he wanted, but he knew that his task here was done. Something was out there waiting for him, something huge, calling to him the ways the sirens did the sailors lost at sea. He was only twenty-four years old and he smiled at the rising sun, exhilarated and ready for whatever adventure Fate thought to hand him.
“Sean! Wait!”
He was briefly incredulous at the sound of Eleanor de Warenne’s voice. But then, he should have known she would be up at this hour and that she would catch him as he prepared to leave. She had been his shadow since the day his mother had married her father, when she was a demanding and irrepressible toddler of two and he was a somber boy of eight. As a child, she followed him around like a puppy its new master, at times amusing him and at other times annoying him. And when he had begun the restoration of his family lands, she had been at his side on her knees, chipping out broken stones with him. When she had turned sixteen, she had been sent to England. Since then, she didn’t really seem like little Elle anymore. Uncomfortable, he turned to face her.
She hurried toward him. She had always had a long aggressive stride, never the graceful gait of a proper lady. That hadn’t changed, but everything else had. He stiffened, because she rushed toward him barefoot and clad only in a white cotton nightgown.
And in that heartbeat, he simply did not know the woman who was calling out to him. The nightgown caressed her body like a silk glove, indicating curves he could not recognize, flattened against her by the dawn breeze.
“Where are you going? Why didn’t you wake me? I’ll ride with you! We can race to the chapel and back.” She halted abruptly, her eyes going wide, staring at the saddlebags and the satchel. Her smile had vanished.
He saw her shock, followed by comprehension, but he was still struggling with his own surprise. He would always think of Elle as an awkward child, tall and skinny no matter her age, her face thin and angular, with her hair in waist-length braids. What had happened to her in the past two years? He wasn’t sure when her body had developed such immodest and feminine curves or when her face had filled out, making it a perfect oval.
He looked away from the neckline of her gown, which he decided was indecent. Then he looked away from the swell of her hips, hips that simply could not belong to her. His cheeks were warm. “You can’t walk around in nightclothes. Someone might see you!” he exclaimed. He had sat across from her at supper last night. But he had been uncomfortable then, too, especially because every time he glanced at her, she had smiled at him, trying to hold his gaze. He had done his best to avoid eye contact.
“You’ve seen me in my nightclothes a hundred times,” she said slowly. “Where are you going?”
He dragged his gaze directly to hers. Her eyes hadn’t changed, and for that, he was relieved. Amber in hue, almond in shape, he had always been able to look at her eyes and read her every mood, her every thought, her every expression and emotion. He saw that she was afraid. His reaction was immediate, and he smiled reassuringly at her. Somehow his duty had always been to ease her fears, whenever she had them. “I need to go,” he said quietly. “But I’ll be back.”
“What do you mean?” she gasped in disbelief.
The Elle of his childhood had always been able to read his every thought and mood, too. She had grown up, but she still understood him, even without his having to elaborate. Carefully, he said, “Elle, something is out there and I need to find it.”
“What?” Her eyes were filled with growing horror. “No! Nothing is out there—I am here!”
He became still, their gazes locked. He knew, as did everyone in their two families, that she had harbored a wild and foolish infatuation for him for as long as anyone could remember. No one knew precisely when, but as a child she had decided she loved him and that she would marry him one day. Sean had been amused by her claims. He had always known that she would outgrow such nonsense. They didn’t share a drop of blood, but he considered her a sister. She was the daughter of an earl—she would marry a title or wealth, or both. “Elle.” He spoke calmly now. He chose to ignore that remark. Surely she no longer clung to such beliefs. “Askeaton belongs to Devlin. He’s home now. I have this feeling that there is something more out there for me. I need to go. I want to go.”
She was pale. “No! You can’t leave! There is nothing out there—what are you speaking of? Your life is here! We are here—your family, me! And Askeaton is yours as much as Devlin’s!”
He decided not to refute that, as Devlin had actually purchased Askeaton from the earl eight years ago. He hesitated, trying to find the right words, words she might understand. “I have to go. Besides, you don’t need me now. You’ve grown-up.” His smile failed him. “You’ll be sent back to England soon and you won’t be thinking of me then. Not with all your suitors.” He found that notion odd and unpleasant. “Go back to bed.”
A look of pure determination crossed her face and he tensed. When Elle had an objective, nothing could stop her from attaining it. “I am coming with you,” she declared.
“Absolutely not!”
“Don’t you dare leave without me! I am going to get dressed. Have a horse saddled for me!” she cried, whirling to race back inside.
He seized her arm, pulling her back around. The moment he felt her soft full body against his, his brain failed him. He instantly jerked away from her. “I know you have always gotten your way with everyone, including me. But not this time.”
“You have been acting like an idiot ever since I came over last night! You’ve been avoiding me! And don’t you dare try and deny it. You won’t even look at me,” she exclaimed. “Now you say you’re leaving me?” She was so distressed and angry that she was breathing hard.
He folded his arms across his chest, his gaze dropping to the bodice of her nightgown, where he could clearly see the shape of her full breasts. He was shocked with himself. He lifted his eyes instantly to her face. “I’m leaving—not you, I’m just leaving.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “Just take me with you!”
“You’re going back to England.”
“I hate it there!”
Of course she did. She was a wildflower, not a hothouse rose. Elle had been raised amongst five boys, and she had been born to ride the Irish hills on her horse, not to dance the quadrille in a London ballroom. She stood there, looking devastated, and in that moment time fell away and she appeared all of eight years old, not eighteen, crushed with disappointment and hugely vulnerable. Tears tracked down her cheeks.
And instantly he took her in his arms, as he’d done a thousand times before. “It’s all right,” he began. But the moment he felt her breasts between them, instead of her bony chest, he pushed away. He felt his cheeks flame.
“Are you ever coming back?” she demanded, clinging to his arms.
“Of course I am,” he said tersely, trying to back up.
“When?”
“I’m not sure. A year or two.”
“A year or two?” She began to cry. “How can you do this? How can you leave me for so long? I already miss you! You’re my best friend! I’m your best friend! Won’t you miss me?”
He gave in and reached for her hand. “Of course I’ll miss you,” he said quietly. It was the truth.
Their gazes locked. “Promise me. Promise me that you are coming back for me.”
“I promise,” he said.
And he realized as they stared at each other, as the tears rolled down her face, their hands remained tightly clasped. Gently he pried himself loose. It was time to go. He faced his mount, reaching for the stirrup.
“Wait!”
He half turned and before he could react, she threw her arms around him and pressed her mouth to his.
He realized what was happening. Elle, little Elle, tall and skinny, fearless enough to leap off the old ruined stone tower behind the manor and laugh while doing it, was kissing him on the mouth. But that was impossible, because there was a woman in his arms, her body soft and warm, and her lips open and hot.
He jumped away, aghast. “What was that?”
“That was a kiss, you fool!” she shouted at him.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still stunned.
“You didn’t like it?” she said in disbelief.
“No, I didn’t like it,” he almost shouted. Furious now, with her and with himself, he leaped astride his horse. Then he looked down at her. She was sobbing, but soundlessly, covering her mouth with her hands.
He could not stand it when she cried. “Don’t cry,” he said. “Please.”
She nodded, ashen, fighting the tears until they stopped. “Promise me again.”
He inhaled. “I promise.”
She smiled tearfully at him.
He smiled back, and it felt oddly tearful, as well. Then he lifted the reins and spurred his horse into a gallop. He hadn’t meant to leave at a madcap pace, but her distress, which he had caused, was far too much to bear. When it felt safe to do so, he finally glanced back.
She hadn’t moved. She stood by the iron courtyard gates in the white nightgown, watching him leave. She raised her hand, and even from a distance, he felt her sadness and fear.
He raised his hand in return. Maybe this was for the best, he thought, shaken to the core of his being. Then he turned away, cantering down the roadway, not toward Limerick, but to the east.
When he topped the first hill he paused a final time. His heart beat hard and fast, disturbingly. He turned his mount to look down on his home. The manor was as small as a toy house. A small figure in white posed by the front gates. Elle hadn’t moved.
And he wondered if what he was looking for was already within his grasp.
CHAPTER ONE
October 7, 1818, Adare, Ireland
IN THREE DAYS, she was getting married. How had this happened?
In three days, she was going to marry the gentleman everyone thought perfect for her. In three very short days, she was going to be Peter Sinclair’s wife. Eleanor de Warenne was afraid.
She leaned so low over her galloping horse’s neck that she saw nothing but his dark coat and mane. She spurred him, urging him to an even faster, more dangerous pace. She intended to outrun her nervousness —and her dread.
And briefly, she did. The sensation of speed became consuming; there could be no other feeling, no thought. The ground was a blur beneath the pounding hooves of her mount. Finally, the present had vanished. Exhilaration claimed her.
Dawn was breaking in the pale sky overhead. Eventually, Eleanor became tired, as did the stud she rode. She straightened and he slowed, and instantly, she thought about her impending marriage again.
Eleanor brought the bay stallion to a walk. She had reached a high point on the ridge and she looked down at her home. Adare was the seat of her father’s earldom, an estate that reached into three counties, encompassing a hundred villages, thousands of farms and one very lucrative coal mine, as well as several quarries. Below, the ridge turned to thick forest and then into the achingly lush green lawns and riotous gardens surrounding the huge stone mansion that was her home, a river running through them. Although first built in Elizabethan times, very little of the original structure remained. Renovated a hundred years earlier, the front of the house was a long three-story rectangle, with a dozen columns supporting the roof and the triangular pediment above it. Two shorter wings were behind the facade, one reserved for the family, the other for their guests.
Her home was filled with family and guests now. Three hundred people had been invited to the wedding and fifty guests, mostly Peter’s family, had been crammed into the east wing. The rest were staying at village inns and the Grand Hotel in Limerick.
Eleanor stared down at the estate, breathless and perspiring, her long honey-blond hair having come loose from its braid, wearing a pair of breeches she had stolen ages ago from one of her brothers. After her come-out two years earlier, she had been required to ride astride in a lady’s proper riding attire. Having been raised with her three brothers and two stepbrothers, she had decided that was absurd. She had been riding at dawn since then, so she could ride astride and leap fences, an act that was impossible in skirts. Society would find her behavior shocking—and so would her fiancé, if he ever discovered she was inclined to ride and dress like a man.
Of course, she had no intention of letting that happen. She wanted to marry Peter Sinclair. Didn’t she?
Eleanor could not stand it then. She had thought her grief and sorrow long since gone, but now, her heart broke open. She had wanted to marry Peter, but with her wedding just days away, she had to face the terrible and frightening truth. She was no longer certain. More importantly, she had to know if Sean were alive or dead.
Eleanor walked her mount down the hillside. Her heart beat swiftly and painfully, stirring up feelings she had never wanted to again entertain. He had left her four years ago. Last year, she had come to terms with his disappearance. After waiting for his return for three interminable years, after refusing to believe the conclusion her family had drawn, she had woken up one morning with a horrific comprehension. He was gone. He wasn’t coming back. They were right—as there had been no word, he must be dead.
She had locked herself in her room for several days, weeping for the loss of her best friend, the boy she had spent a lifetime with—the man she loved. On the fourth morning, she had left her rooms, going directly to her father.
“I am ready to marry, Father. I should like you to arrange a proper match.”
The earl, alone in the breakfast room, had gaped at her in shock.
“Someone titled and well-off, someone as fond of the hunt as I am, and someone passably attractive,” she had said. She had no emotions left. But she added grimly, “Actually, he must be a superb horseman or we will never get on.”
“Eleanor—” the earl had leaped to his feet “—you are making the right decision.”
She had warded him off. “Yes, I know.” And she had left before he might inquire as to her sudden change of heart. She had no wish to discuss her personal feelings with anyone.
An introduction had been made a month later. Peter Sinclair was the heir to an earldom, the estate seated in Chatton, and his family was well-off. He was her own age, and he was handsome and charming. He was a superb horseman and bred Thoroughbred racehorses. She had been wary of his English background, having been chased improperly by some English rakes during her two Seasons, but upon meeting him, she had liked him instantly. His behavior had been sincere from the first. That very night, she had decided he would suit. The match had been arranged shortly thereafter, due to her enhanced age.
Suddenly Eleanor felt as if she were on a bolting horse, one she could not bring to a halt. A horsewoman her entire life, she knew the best recourse would be to leap off.
But she had never bailed from a runaway, not once in her twenty-two years. Instead, she had exerted her will and skill over the animal, bringing it under her control. She tried to remind herself that all brides were nervous and it was not uncommon. After all, her life was about to forever change. Not only would she marry Peter Sinclair, she would move to Chatton, live in England, run his home and soon, bear his children. God, could she really do this?
If only she knew what had happened to Sean.
But she did not know his fate, and she was probably never going to learn of it. Her father and Devlin had spent years searching for him, using Bow Street Runners. But his name was not an unusual one, and every lead had turned out to be false. Her Sean O’Neill had vanished into thin air.
Once more, she blamed herself for ever allowing him to go. She had tried to stop him; she should have made an even greater attempt.
Abruptly Eleanor halted her mount and she closed her eyes tightly. Peter would be a perfect husband, and she was very fond of him. Sean was gone. Not only that, he’d never once looked at her the way Peter regarded her. It was a great match. Her fiancé was kind, amusing, charming, blond and handsome. He was horse-mad, as was she. As the English debutantes she had once been forced to attend would say, he was a premier catch.
Eleanor quickly moved the stallion forward. At this late hour, she was lying to herself. Peter was a dear man, but how could she marry him when there was even the slimmest chance that Sean was alive? On the other hand, she couldn’t break the contracts now!
Suddenly real panic began. She had been a failure in London. She had hated every ball, where she had been snubbed because she was Irish and tall and because she preferred horses to parties. The English had been terribly condescending. She was going to be a failure in Chatton, too—she was certain of it. Even if Peter had never questioned her background, once he got to know her he would be condescending, too.
Because she wasn’t proper enough to be his English wife. Proper ladies would not dream of riding astride in breeches, let alone doing so alone. And while a few were brave enough to foxhunt, ladies did not shoot carbines and fence with masters; ladies loved shopping and gossip, which she abhorred. Peter didn’t really know her—he didn’t know her at all.
Ladies don’t lie.
It was as if Sean stood there beside her, his silver eyes oddly accusing. If only he hadn’t left her. How could it still hurt, on the eve of her wedding, when she had invested the entire past year of her life in her relationship with Peter?
And Eleanor knew she was on that runaway horse yet again. Her wedding was in three days and until recently, she had been pleased. In fact, she had been very caught up in the wedding preparations and she had been as excited as her mother. It would be the scandal of the decade should she now call it off. She was having bridal jitters, nothing more. Peter was perfect for her.
Very purposefully, Eleanor halted and closed her eyes, trying to find an image that would chase away, once and for all, every fear and doubt she had. She saw herself in her wedding dress, the bodice covered with lace and pearls, the huge satin skirts boasting pearl and lace insets, the train an endless pool of satin trimmed in beaded lace. Peter was standing beside her, blond and handsome in his formal attire. They were exchanging vows and Peter was raising her veil so he might kiss her.
The veil was removed from her eyes. Peter was gone. Standing before her was a tall, dark man with shockingly silver eyes.
Ladies don’t lie, Elle.
Eleanor could not bear the renewed surge of grief. She did not need this now. She did not want this now.
“Go away!” She almost wept. “Leave me alone, please!”
But the damage was done, she thought miserably. She had dared to let him back into her mind, and now, just days before her wedding, he wasn’t going to go away. She had known Sean O’Neill since she was a child. His mother had been widowed by the British in a terrible massacre, and her own father, a widower at that time, had married Mary O’Neill, taking Sean and his brother in. Although he had never legally adopted the O’Neill boys, he had raised them with his own three sons and Eleanor, treating both boys as if they were his own.
There were so many memories now. Even as a tot, she recalled thinking Sean a prince, never mind that his family had been impoverished Irish Catholic gentry. Toddling after him, screaming his name, she had tried to follow him everywhere. At first he had been kind, allowing her to piggyback on his strong but scrawny shoulders or leading her back by the hand to her nurse. But his kindness had become irritation as Eleanor grew into a small child. She would hide in the classroom to watch him at his lessons and then advise him on how to do better. Sean would summon the tutor, ordering her put out, telling her to mind her own affairs. Unfortunately, even at six, Eleanor’s math was better than his own numbers. If he thought to escape the day’s lessons, she knew, and she would follow him out to the pond, also intent on fishing. Sean had tried to scare her with worms but Eleanor had helped him bait his hooks instead. She was better at that, too.
“Fine, Weed, you can stay,” he had grumbled, giving up.
He would ride across the Adare lands with his brothers, an almost daily event. Eleanor had a fat, old Welsh pony, and she would follow, refusing to be sent home. More times than not, with vast annoyance, Sean had caved in to her, allowing her to send the pony home and letting her ride double behind him.
Her favorite ploys, though, had been to spy or steal. Sometimes she hid in a closet to eavesdrop on Sean, overhearing the most fascinating young male conversations—most of which she had not understood. At other times she would take a beloved possession—his favorite book, his penknife, a shoe—just to make certain he hadn’t forgotten her. When he realized, he would chase her furiously through the house or across the grounds, demanding the item back. Eleanor had laughed at him, loving the chase and knowing he could not catch her unless she allowed it, as she was too fast for him.
An ancient ache was assailing her, yet she realized she had been smiling, too. She found herself standing some distance from the stables, her stallion now contentedly grazing, and tears pricked at her eyes. Sean was gone. In her heart she might yearn for his return, and she might still miss him terribly, but what good was that? Irrefutable logic demanded that if he could come back—or if he wanted to—he would have returned by now. Common sense also proved a very painful fact: he had never once in their entire lifetime indicated that he felt anything but brotherly affection for her.
Eleanor realized that a man was approaching, having come out of one of the many entrances of the house. Instantly she recognized her oldest brother, Tyrell. He was so terribly preoccupied with affairs of state, the earldom and the family that they did not spend much time together, but there was no one more dependable or more kind. One day, he would be the family patriarch, and every problem and crisis, both personal and otherwise, would be brought to him for resolution. She admired him tremendously; he was her favorite brother.
Tyrell paused before her and she was very pleased to see him. Tall, muscular and dark, he smiled at her. “I am relieved that you are all right. I saw you from a window and when you dismounted, I feared something was amiss.”
Somehow Eleanor forced a smile. It felt sad and fragile. “I am fine. I decided to let Apollo graze, that’s all.”
Tyrell’s dark blue gaze was searching. “You were never one to dally in bed, but I thought we had an understanding that you would not ride about this way while we have so many guests.”
