"Don't," he said, seizing her arm.

His grip hurt and she paled. He instantly realized it and released her. Eleanor rubbed her arm, but her eyes remained on him. "Let me help you," she whispered. And she lifted her hand to touch his cheek.

He threw her hand aside. It was a moment before he could speak. "You can't.... No one can." And he slammed out of the room.

This time, she bolted the door behind him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ELEANOR'S ANXIETY increased. Sean had been gone for well over an hour. It could not take that long to go to the chandler on the corner for food and some other supplies. She stood barefoot at the room's single window, having changed into the breeches and ruffled shirt, so that she could watch for him. From where she stood, she could see down the wide cobbled street that ended at the Custom House, where both channels of the river met. There, numerous vessels were at berth. Most seemed to be fishing boats and barges. However, staring south where the river widened, heading toward Great Island, she saw the three larger masts of a frigate. Eleanor knew enough about ships to know that this was a fighting vessel with guns. As there was a naval base in Cobh, she assumed the battleship belonged to His Majesty's Royal Navy. The sight of the forbidding ship was more cause for concern.

Eleanor turned to glance down at the street where the cobbler had his shop. Sean was nowhere in sight. Like most Irish cities, Cork dated back to medieval times, if not beyond, but the quay was wide and lined with stucco buildings, some yellow, some green, all two stories high. Clotheslines had been passed back and forth from window to window, as if the street were decorated with flags and pennants, not shirts and stockings. Shops lined the street, and a few pedestrians were passing by, in no apparent hurry. Eleanor saw a miller's, an apothecary shop, a tailor's, another cobbler shop and a chairmaker's. From where she stood, she could not see the farthest corner, where the chandler was.

What was taking him so long?

Just as she became convinced that he was in trouble, she saw him coming up the street. Her heart leaped wildly, a response she refused to consider. But she was terribly relieved.

He was carrying several parcels. He was bringing food and more importantly, he was neither hurt nor captured. She almost smiled, but the expression never formed. He was not alone.

A small woman with a cap on her long, curly dark hair was walking alongside him, and they were clearly conversing.

And in that moment, every tryst he'd had while they were growing up came rushing to mind. Sean had been a rake as a young man, and only Cliff would have been able to compete for the honor of unabashed cad, had he not left home at fourteen. She also recalled his uncontrollable and explosive passion of the other night. He had been caged up in prison for two years-and now, some lightskirt was pursuing him.

She didn't have to hear what the woman was saying or even see her face to know that. Every instinct she had told her so.

They had paused on the street below, outside of the cobbler's shop and the entrance to the flat where Eleanor watched. The woman was plump and pretty and as she conversed, she kept touching Sean's arm. Eleanor could recognize a flirtation when she saw one. She knew exactly what was transpiring below her. If Sean hadn't taken this woman into his bed already, he would do so soon.

Eleanor gripped the sill, finding it hard to breathe. She could not possibly be jealous. She was returning home to marry Sinclair-she wanted to go home and marry him, because the man she really loved had changed so much that she simply could not be sure who was standing on the street below. But her reasoning did not ease her frantic emotions. Feeling ill, she turned away from the scene, but only after Sean and the woman had parted company; the door below stairs thudding as it slammed closed.

"Elle."

Eleanor strode to the door. She paused there to take a deep breath, form a smile and calmly throw both bolts. She didn't care if he'd taken that woman to bed or intended to. The only thing that remained between them was an awkward friendship and an inescapable past. There was no future. She would ignore how saddened that comprehension made her, because it was a belief she must cling to at all costs.

He looked at her and started. "Are you all right?"

She smiled again. It felt brittle. "You were gone so long. I couldn't help but worry."

He gave her a guarded look and entered the flat. Eleanor closed the door, bolting it. He placed the paper sacks on the table while she watched. He cautiously said, "Come sit down. I'll bandage your feet."

"My feet are fine. You are the one who needs bandages. Who is your lady friend?" The words popped out and she was aghast. She felt her cheeks heat.

He straightened and their gazes clashed. "I beg your pardon?"

She bit her lip, wishing she could take the words back.

"Do you mean Kate?"

Eleanor hesitated and then shrugged as indifferently as possible.

"She's the cobbler's daughter," he said, turning and placing some items on the table. "I told her you are my sister." He seemed to avoid her gaze now.

"How convenient," she sniped unhappily.

He turned again, his gaze very hard to read. "I do not understand. She saw us come in. She is a bit...of a snoop. I had to tell her...something. I said your name was Jane." He added, "She thinks I am John Collins. Could you please sit down?"

Eleanor wanted to know if they had shared a bed. If they had been in that bed, she wasn't sleeping there ever again. It was not her affair, but she was hurt.

She turned away, restlessly pacing the room. How could she continue to have these feelings for Sean when he was such an enigma? It was one thing to want to help him heal his wounds and escape the authorities, but it was another to remain half in love with him-or the man he had become.

Sean's cheeks were flushed. "I didn't take her to bed...if that is what you are thinking."

He could still read her mind! "I'm not!" She smiled widely and sat down. "I didn't give it a thought." She shrugged as flippantly as possible.

Eleanor felt her color increasing. Finally, she dared to look up, and her breath became suspended. In that moment, she had not a doubt as to what he was thinking.

She forgot about Kate. Her stomach vanished into thin air, leaving a huge space inside that would so eagerly accept him. Sean's gaze slipped down her ruffled shirt just once before he turned away. He lifted a wrapped roll of linen. "Why don't..." He stopped. His voice was raw, but not from two years of disuse or any accident.

Eleanor was dismayed. She had no right to such a terrible hunger herself, and she understood. "I'll do it."

He nodded, handing her the linen without looking at her.

Eleanor took in the rigid lines of his body, and she unrolled the linen as he began to unpack their few groceries. The irony of the situation struck her, hard. She had been waiting for him to notice her as a woman for years, and now that he had, she was determined to fight his attraction and hers. It was beyond ironic, she realized. It was tragic.

Eleanor bandaged her other foot, feeling very self-conscious. The air in the room had become humid and thick. Now she began to think about the long night ahead of them and the fact that the flat had one bed.

"I bought a roast turkey dinner from the inn-keeper...around the block."

Finished, Eleanor straightened in her chair. No wonder he had been so long. He was careful not to look at her as he opened the small cupboard over the sink. Sean removed two plates, two tin mugs and some utensils. Eleanor saw a bottle of red wine on the table. The aromas wafting from the paper parcel, tied with string, were very enticing, but the tension in her body remained. She was in despair. She did not want to feel this way, not now and not ever.

He brought everything to the table. Eleanor stood and untied the parcel while Sean uncorked the wine. "Did you see any soldiers?" she asked, hoping to break the tension.

"No. There's a frigate in the island harbor...the HMS Gallatine."

They were almost on safer ground, Eleanor thought. "Do you know the ship?" She served herself, not daring to look up at him.

The cork popped loudly in the too-small, too-silent flat. "Devlin engaged it years ago... captured her from the French. I asked...she's got thirty-two cannon. Tomorrow I may go look at her."

She was startled and not pleasantly so. "How does that affect you? What difference does it make if she has nine cannon or thirty?"

His gaze met hers, then danced away. "It only affects me...if she is chasing me when I set sail."

A new, different tension afflicted her. "Did you book a passage for yourself?"

"How can I do that?" He stared at her in some surprise. "You will return home first." Abruptly he reached for the wine and poured two glasses, then stopped. "I forgot. You don't drink."

"That's all right." She had never needed the effects of a glass of wine as badly as she did then.

He handed it to her; their hands brushed.

Eleanor felt as if he had pulled her into his arms, as if he had covered her mouth with his, and it was a moment before she could breathe. Her skin was on fire, and her flesh throbbed.

He turned his back to her, drinking from his own mug. She thought she saw a tremor pass through him, but she couldn't be sure. His back and shoulders were stiff with tension. She put her mug down, untouched. "I have been thinking about it."

Very warily, he faced her. "You've been thinking... about what?" His tone was as cautious.

"I think you should leave the country before I return home. I want to know that you have escaped safely, with your life."

"Absolutely not!" he responded firmly without pause. She searched his silver eyes and saw sheer determination there.

He turned away, tossing the rest of his wine down with visible anger.

"Our friendship may have changed," Eleanor said quietly, "but once, we were close. Once, you were my hero. I owe you, Sean. How many times did you rescue me from myself when we were growing up? In good conscience, I cannot leave you here alone."

He stared at her, his gaze hard and wide. It was a moment before he spoke. "You don't owe me anything, Elle...Eleanor. I could never live with myself...if I let something happen to you...because of what I have done."

"You can't live with yourself now," she dared. And her heart broke. "Oh, Sean! What is it?"

He started, his entire body stiffening.

She realized what she had said, and also that she was right. "What could have happened to make you blame yourself, and perhaps hate yourself, so much? Why have you changed so much? Where is the man I loved and trusted?"

"We need to eat!" He jerked a chair from the table and sat. Then he dug his fork into his food, shoveling bite after bite into his mouth.

She had hit a nerve. She was uncovering his feelings, but not the reason for them. She sat down. Sean was halfway through the huge plate. The compassion she was so afraid of now filled her. She had never seen anyone eat as quickly, except wild, starving dogs. "Sean, I won't pry anymore. Enjoy your meal," she whispered.

He paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. Then he laid it down and finished chewing. He looked up at her, his gaze disquieting and direct.

"Please." She attempted a smile and before she knew it, she had lightly grasped his forearm. Her heart lurched wildly at the feel of so much power and strength, and she quickly slid her hand away.

His face was hard. He stared at the table, his plate or her hand, she could not tell. He lifted his fork and as she wasn't expecting him to speak, his words surprised her. "You always snooped. Spied." He continued to stare at the table-or into their past. His mouth softened. "You were impossible...I had no secrets."

She shivered. "I didn't mean to be so annoying. I loved you so! I had to be with you all the time-I couldn't stop myself."

His cheeks were pink. He never raised his eyes. "So impossible," he said softly.

She studied him as a silence fell. Was he reliving parts of their past? She trembled, desperately hoping so. In spite of the dire crisis they were in, she would give up everything to have the old Sean back.

She wet her lips. "But you rescued me anyway, all the time, even when my life wasn't in danger."

He made a sound, and it almost resembled a grudging laugh. "Yes. I did."

"Remember when you told me not to go in the lake, as it had rained for an entire week? Of course, I did not listen."

He slowly lifted his gaze. "You never listened."

"I got caught in some branches and I would have drowned, but you dived in to save me." She smiled. "I was eight or nine."

"Ten," he corrected. "You were ten, because I was sixteen."

She instantly understood. "How could I forget? The new governess was blond and beautiful and you were in her bed the moment she came to Adare!"

He just stared at her.

Eleanor was aware of the tension instantly changing, becoming hot and sexual. Her heart had picked up a slow, heavy beat. "She was slender and for a woman, tall."

His lashes drifted down.

She stared at him now. Sean had been besotted with Lady Celia that summer and, at ten years of age, his infatuation with the slightly older woman had been entertaining in every possible way. As Eleanor was now, Celia had been dark blond, slender and tall. Eleanor tried to tell herself not to read too much into that slight coincidence.

"You should eat," he said.

She had watched him dancing with her outside on the terrace while a midsummer ball was in progress, inside. They had been so engrossed, they had never noticed her spying from the shadows. "Were you in love?"

He shrugged. "I was always in love...it never lasted."

She met his unwavering, too bright gaze. "Then it wasn't love. True love never dies."

He made a slight and harsh sound again. "I was sixteen."

She smiled. "And when I was sixteen, Mother and Father forced me to come out. Do you remember that?"

His mouth twitched. "I felt so sorry for you."

"No one was sorrier than I!" she cried, then sobered. She had hated her Season in London and she had hated being sent to Bath, too. It had been a blur of misery and constraints; for her, coming out had been a prison, too.

But Sean had rescued her even then. She suddenly looked up and found him watching her closely and steadily. Her insides shifted. "Sean, you came down to London for my coming-out ball. God, I haven't thought about that in years. It was so awful!"

He glanced away. "I am sorry," he said slowly, "that I made fun of you in your gown."

She had forgotten. Her first ball gown had been very beautiful, but she had felt like a tall, skinny fool in it-she had been tall and skinny, then. Sean had laughed at her and she had punched him in the stomach, hard enough to cause him to gasp in pain and double over. She had hated him for that one moment, because he was right-a ball gown hadn't changed who she was. But when he had asked her for her very first dance, when he had escorted her onto the floor, her arm linked firmly in his, she had been both grateful and proud. She had missed some steps, but he had guided her through the figure so adroitly that no one had known. She had been terrified to begin the dance, but in the end, she had enjoyed herself.

"You danced with me," she said slowly. Her heart turning over too many times to count, she added, "And now I know exactly why I have always loved you so much."

He stood. "Eat."

She shook her head, shoving the plate aside. She also stood. "Sean, I need you. You have to come back to me the way you used to be."

He moved away, shaking his head fiercely.

"Please!" she cried. "We need to speak about the past like this. We need to go to Askeaton together and wander upstairs. Devlin never finished the third floor."

He was incredulous-or afraid.