A Passion Most Pure (55 page)

He buried his face in her hair, and his voice brimmed with emotion as he held her close. "I know, Marcy, I'm so sorry. I notified your mother before I was to ship out, and that's when I discovered you'd gone to Boston. I came directly here."

"They know you're alive?" she cried, and he nodded. "Thank God!" she whispered and then suddenly sat upright on the bed. "Why didn't they send me a telegram? Why didn't you?"

He gazed up at her, his lips suddenly solemn. "I'm sorry, Marcy, but a cold telegram would have arrived only days prior, and I ... I wanted to see-no, I had to see-your face ... when you found out. I had to."

Her lips parted in shock. She slapped him on the chest. "Patrick O'Connor," she screamed, "how dare you put me through such torture!"

He grinned and traced his finger on her arm. "Forgive me, Marcy. But like I said-God kept me alive for this moment-the moment I could touch you again, love you again ..."

She caught her breath. He smiled, his eyes never leaving hers as he leaned to kiss her. The minute their lips touched, he pulled her to him, his hands hot as they caressed her body.

"Oh, Patrick, there's no way I can tell you how much I missed you," she whispered.

All at once, he pulled away. Standing up, he quietly walked to the door while Marcy sat up in surprise. She watched as he closed it, her heart beating wildly. He was thinner, but muscular, she thought, and a lump bobbed in her throat when she heard the lock click. Turning around, he slowly walked to the bed with a grin on his face. "Try," he whispered.

Her cheeks burned as heat jolted through her. Easing back on the bed, she tossed a strand of hair over her shoulder and returned his grin with a saucy one of her own. "Thought you'd never ask, soldier."

His laugh was decadent as he sank beside her, pulling her to him with an urgency that made her dizzy. "Oh, Patrick, I love you so much," she breathed. Her pulse pounded as his lips traveled her neck and shoulders. Her hands couldn't get enough of touching him, and he responded by kissing her hard on the mouth, passion raging through them like wildfire.

"It was thoughts of you, Marcy, that kept me sane," he whispered in her ear, "and thoughts of this that drove me crazy." He laughed and rolled on his back, his eyes wicked with desire. In one abrupt motion, he pulled her to him and kissed her, enflaming the fire within until it was out of control.

Never in all her twenty-one years had Faith known such gratitude as this, sitting across from her father and mother in a disrupted kitchen, laughing and crying as they sipped endless cups of coffee. Her father looked leaner and harder, perhaps his face more lined from the weathered look of a soldier too long in the trenches, but handsome as ever. He sat lounging in the chair, his arm draped over her mother's shoulder. Marcy's eyes glowed as she snuggled near, leaning against his chest as if she couldn't quite get close enough. Indeed, she couldn't. She had her husband back from the dead, and Faith suspected she wouldn't let him too far out of range anytime soon.

Faith would never forget the moment he entered the kitchen. She and Mitch had been talking about something Maisie had said when the door swung open. She had assumed it was her mother and continued wrapping newspaper around the plate she'd been holding. "Are you done already?" she had asked, her back to the door. And then she heard him laugh.

"More than done," he said.

The plate in her hand crashed to the floor. She whirled around, and her hand flew to her mouth as a faint cry issued forth. In the next moment, she was bolting across the room, flinging herself into his arms. Patrick scooped her up off the floor and gave her a ferocious hug. "Oh, I've missed my girl!" he said with a throaty laugh.

She clutched his neck, sobbing in his arms. "Daddy, oh Daddy. . ."

Patrick smiled and put her back down. "Look at you! You've gone and grown up on me."

"They said you were dead ..."

"And you believed them?" he scoffed. "Where's your faith, young lady?" He stroked the tears from her cheek. "I'll tell you all about it soon enough. But for now, where's your mother?" His eyes scanned the kitchen and rested on Mitch.

Faith blushed. "Oh, Father, this is Mitch. I wrote you about him; he's my ... well, we were ... engaged."

Patrick's eyebrow arched in surprise. "Were?"

Mitch held out his hand to Patrick, a grin on his face. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. O'Connor. Faith has talked so much about you, I feel like we've already met."

"Good to meet you too, Mitch, but I hope you'll excuse me if I cut this short for now." His eyes twinkled. "You see, I have an important message for my wife. Where is she?"

"In her bedroom," Faith said with a giggle. "Uh, excuse me ... your bedroom," she corrected, prompting a wink from her father before he left the kitchen.

The excitement coursed through Faith's body as she thought about what her mother's reaction would be. Within seconds she heard a scream, and then another, and she grinned at Mitch, her hands over her heart. "I tell you Mitch, theirs is the most romantic relationship I've ever seen."

Mitch smiled faintly.

"Ours was too," she whispered, her voice shy. He flinched and turned away to grab another plate. She sighed. So that was how he wanted it, she thought sadly, reaching for a dish to wrap. "What time does your ship pull out again?" she asked, changing the subject.

Mitch looked at his watch briefly, then returned his attention to wrapping one of Marcy's huge salad bowls. "Five," he said, his tone flat.

"What time is it now?"

"Noon." He never missed a beat putting the newspaperwrapped bowl into a crate. He grabbed another.

Faith eyed him, somewhat annoyed. "Is this what the next few hours are going to be like? Because if they are, I'd just as soon you leave now."

He slowly turned, his blue eyes glinting like quartz. "I'll leave when I'm good and ready."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "Michael was right. You are pigheaded."

"Words spoken by the master," he remarked dryly. Stay angry, he told himself. She spun around with her hands clenched on her hips. "I wouldn't marry you if you got down on your knees and begged."

Mitch glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Well, we both know that's not going to happen. If memory serves, I believe I'm the one who called the engagement off."

He watched the fuse lick its way to the dynamite. Her green eyes sparked with anger, and her lips pressed white. She turned and kicked an empty crate.

Mitch felt his resolve thawing. He fought a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Your temper is going to get you into trouble one of these days."

Her chin lashed up in defiance. "Well, you won't have to worry about that, now will you? I never would have said yes if I'd known what a bully you were."

"You knew," he said curtly, then turned to face her full on. "And trust me-I never would have asked had I'd known how much grief you'd be."

Blood surged into her cheeks. She slapped at a wild strand of hair in her eyes and then struggled to compose herself. Her eyes iced to cool. "Forgive me for ruining your life," she whispered. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there's packing I can do upstairs." She turned.

He swore out loud and strode toward her, eyes blazing and jaw clenched tight. He reached for her arm and spun her around. "I don't want to fight with you."

"You could have fooled me."

He took a deep breath and loosened his grip. Instantly, his anger faded to hurt. "Go home with me," he whispered, his tone suddenly pleading. "Your mother won't be sailing now; you can use her ticket. Faith, I love you . . ." He released his hold, then slammed his palm against the wall. "I wish I didn't, but I do."

She blinked, her anger melting away. Everything had happened so quickly, it hadn't occurred that her mother would stay ... that they would all stay. Only moments ago, Boston had been dead to her and Ireland the home she longed for. Suddenly, in the time it took for her father to walk through that door, it all changed again, and the shock of it chilled her. Mitch seemed to be watching her closely, his breathing suspended as he awaited her answer.

"Oh. I hadn't realized ... yes, of course Mother will stay . . ." she whispered.

He took her face in his hands. "Come with me," he said, bending to kiss her. Her pulse stirred, and then without warning, she thought of Collin. An awful ache severed her response.

"Come with me," he repeated, and she shivered in his arms when she realized she couldn't. All at once, in the time it took for the breath to rise and fall in her chest, she knew-knew that her life was here, here with her parents, in Boston. To begin again, after a painful delay, the life she had known and loved. And, she thought to herself with trembling, a life with Collin, if he would still have her.

Mitch searched her face, and what he saw must have spelled his doom. He dropped his hands to his sides.

"I can't," she whispered.

"I didn't think so." He slowly walked to the table and sagged into the chair, as if in a stupor. "But you know how stubborn we newsmen can be." He attempted a faint smile, then looked up. The smile faded. "It's over, isn't it, Faith?"

Her knees buckled at the weight of his words, and she gripped the wall to steady herself.

"I thought so," he said quietly. "The moment I saw that pretty-boy soldier standing in your kitchen, I had a hunch I was history."

She slacked against the wall, hand over her mouth.

He jumped up and walked to her side and folded her in his arms. His head rested on hers as she wept against his chest. He stroked her hair. "I'm going to be fine, you know. And so are you. We both know God's in control of our lives. This is his doing, not ours. Apparently he has something even better in mind for both of us."

Faith looked up through swollen eyes. "I do love you, Mitch."

"I know you do. What's not to love?" he asked, a shaky smile on his lips. "But, we both know it's Collin who has the corner on your heart."

He grabbed her chin with his hand. "So help me, if that fool doesn't appreciate what he has, I'll take him down, I swear I will. Nothing would give me more pleasure ... except having you. If it doesn't work out, I want you on the first ship to Ireland. Understood?"

She nodded while her eyes pooled with tears once again. He wiped the wetness from her face and shook his head. "As God as my witness, never have I seen more tears in my entire life until I met you and your family. Tell me, please, that the O'Connor men aren't like this." He gave her a hug, then released her again. He picked up a wrapped dish from a crate and waved it in the air. "We've wasted enough time. Start unpacking."

For the first time that day, Faith sensed that the tension between them had finally eased, and the finality of their decision left them with a strange peace.

Eventually, Patrick and Marcy arrived in the kitchen, their faces aglow with the same love and tenderness that had mesmerized Faith her whole life. Mother and daughter took one look at each other, and the tears bubbled in unison. Patrick grinned at Mitch.

"Oh, Faith, isn't God wonderful?" her mother breathed. She touched her daughter's cheek. "I have my Patrick back, and you have your father! Who would have thought after all we went through that we would have our lives back again?" She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "How about some lunch?"

Her father grinned again. "Well, I don't know about Mitch, but this homecoming has helped me work up quite an appetite." His comment sent a soft blush into his wife's cheeks, and he laughed out loud. "Have I told you, Marceline, just how much I love you?"

"You have," she quipped with a twinkle in her eye, "but you're a year behind, I'm afraid, and you've got some making up to do."

"Well, I do," he stated. "And that goes for my girl, as well." He turned to Mitch. "Honestly, Mitch, do I or do I not have some of the most beautiful women in my life?"

Mitch smiled. "You're a lucky man, Mr. O'Connor."

Patrick shook his head and stretched back in his chair. "Oh no, my boy. I'm afraid luck has nothing to do with it, whatsoever. It's called 'blessed,' and I most definitely am."

They devoured egg salad and toast as if it were one of Marcy's Christmas feasts, then finished off the cobbler from the night before. When it was gone, they talked over coffee fresh brewed by Marcy as Patrick recounted his year in France for them.

For Patrick, it was therapeutic to laugh in this kitchen once again where so many good memories sheltered him from the horrors of war. He sipped his coffee, thoroughly enjoying Mitch as they chatted about the newspaper business and Michael Reardon.

All at once, Patrick set his cup down and turned his attention to Marcy. "So! Collin's home, is he now? How did he look?"

Mitch bounded up to get more coffee and brought the pot over, his eyes avoiding Faith's. "Anybody need a refill?" he asked.

Patrick nodded and held out his cup. "Thanks, Mitch." He took a sip. "Is he completely recovered from the chest wound?"

"He seems to be," Marcy said. "And he looks wonderful. A little thinner, perhaps-like you, my love, but handsome as ever."

"Good," he exclaimed. "Goodness knows I missed that boy. Truth be told, Mitch, he's like one of my own." Suddenly Patrick bolted upright with a surge of adrenaline. "Faith, darlin', ring him up on the phone, will you? Tell him to come over, but don't say why."