The Stolen Bride Read Online Free PDF Page B

movement, so many people, so much chatter, conversation and noise. And there had been so much dirt, soot, smoke and refuse. He felt strange and alien, like a farmer from the far Northwest who had never been in a city before.
    In the few short hours he had been in town, his senses had not become accustomed to the sensory overload. Now, in the pub, he had to hold a hand over his eyes. Briefly, he felt a surge of panic and it was not for the first time. There were too many loud people in this single room, he thought, and his first instinct was to flee.
    Yet he remained capable of reason. His mind knew that the overcrowded public room was far preferable to the small box that had been his cell. And he told himself that he would eventually become accustomed to the noise and the crowd.
    Someone entered the barroom, brushing past him as he did so.
    Sean did not think. The dagger appeared in his hand, a reflex meant to ensure his survival, so swiftlythat no observer would have seen any movement. But the moment he grasped the carved handle above the lethal blade, the moment he held the dagger chest high, poised to slice the intruder’s throat, some sanity and even humanity returned. Sean stopped himself. He braced hard against the wall, panting, subduing the urge to defend himself, the urge to kill in that defense, reminding himself that he was not a beast, never mind the past two years of being caged and fed like one. He was a man, even if he was the only one who might think so.
    He leaned his head against the wall. In truth, he no longer knew who or what he was. Maybe he had genuinely become this creature of the night, a man who would kill without provocation, John Collins.
    Despair suddenly clawed at him, but he had enough talons in his flesh and he shoved it savagely aside.
    “Hey, boyo, beg yer pardon,” the very drunken man said, glancing at him.
    He had stolen the dagger from the warden when he had taken him hostage. Sean now hid the weapon, having flipped it deftly so that the blade faced up his arm, against his shirtsleeve, the worn handle hidden in his hand. He knew he needed to smile—it was the polite thing to do, the way a gentleman would behave—but he could not perform the task. Suddenly, he desperately wanted to manage the act. He ordered his facial muscles to do so, but they were so ill-used that a brief attempt produced no change in his expression. Sean gave up, staring at the unwanted interloper.
    The man’s eyes widened with fear. He hurried away.
    Sean stood very still, his breathing hard, the ugly sounds of the drunken crowd still surging over him and through him, waves of disturbing sound pounding inside his head. Maybe it would be better once he was on a ship, once he was put to sea.
    He pushed through the crowd, carefully avoiding all physical contact. He had glimpsed a small corner table far in the back, in the shadows, against a wall, and he made his way to it. When he reached it, he felt safer, relieved. Two crooked chairs were there, but neither satisfied him. With his foot, he shoved one chair against the wall and only then did he sit. His back was protected, and he could see the entire public room and everyone inside it.
    He gazed out at the thirty or forty men present, all drinking, laughing, speaking, some playing at die or cards, and he once again felt like an outcast. These men were Irishmen, just as he was. Once, he had been prepared to give his life defending them against tyranny and injustice, and he almost had. Now he feltno kinship with them. Except for confusion and surprise, he felt nothing at all.
    It was then that he saw the man in the fine blue wool jacket approaching, a wildflower in his lapel, a small satchel in hand. Because he feared a trap, Sean carefully let the dagger reverse itself in his hand, and he laid it on his thigh, beneath the table.
    The gentleman saw him and paused before the table. “Collins?”
    Sean nodded, responding to his alias. Then he gestured at a chair.
    The