A Passion Redeemed (11 page)

Charity released her arm and fetched a teapot. "And who might that be?"

Emma groaned and plopped in a chair at the scarred oak table where they ate their lunch. She reached for the oil lamp and warmed her hands over its globe. "Well, certainly not Mrs. Shaw, who keeps this back room as icy as a cave in the Mountains of Mourne."

Charity pumped water into the pot and set it to boil, then opened the stove door to stoke the dwindling peat inside. A bit of flame began to stir. Satisfied, she hurried to join Emma at the table, crossing her arms to tuck her fingers into their warmth. "That she does. But I suppose we should be grateful she provides any heat at all, as tight-fisted as she is with a pound."

"Mmmm, I suppose." Emma inched the oil lamp toward Charity. "Here, warm your fingers while you tell me what's on your mind."

A tired smile pulled at Charity's lips. "The same thing that's always on my mind, I'm afraid." She sighed. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear the man has put me under a spell."

Emma laughed. "More than likely it's just that stubborn streak of yours trading in one obsession for another."

Charity squinted over the flickering globe. "What obsession?"

"Your vendetta against your sister. Seducing her fiance like she did yours."

"How does that factor into my obsession for Mitch?" Charity sat up.

Emma cocked her head in a pensive manner. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe your passion for revenge fueled you for so long that when the deed was done, it naturally channeled into something new."

Charity blinked, her voice a whisper. "Mitch."

"Yes, Mitch," Emma repeated.

Charity pushed the oil lamp back toward Emma, her gaze fixed on a gouge in the table. "Maybe, but I think I was falling in love with him long before that. For eight lonely months I watched the way he treated my sister, like she was the world to him. I wanted that." She looked up, misty eyes belying the determined cut of her jaw. "I wanted him."

Emma's lips twisted into a sad smile while her gaze faded into a faraway stare. "An attraction driven by hate for your sister, the very woman you stole from him. It certainly explains why he's so gun-shy where you're concerned."

Charity's brow slashed high. "I don't need any reminding on that score, Emma. What I do need are ideas to make him fall in love with me."

Emma blinked, bringing her attention back to Charity. "Sorry. I know you've had your share of pain over this ordeal with your sister." She paused. A gleam suddenly lit in her eyes. "But maybe your sister is the key."

"The key," Charity said as she folded her arms.

Emma chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought. "Yes ... the key." She glanced up, and her lips parted in a soft oh. "I can't believe we didn't think of this before."

"Think of what?" Charity hovered on the edge of her chair, a definite note of impatience in her tone.

Emma plunked her arms on the table and leaned in, her voice almost breathless. "Mitch was desperately in love with Faith, right?"

Charity frosted her with a chilly look. "Yes."

"And him a confirmed bachelor? A different beautiful woman every night?"

A noisy sigh huffed from Charity's lips. "So I've heard."

Emma leaned forward, her eyes glowing softly. "Well, then, give him what he wants."

She blew a strand of hair from her eyes to diffuse the heat she felt in her cheeks. "Believe me, I've tried."

Emma giggled and reached for Charity's hand. "No, you goose. I mean, give him Faith."

A shiver skittered through her. Give him Faith?

The teapot began to whistle, and Emma popped up, bustling to the stove. She poured the tea and placed a steaming cup in front of Charity, who ignored it, eyes riveted on Emma's face.

Sinking into the chair beside her, Emma leisurely sipped her brew.

"Out with it! What do you mean?"

Emma grinned. "Well, what was it that made Faith so different anyway? Why did Mitch Dennehy say yes to her and no to dozens of other beautiful women, including you?"

Lips parted in surprise, Charity thumped back against the chair. She closed her eyes, recalling her ill-fated conversation with Mitch the night of his visit.

"Attraction is the first step to falling in love, you know, " she had told him.

"Not for me, Charity. I want more. "

A breath caught at the hollow of her throat. Her eyes sprang open. "He ... he once said something, something about ... God." She shuddered.

Emma leaned in, her hand resting on Charity's shoulder. "So give it to him, Charity. Get on your knees before the Almighty and pray."

Fury prickled the back of her neck. She pushed Emma's hand aside and stood. "Never. I don't need God to lift a finger on my behalf." She picked up her untouched tea and carried it to the sink, ready to dump it out.

"Charity, what's wrong? Why are you so annoyed?"

Charity spun around, her jaw taut with anger. "Because I'm not weak like my sister. I refuse to pay homage to some power-hungry god who may or may not choose to strike me down at any given moment."

The scars on Emma's face faded to white. "Charity, don't talk like that. God is to be feared."

Her tone hardened. "Yes, Emma, I fear him. I fear that given the chance, he will steal everything I've ever loved. I don't want a god who chooses favorites. He chose Faith as the beloved recipient of all his blessings, including my father's love. Well, I can choose too-to live without him."

Emma's fingers trembled as they lighted upon Charity's arm. "Charity, no. That makes me afraid. No one can live without him."

Her gentle touch sapped the anger from Charity's soul. She stared into the troubled eyes of the only friend she had ever really known. "Don't be afraid, Emma. I've lived this long without a bolt from Heaven striking me dead. I'm sure I'll be fine. After all, he took the life of my sister, the love of my father, and the marriage I had hoped to have. What more can he do?"

Her friend's dark eyes were shadowed with worry. "Oh, Charity, I'm so sorry, sorry for bringing it up. I never meant to upset you."

Charity swallowed hard, determined not to give in to the hot wetness springing to her eyes. "Don't be sorry, Emma. I love you. And you had no way of knowing." She lifted her chin and moved toward the table, taking a seat. "Besides, you've actually given me an idea."

"What?"

She cocked her head. "He wants my sister? I'll give him my sister."

"How?" Emma scurried to sit beside her. The soft flicker of the oil lamp danced across the marred table. It cast shadows over the grooves and pock marks dominating its surface.

An impish smile settled on Charity's lips. "How? Well, Mrs. Malloy, it was your idea, after all. Perhaps the two of us just need to put our heads together and figure that out."

What was he doing here? Again? Mitch sucked in a deep breath, thick with the loamy scent of wet leaves and burning peat, and turned the ignition off. The car sputtered to silence. He sagged back in the seat, surrounded by stillness except for drizzle on the roof of his Model T, the distant yapping of a dog, and the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

Chin stiff and face straight ahead, he glanced at Charity's grandmother's house out of the corner of his eye as if it were a forbidden zone, dangerous to his health, toxic to his life. He exhaled, suddenly aware he'd been holding his breath. The cheery light spilling through chintz-curtained windows winked back at him, beckoning. He flung the door wide, slowly unfolding from the vehicle to stand and face the cottage head-on. He grunted. To face his fear head-on. Not fear of losing his heart to Bridget or Mima. No, not that. Fear of losing his heart to her. A woman who was a feast to his eyes but a drought to his soul. He sighed and slammed the car door shut, bobbling a small gift-wrapped box in his hand. What was he doing here?

With great hesitation, he approached the wraparound porch. He stared at its layers of weathered paint and its rustic bogwood swing and wondered if he should have declined Bridget's invitation. He lifted his fist to knock on the door. Mima's eightysecond birthday.

"Can you come?" Bridget had asked in that little-girl voice of hers.

No. I'm busy. For the rest of my life.

"I wouldn't miss it," he had responded. But he would have liked to. In a heartbeat. He knocked again. The door wheeled open to a shaft of lamplight and heavenly smells from the kitchen. His stomach rumbled.

"Mitch, thank you for coming!" Bridget's eyes twinkled with genuine fondness, her face flushed the slightest shade of pink. She ushered him in, tugging him forward as if she thought he might bolt. "It means so much to Mima and me."

He smiled, his eyes inadvertently scanning the room. And Charity.

Her gaze lit on the box in his hands. "And what's this?"

"For Mima. Chocolates." He handed it to her and slipped out of his coat, tossing it over the rack in the hall. He turned, his smile dimming. "She can have chocolate, can't she?"

Bridget chuckled, the sound of it warming his soul. "Yes, of course. It's her favorite. Although I have to limit her to special occasions." She looped her arm through his and looked up. Her blue eyes were identical to Charity's except for the abundance of fine lines around their almond shape. "She'll love it."

They entered the kitchen with its crackling fire and flickering candles, the room aglow with expectation. Charity turned at the sink, her smile wide and welcoming. "We're having Mima's favorite-pot roast and dumplings. Hope you're hungry."

Mitch's throat went dry. He stared and swallowed. He was. But not for pot roast.

Charity bounded over, her skin luminous in the radiance of the firelight. She surprised him with a gentle hug, and a trace of lilacs teased his senses. She pulled away. "Can I get you a glass of wine, cider ... milk?" A glimmer of mischief danced in her eyes.

"Cider sounds good," he said, eyeing her with a faint smile.

Bridget patted his arm. "Mitch, you sit down at the table while I bring Mima in."

"Let me help," he said.

Bridget shook her head. "Absolutely not. This is our usual routine and I will handle it." She led him to the chair at the head of the table and gently pushed him down. "Now, sit!" She disappeared down the hall, humming and leaving him to Charity.

He turned and watched as Charity moved to the icebox, chattering about Bridget's cider being the best in all of Dublin. She poured him a glass, and he couldn't help but notice she seemed different. Softer. He scrunched his brows, trying to decipher what it was. The hair? Possibly. The flaxen tresses that normally swayed about her shoulders now gathered into a loose topknot at the back of her head. A few loose tendrils strayed, feathering her neck with soft curls of spun gold. He liked it, he decided. More schoolmarm than temptress. Even her dress bespoke a more subdued Charity. Although her maroon tweed pencil skirt revealed curves no fabric could hide, the cream blouse was cotton rather than silk, its wide bib obscuring the full shape of her breasts.

She handed him the cider, a fragile smile gracing her lips. Her perfectly shaped brows knitted into a frown, sloping as she looked up. "Mitch, I apologize for coming to the Times."

Heat cuffed the back of his neck. He took a gulp of the cider. "Forget it," he said, trying to clear the gruffness from his throat.

She swiped a curl from her face. "No, it was wrong of us ... of me ... to come." She turned away to occupy herself with the pot roast on the stove. When she lifted the lid, the steam whirled up, enveloping her in a cloud of wonderful smells. She returned the lid with a thud, her fingers lingering there as she kept her back to him. "I ... I wasn't thinking clearly ... I was ... being selfish ... thinking of myself. I wanted your attention."

Mitch stared, his gaze fixed on the nape of her neck, the curve of her hips. Her words suddenly registered. Honesty? From Charity O'Connor? His eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked, regretting the word the moment it left his lips. He already knew why.

She turned, her expression as pure and open as a child's. "Because I think I may be in love with you, and I want a chance to find out."

His heart constricted, and his breathing shallowed. "You're not in love with me, Charity."

"How will I know ... unless you give me the chance to see?" She leaned back, supporting herself with hands that gripped white on the counter. There was a hint of pleading in her eyes. "I think about you, Mitch, dream about you ..."

He gripped the cider, draining it dry, then slapped the glass on the table. "I can't love you."

She blinked, the luminous eyes jolted with hurt. She lifted her chin. "Can't? Or won't?"

He expelled a breath of frustration, his eyes fixed hard on hers. "Won't."

"Because of Faith?"

"Because of you. We don't believe the same way."

A thin veneer settled over her. "You mean like Faith."

He eyed her, his jaw stiff. "Yes, I mean like Faith."

She inhaled a deep breath, as if drawing in strength. Her chin notched higher. "Then I guess I'll have to settle for friendship. I care about you, Mitch. I want you in my life."

Friends. He studied the strong line of her jaw, the lush, full lips so ripe for tasting, the graceful curve of her neck plunging toward a body that took his breath away. Friends?