She hugged herself. "There are so many scars," she whispered.

He didn't answer.

She bit her lip. "They picked on you, didn't they? It wasn't one time-they flogged you many times."

His chest heaved. "You don't need to know."

She wiped the tears trickling down her face. "I do need to know, Sean."

"What difference does it make? They're scars.... I've healed."

"Have you? Because I don't think anything has healed except for your skin," she said fiercely.

He turned away, leaning on the sink.

Eleanor hesitated, then allowed her heart to lead her. She walked up to him and before he could react, she slid her hand over the mass of puckered scar tissue. His back became rigid; he stiffened.

"Why did they put you in solitary confinement, Sean?" she asked softly, her hand still on his scarred back.

He didn't move now. His breathing was labored. "I killed an inmate."

She was shocked.

He turned abruptly and she was faced with an expanse of his strong throat. His movement caused her hand to brush his arm, and she stepped back. "You killed an inmate?" she said in disbelief.

He wet his lips. "Don't...look at me...like that."

"I don't understand."

"I had to protect someone...a boy, really!" His eyes flashed. "No one else would!"

She covered her mouth with her hand, cutting off her own gasp. How much had he suffered and how much more was there to tell? How much anguish could any one man bear? "You were protecting a boy?"

His gaze glittered. "He'd been accosted...I had to stop it."

She inhaled. She thought she understood Sean's meaning and it was too terrible to contemplate.

"He died anyway...the boy, Brian. He died from the next assault. I didn't understand that world...if not one bastard, there's another."

Eleanor turned away. She couldn't stop crying now. She wept for some boy named Brian and she wept for Sean.

"Elle, don't cry," he whispered in a harsh plea.

She didn't want to cry, so she nodded and wiped her eyes.

He caught her wrists, surprising her. "It's over now.... That hell...it doesn't matter."

She didn't refute him, because it would always matter to her. She became aware of their proximity, his strong grasp and his wet, earthy scent. Moisture clung to the well-defined planes of his chest, and excitement surged in her body. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his. Would she always feel such a powerful attraction? And how was she going to manage it? "Sean, why were you put in solitary confinement for two years?"

He dropped her wrists and moved a step away from her. "The warden was dismissed shortly after my confinement. The new warden was a drunk. I didn't know then.... I didn't know anything until I escaped." He met her gaze, anguish and revulsion mingling on his face. "I thought I would be in that black hole for the rest...of my life."

She swallowed hard. "You mean, the second warden never knew you were there?"

He nodded. "But it was fortunate...otherwise I'd have hanged."

She could not imagine being locked away in such a manner and not having any idea of what was happening or how long such torture would last. "Surely someone came to see you in those two years? I mean, you were fed, weren't you-"

He cut her off. "There was a slit in the door. They fed me like a dog...the guards thought it very entertaining. The warden didn't know I was there...the guards knew and didn't care.... I saw no one, Elle...no one until the day I escaped!" His shoulders heaving, struggling with his fury, he slammed his fist into the side of the tin sink.

Eleanor flinched. "Those bastards. How did you escape?"

He glanced at her over his shoulder. The question seemed to surprise him, but oddly, his stiff body seemed to relax. "I took the warden hostage."

"So the warden-the second one-realized your existence?"

He shook his head. "Another warden...Lord Harold.... Very sorry for the inconvenience! Came to apologize." And Sean laughed, the sound bitter and shocking. "I was desperate."

He was staring at the bottom of the sink. Eleanor laid her hand on his back. The skin there rippled as he shuddered. "You must have been planning what you would do the moment someone, anyone, actually came to see you."

He turned abruptly to face her. "Yes."

His eyes were so hard and cold that she cringed. He had been through so much and in that moment, he frightened her. But she must never be frightened of him, because she had her own mission. "Thank God it is over."

His brows arched. "Is it?" And he walked away from her.

She now leaned against the sink, watching him. "What about the trial? Obviously you weren't there, yet you were convicted."

"It's done all the time.... Surely you know that? It's a military measure." He pulled out the other chair and sat down. He cradled his head on his arms, as if exhausted.

She tried to think, no easy task when she wanted to take him in her arms just to hold and comfort him. "Are you certain your conviction is legal? Maybe it can be overturned."

"Maybe." He looked up, his eyes flat. "Probably not."

"Sean, you're never going to suffer like that again!"

"Don't feel sorry for me."

Their eyes held. How could she not feel sorry for him? She knew that if she dared to speak further, she might push him away, but she had to go on. "Is that what you dream about? Those years spent alone in the darkness and solitude of that cell?"

His face tightened.

"Sean?" She dared. "Is it Peg? Is that who you dream about?"

He leaped to his feet. "Why do you have to pry? Why?"

"I am going to help you, Sean," she managed to say firmly. "I am going to help you forget all the horror of the past few years."

He was incredulous. "Like hell!"

"Don't you want your life back?" she cried. "Or is it Peg that you prefer?" And the minute the words slipped out, she regretted them.

He was furious. "You never stop...do you?"

"Don't go. I'm sorry! I won't pry anymore. Sean!"

But it was too late-he was already out the door.

SEAN PAUSED in the courtyard behind the cobbler's shop, leaning against the building, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. Why did she have to pry? Did she know that her prying was like taking a sharp knife and stabbing it in his gut, then twisting it in the wound?

Peg was dead. He wasn't going to talk about her, not ever and certainly not to Elle.

He covered his face with his hands. He had the oddest urge to go upstairs and let her put her arms around him. A part of him seemed to think that if he did that, she could chase away the demons. But he would never give in to such an urge, especially not now, not after the other night. He knew how his treacherous body would respond to the innocent act of her comforting him. He had never burned with so much heat; he had never felt so desperate and explosive. She had become such a beautiful woman, and the fact that she was so tempting confused him. But he was certain of one thing: he was going to regret the few moments of passion they had shared for the rest of his life.

And as he stood there, his rigid arousal was proof. He had come to the courtyard because he had been frightened by her question and he'd needed to escape-not just Elle, but Peg, his guilt, the past. But somehow the grief and guilt had turned into need and desire. It was jumbled up now, together, like an unwanted obsession.

That morning he had gone to the banks of the river and had used his spyglass to take a good look at the HMS Gallatine. She was sixth rate, carrying twenty-eight nine-pounders, but she looked as if she was fast. He had also called on O'Connor, who had agreed with him; McBane might be just the escort to take Elle back to Adare. He was a gentleman, so he would behave honorably toward her and probably give his life to protect her. O'Connor had said he would attempt to make contact with McBane. If he could not, he said he could escort Elle back himself.

"Sean?"

He tensed at the sound of the soft feminine voice. He turned.

Kate stood beneath the roof's overhang, smiling at him. "It's raining," she murmured. "Why are you standing outside?" The rain had lightened into a soft but steady drizzle.

He knew exactly what she wanted. He had always known when a woman wanted him, even as a boy, when the women had been girls. He had never really understood why the female of his species looked at him once, looked again and then took up the chase, but he had never lacked for female companionship because of it. He had had his first lover when he was thirteen years old and he had been taking lovers ever since. Like all the O'Neill men, his virility was extreme.

Except for the past two years, when an unnatural celibacy had been forced upon him. And then there was the other night, when he'd briefly lost his mind, taking Elle, not even in a bed.

Kate approached, her gown damp and clinging to her curves. Moisture had gathered on her face, and the skin of her chest above the lace-edged bodice of her dress. "Are you all right?" she asked.

He knew what she wanted and he wanted it, too. He was hard and desperate. And she wouldn't play games; she wouldn't demand his love in return for sex. He could simply walk with her to the livery, just across the courtyard, and they could bed down in a clean stall. "I'm fine," he said, not moving.

Her dark gaze searched his face as she paused before him. "I am glad," she murmured, cupping his cheek.

There was no reason not to take her hand and put it where he needed it to be-except one. And she was upstairs in that atrocious flat, waiting for him. She would know what he had done the moment he walked in that door. She would take one look at him and know-and she would be hurt, impossibly so, again.

He hated himself for already hurting her. How could he hurt her another time?

Kate slid her hand down his neck and over the bare, warm skin of his chest.

It was hard to breathe, hard to think. But he managed to realize that Kate might not assuage his lust, because she wasn't the one who had inspired it.

Kate smiled and moved her hand low, dipping her fingers into the waistband of his breeches.

Sean inhaled and grasped her hand firmly to remove it. Her eyes lifted and her cheeks flushed. He began to apologize, the words on the tip of his tongue, when he knew they were not alone.

Elle stood beneath the building's overhang, eyes wide.

He pushed Kate away, forgetting her in that moment. He knew he should shout at Elle, remind her that ladies do not spy, but no words came. He just stared-and she stared back.

Elle whirled and ran back through the arched overhang and into the building.

Sean realized Kate was standing beside him, her eyes wide with surprise and comprehension. "I'm sorry," he said.

"She isn't your sister," Kate gasped.

He didn't hear her-he was already racing after Elle.

ELEANOR REACHED THE FLAT and slammed the door closed behind her. She was shaking wildly, uncontrollably. She could not stop seeing Sean standing there with Kate, the moment thick with lust. She didn't hesitate-she threw one of the bolts.

Then she backed up, breathing hard. Hadn't she known he was bedding Kate, or preparing to take her to bed? She'd spied on him a dozen times with his lovers and she knew all the signs. Why should she care? He wasn't even the same man anymore, and she didn't love the man he had become. Her decision was to heal the man he had become, so she could have her best friend back. If she was ever fortunate enough to succeed, there would be other women, because Sean was virile and passionate. She was going to have to accept it sooner or later, so why not now?

He pounded on the door. "Elle. Open up."

She stared at the locked door. Being childish, she said, "No." She hated his chasing other women and being chased by them!

The banging stopped. "Elle. Open the door and let me in. I'm wet...and cold."

"I doubt that," she said. "I think you are very hot." And desire stabbed through her, painful and full.

He wanted a woman, and she had this raging need, too. She turned away from the door, shaken and confused. Why did her body have to be so aroused? Why did she have to feel so feverish whenever she looked at Sean?

"Open the door...so we can speak, damn it."

She had the inkling that she should not open the door. She went to it, slammed the bolt free and backed up.

He walked in, gave her a dark look and closed the door, locking it. "I would have thought...you'd outgrow your need...to spy on me."

"I wasn't spying," she lied. She had seen Kate from the window and her every instinct had urged her to go down to the courtyard. "We needed water and you forgot to take a bucket. I was bringing one to you."

"You were spying." He folded his arms against his chest. Eleanor stared, because unfortunately, it remained bare. His forearms thickened, both pectoral muscles bulged. Eleanor was aware of staring but could not look away. Couldn't she help him through his torment and share his bed at the same time? If she did not, there would be someone else, and it wasn't as if she were a virgin anymore.

"Listen," he said, his tone thick. "I don't want Kate."

She met his gaze. "Yes, you do."

His cheeks were flushed. "No...not Kate."

She went still. The air pulsed around them, and her own body pulsed, as well. "What do you mean?" she said breathlessly.

He made a helpless gesture, and then his gaze slammed to her chest and lower, to her hips. Abruptly he closed his eyes, as if that might stop him from looking at her in such a bold and male manner, and he turned his back to her.

Eleanor swallowed. Was he telling her that he wanted her? Because she wanted him desperately, as much as she ever had, if not more.

He was fighting for control, but whether it was to manage his anger or his lust, Eleanor did not know. "Elle...I didn't sleep with Kate...I haven't and I won't."

She did not understand. She stared at the horrific web of scars on his back. "Why not? You never were very discriminating in the past."

He just stood there, his head almost hanging, his back rigid, his shoulders stiff, and he did not speak.