A Passion Denied (48 page)

Michael’s lips quirked. He shook his napkin out and placed it in his lap. “Must I remind you I’ve been dining at the O’Connors’?”

An uncommon mix of irritation and humor twitched on Brady’s lips. “No reminder necessary. Glad to see they’ve been a good influence on you.”

Michael winked at Helena, then grinned at Brady. “They have. But not as good as you’re likely to be, little brother. Shall we thank God for our food . . . and our good fortune?”

Brady jerked awake, his mind in a momentary fog as he blinked at the crystal chandelier overhead. Realization struck, and the muscles in his stomach instantly knotted. He sat up on the bed and stared, his breathing shallow and his pulse racing. Despite the fact he’d been here for almost a week, he still awakened with a jolt every time. Only one more night, he thought to himself with relief. The nights had been the worst, full of strange dreams and sick feelings, a stark contrast to the days he shared with his brother and stepsister.

He actually enjoyed spending time with Helena, who had taken him shopping several times, her favorite thing to do, while Michael attended to business. Midweek they had met with Lucille’s attorney, finalizing the disbursement of inheritance with a sweep of Brady’s hand. Michael had been right. Lucille had left the house to Brady, stipulating that both Helena and Michael could live there as long as they liked. She compensated Michael with the printing company and Helena with an obscene art and jewelry collection. The balance of the estate was divided into equal thirds.

His gaze darted around the room where he’d spent the last years of his youth. Heavy brocade drapes, the same deep green as the plush carpet, trailed to the floor, split by white gossamer sheers that faded to pink as dusk invaded the sky. Dark mahogany bookcases filled with leather-bound books lined the wall by the French doors, where an antiquated telescope stood mounted on a stand. His gaze settled on the intricately carved wardrobe on the far side of the room, and sweat immediately layered the back of his neck.

His hand instinctively touched the open Bible he’d been reading before he’d fallen asleep, desperate for the strength it offered. His throat felt tight. He licked his dry lips as his breathing accelerated, eyes trained on the mahogany wardrobe—the one he’d avoided all week. The one with the secret drawer.

All at once the memory of that final night in this room tainted his mind and he shot up off the bed as if scalded, his body trembling. He stood for several seconds, his breathing coming in rasps, then slowly moved toward the wardrobe. Would they still be there? The gifts from his father? Favors meant to make a man out of a boy?

His fingers felt thick as he opened the wardrobe, bending to unlatch the lock hidden far in the back. He heard it click and carefully pried it open. His gasp violated the stillness of the room.

Empty!

His legs buckled and he fell to his knees, relief washing through him like a tide.
Gone!
All the vile poison, the alcohol that had fed his desires, primed him for Lucille, all gone, gone.
Thank you, God!

He drew in a deep breath, still shaking from the sickening pull of his father’s liquid vice. Livingston Brady had been a decent man, but a godless one, hell-bent on having boys just like him—virile, powerful, insatiable. Thirsting, just like him, after all that life offered.

His mother had never known about her boys’ wicked little habit, and his father would have never guessed the damage it would do. He’d died and left a legacy to his son—a young widow who needed a shoulder to cry on. And much, much more.

Brady closed his eyes, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. God had been with him, even then. He knew now that the prayers of Mrs. Briggs had factored into his salvation. How much had she known? Had she guessed he’d shared the sins of his father . . . as well as his wife?

Had Michael?

“God forgive me,” he whispered, even though he knew that God had long since done so. But being in this house again, seeing Michael and Helena, bombarded his brain with doubts. Would he ever be free from the perversion of his past? Really and truly free?

And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

The truth.
Brady hung his head. “God help me to find it,” he whispered, wetness pricking his eyes. He thought of Helena and shivered. “And give me the strength to hear it.”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow. It seems like you just got here.” Helena propped her chin in her hand and gave him a pretty pout.

He smiled, more relaxed than he ever thought he’d be in this house. But it had been a good week. He’d finally gotten to know his brother and stepsister better, and the three of them had attained a harmony of sorts, laughing, joking, almost becoming family again. That is, when he didn’t let the past get in the way. He leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs, raising a toast with a crystal goblet of Helena’s homemade ginger ale punch.

“I’ll be back from time to time. And you can always visit me in Boston, you know.” He downed his fifth glass.

She scrunched her nose. “It won’t be the same, and you know it.”

Michael stood to his feet and swooped all three goblets up from the table. He took them to the sideboard and ladled more punch. “Once he goes back to work, Helena, you’d never see him anyway. He works day and night.” He placed her glass on the table, then handed Brady his.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said, sipping her punch with a dreamy look in her eyes. She hiccupped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Ooops! Excuse me.”

“Yeah, thanks, Michael, although the more I drink, the thirstier I seem to get.” He reached for his glass and paused, the rim halfway to his lips. A crease furrowed his brow. “Helena, are you sure there’s no alcohol in this?”

Michael laughed. “Our sister is not a lawbreaker, John. She wouldn’t put alcohol in her punch.”

Brady sniffed his drink and lowered the glass. “I don’t smell any, but I’ve got this warm, relaxed glow spreading through my limbs, like I’ve just soaked in a hot bath.” He draped one arm on the table and leaned in, giving her a half smile. “Helena, did you put alcohol in this punch?”

Her eyes flicked to Michael, then back to Brady. She giggled and X’d a finger over the front of her pretty pink dress. “No, John, I didn’t. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He gave Michael a woozy stare and arched a brow. “Did you?”

Michael grinned and cuffed him on the shoulder before swiping Brady’s glass from the table. “Shall we continue this farewell party in the parlor?”

Brady stood to his feet, and the room began to rotate. He clutched the back of his chair to steady himself. “Michael! Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Michael chuckled at the door, goblets in hand. “Didn’t have to try very hard, little brother. You’re a lightweight. When’s the last time you had alcohol anyway, before prohibition?”

Brady moaned and pressed a hand to his head to try and stop the spinning. “Seventeen,” he mumbled.

Michael gaped. “The year nineteen seventeen? Or the
age
seventeen?”

Brady grabbed his water glass and chugged. He took a deep breath and anchored his hand to the chair as he began to weave. “The age.”

Helena took his arm with a giggle. “Easy does it, John. I’m a bit lightheaded too, but I do believe you’re drunk as a skunk.”

She ushered him into the parlor where he tumbled into the comfortable armchair he’d monopolized all week. Of course, anything would feel comfortable as limp and relaxed as he was right now. He knew he should be angry, but he hadn’t felt this free in a long time.

He shot them a stupid grin. “Remind me to slap you silly when I sober up. Why’d you do this anyway?”

Michael handed him his drink, then plopped down in a leather wing chair the color of his eyes—glossy brown. He hoisted his feet up on the ottoman and sipped his punch. “Had to, John. This is your last night here, and we needed to celebrate.” He glanced at Helena, curled up on a blue flame-stitch love seat. His grin faded to a faint smile. “Besides, we have some air to clear.”

Brady rested his head on the back of the couch and studied his brother with slitted eyes. A flick of alarm curled in his stomach. He stretched his legs out on the ottoman and took a quick drink. “What kind of air?”

“You know what kind, John,” Michael said quietly. “You and Helena need to talk. About that night. About what happened. It’s the only way the two of you will get past this.”

Brady swallowed another drink and closed his eyes. The room began to whirl, and he quickly opened them again, fighting off the nausea rising in his gut. Perhaps Michael was right. He needed to hear the truth, and he wasn’t sure he could have done it sober. It had taken months of prayer and therapy for Matt to convince him he even had a right to love someone as pure and innocent as Beth. He braced himself for the facts as seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl. Helena held the key to setting him free or destroying months of healing. He shut his eyes, and felt his world spin out of control.

God help me.

“John.”

Her whisper jolted him and he stared at her with eyes open wide. She knelt on the floor beside him and took his hand, her face earnest.

“Michael says you don’t remember what happened that night. But I want you to be free from this. You’re my brother, John, and I love you.”

Then tell me nothing happened.

“That night—the night of the storm—I was frightened, so I ran to Mother’s room, but she wasn’t there.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, and she brushed them away with the side of her hand. “I knew Michael wasn’t home yet, so I came to your room.”

The air in Brady’s lungs stilled. He stared at his stepsister, his body paralyzed with fear.

She looked away. “You weren’t alone, John, and I didn’t understand.” With a quiver in her lip, she returned her gaze to his. “Mother was sleeping in your bed.”

Numbness buzzed in his brain. He tried to stagger up. “No, she wasn’t! I left her in her room, I swear.”

She clung to his hand. “It’s okay, John. I forgive you because I love you. I just want to know why.”

A sick feeling roiled in his gut, threatening to rise. He jerked his hand free and stood, unsteady on his legs. His voice was a hoarse rasp. “God help me, Helena, we’d been drinking, it’s true, and your mother was lonely, but I . . . I couldn’t . . . wouldn’t give her the comfort she wanted. I fled to my room, I swear, and I was alone.”

She jumped to her feet, her eyes glints of amethyst in a pale face. “No, John, you weren’t. Just admit it and let it go.” She put a hand on his arm and lifted her chin. “My mother said you seduced her.”

Bile soured his tongue, threatening the contents of his stomach. “No!”

“She said you told her you loved her, that you needed her . . .”

He moved to steady his hand on the back of the chair, the memory of his feelings and desire for his father’s wife making him dizzy.

“Did you, John? Did you tell her you wanted her?”

He never blinked as shock glazed in his eyes. “I . . . did, but I . . . I never acted on it, I swear.”

Helena’s voice was but a faint whisper. “My mother said you did . . . and even though I didn’t understand it at the time, I saw you, John . . . I saw you both.”

Her words, spoken in the gentlest of tones, shattered any peace he ever hoped to have. He had no recall of that night in his room, not since he’d staggered from Lucille’s bed, but he had hoped—
prayed
—that his fears had been totally wrong.

He sagged against the back of the chair with a low groan, despair suffocating him like the darkest of tombs.
God help me,
I’m a monster.

With trembling hands, he released her hold and gently pushed her away. Her face was a blur as tears streamed his own, and his voice broke with pain. “Helena, I’m sorry, sorry you had to witness that. I didn’t remember. Please believe me—I never meant to hurt you or your mother. And God forgive me, that’s why I left.”

She drew in a deep breath and stood on tiptoe, cradling his face in her hands. “I forgive you, John, because I love you. Then and now.”

He nodded and staggered toward the door, perversion leeching the life from his soul like a slow-bleeding death.
I forgive
you, John
, she had whispered. But it didn’t matter.