A Passion Redeemed (25 page)

He chuckled and took her arm in his, leading her up the steps to massive mahogany doors twice the height of a man. Brass handles, burnished to a gleam, took the shape of roaring lions while the wood of the door peaked to a commanding arch before converging with lustrous white marble.

The polished door swung open, attended by the least lifelike creature Charity had ever seen. Well over six foot five, the man stood ramrod straight to the side, lips pursed and face pinched. His pointy chin was elevated, as if leading the way. "Good evening, Master Rigan."

"Good evening, Robert. This is my fiancee, Charity O'Connor."

"Congratulations, sir, and good evening, Miss Charity."

"Good evening, Robert," Charity said, cheeks flushing.

Rigan allowed her to enter first, then followed, quickly shedding his coat and draping it over Robert's arm. He peeled Charity's wrap from her shoulders and handed it to the butler. "Is the family having cocktails?"

"Yes, sir, in the library. Shall I announce you?"

Rigan planted a kiss on Charity's bare neck, sending another rush of heat to her cheeks. "No, thank you, Robert, that won't be necessary."

"Very good, sir."

Rigan hooked Charity's arm and started toward an extravagant set of burlwood doors. Charity balked, forcing the heels of her new Mary Jane shoes to dig into the plush Oriental rug.

He stopped and arched a brow. "What's wrong?"

She swallowed hard several times as she looked around the foyer, taking in the glittering chandelier, the sweeping marble staircase, the spray of fresh flowers perfectly arranged in an exquisite crystal-cut vase. She began to hyperventilate.

"Darling, what's wrong? Your skin is as pale as that alabaster sculpture."

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her hand flew to her stomach, its contents threatening to rise.

He took her clammy hand in his. A smile tilted his lips. "I can't believe it. The indomitable Charity O'Connor-afraid?"

She nodded, sucking in a deep breath. "Oh, Rigan, I ... I ... what if they don't like me?"

He threw his head back and laughed. "They won't be able to help themselves, darling, any more than I can." His gaze roved the length of her, taking in the graceful fit of her pale blue dress, cinched snugly at her small waist before falling into shear jagged layers to the middle of her calf. She didn't miss the smoky look in his eyes as he scanned her V-neck bodice, where just a hint of her breasts could be seen through the gauzy overlay. His finger slowly traced from the nape of her neck to the yoke of her dress, pausing briefly to fondle the wisps of curls that strayed from her loose chignon. The blood warmed in her cheeks. He grinned. "Especially my father who, like his son, has a penchant for beautiful women."

Rigan took her arm and tucked it firmly in his. "Besides, your father is the editor for one of the largest papers in the world. My father will like that. He has an unhealthy fascination with newsmen who work their way to the top."

Charity glanced at Rigan's profile, noting that his tonealong with his jaw-had suddenly hardened.

She had time for only one deep breath before he ushered her into a room that immediately took it away. Two entire walls of floor-to-ceiling cherrywood bookcases gleamed with shelf after shelf of gilded books rivaling those in Boston's prestigious library. A stunning collection of artwork seldom seen outside of a museum graced the other two walls, interspersed with large windows and a set of French doors that led to a lighted courtyard. A crackling fire blazed in a marble fireplace tucked in between two walls of books, and the spitting and popping of the logs were the only sounds Charity heard upon entering the room.

Rigan tugged her forward, his palm shoring up the small of her back. "Good evening, everyone. Mother, Father, I'd like you to meet the woman who's agreed to become my wife, Charity O'Connor."

Charity radiated a confident smile that defied the nausea in her stomach. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

The room was a morgue, deafening in its silence. Even the crackling fire resorted to stealth while five pairs of eyes assessed her, measuring her every breath, every quiver of her hand, every hair on her head. The smile grew stale on her lips. She lifted her jaw and stiffened her spine.

A silver-haired version of Rigan stepped forward, clearing his throat. He extended his hand with a disarming smile as his gaze traveled her body. "Charity, please forgive our rude lack of speech. Rigan told us you were lovely, but as usual, it seems he woefully underestimated. I'm Blaine Gallagher, the patriarch of this family. Come, take a seat by the fire while I make the introductions."

He led her to a chair next to a woman who was as plain as he was handsome. Her nondescript eyes flicked up nervously, revealing sweeping lashes offset by too large a nose. Dark hair, the exact shade of Rigan's, was piled high on her head and wisped with gray. She offered a bejeweled hand in stark contrast to the simple gray dress she wore. Her thin lips trembled into a faint smile. "Hello, Charity, I'm Rigan's mother, Olivia. Rigan has spoken of you so often, it was clear he was smitten. And now we see why."

Charity clasped her hand and smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Gallagher. It's wonderful to be here."

Rigan's father dismissed his wife with a wave of his hand. "Charity, that bored-looking young woman reclining on the settee is Rigan's sister, Fiona, and the gentleman hovering over her is her husband, Bennett."

Charity nodded, her nerves fluttering at the look of disdain on Fiona's face. She appeared to be a replica of her mother, albeit devoid of humility. She simply stared, her eyes mere slits of contempt while she guzzled her drink. Her husband-tall and striking-seemed cut from the same cloth as Rigan and his father, with a confident air and an eye for women. His smile, more than friendly, set her on edge.

Blaine Gallagher turned on his heel. "May I offer you a glass of port?"

She nodded and sat down as he shot a look in Rigan's direction. "Don't just stand there, Rigan, pour your fiancee a glass of wine so we can raise a toast."

Charity observed the tension twitching in Rigan's face when he handed her the glass. She met his eyes and smiled. His jaw softened. He bent to kiss her cheek, then stood and proposed a toast. "To Charity O'Connor, the woman who will soon make me the luckiest man in the world."

Blaine lifted his wine in salute and downed half of it. He licked his lips, then pressed them tight. "Luck certainly seems to play a hand in your good fortune, Rigan, but I would prefer you'd earn some of it as well." He flashed Charity a warm smile. "Rigan tells us your father is the editor of the Boston Herald."

Charity took a large sip of wine, hoping it would quell her nerves. "Yes, Mr. Gallagher, he was promoted to editor shortly after he returned from the war."

Mrs. Gallagher leaned forward. "You mean to tell me your father fought in the war?"

"Yes, ma'am, he did, along with my brother and-" She stopped, aware of their scrutiny. She shifted in the chair. "Actually, we were informed by the military that he'd been killed, but thankfully it was a miscommunication."

Olivia put a slender hand to her chest. "Your poor mother! "

"Yes, but all ended well. My father and brother returned safely, and Mother sailed back to Boston, along with my three sisters and younger brother. I offered to stay behind to help my grandmother care for my great-grandmother."

Rigan smiled and lifted his glass. "And to marry me, of course."

Charity smiled. "Of course."

With a fresh drink in hand, Blaine settled into a plush chair. "Rumor has it that your sister was engaged to one of my best employees."

The port pooled in her mouth. She swallowed hard. "Yes, my sister was engaged to Mitch Dennehy last year, but she broke it off."

He smiled, twiddling the glass in his hand. "Pity. Such an admirable man to be so unlucky in love." He swallowed half of his wine in one sip. His eyes flicked in Rigan's direction, their umber shade darkening to brown. "I suppose you could say he's the son I never had."

"Blaine, please!" Olivia perched on the edge of her chair, her eyes pleading.

Rigan chugged the drink in his hand. "Don't bother, Mother, nothing you say is going to change his mind."

A deep dimple gouged Blaine's chiseled chin as he laughed. "The son I never had in the business sense, of course." He glanced at Charity, his brows arched in question. "Heir to the largest newspaper in Ireland, but does that inspire him? No, I'm afraid our Rigan prefers the good life and plenty of it."

"Blaine, can't we please change the subject?"

"I'll change it, Mother," Fiona said, her boredom obviously forgotten. She leaned forward on the settee. Her eyes suddenly glowed with interest. "I understand you work as a clerk in a shop."

"Not just any shop, Fee, Shaw's Emporium," Rigan said with a frown. "Charity is Mrs. Shaw's top sales clerk."

Her lips twisted in a near sympathetic smile. "But a clerk, nonetheless. That must be dreadful standing on your feet all day, waiting on people who spend more in five minutes than you make in a year."

Charity stiffened in the chair, chin rising. "Not at all. I enjoy my work immensely and find it rewarding-and empowering-to earn my own way."

"Bravo, Charity!" Blaine placed his empty glass on the table and stood to his feet to applaud. "But, alas, I'm afraid your commendable appreciation for work falls on deaf ears with Fiona and Rigan. It seems the silver spoons in their mouths have more metal than their spines."

"Blaine darling, please, must you-"

The mirth in his eyes cooled to contempt. "Yes, darling, I must. And it would behoove you to mind your tongue with your husband."

"Really, Father. . ." Fiona rose from the settee in a huff, unloading her empty glass into Bennett's ready hand. "Shouldn't we be heading into dinner? I'm ravenous."

"Yes, shall we?" Blaine turned and strode for the door, leaving his wife little choice but to rise and shadow behind. Rigan alleviated Charity of her glass and offered his arm. She stood and took it, holding on for dear life. He smiled and pressed his lips to her ear. "Ready for dinner?" he whispered.

"Absolutely." She squeezed his arm and managed a tentative smile, although her appetite had long since faded. She sucked in a deep breath as they followed the others from the room. "As long as I'm not the main course."

Rigan yanked the massive doors closed with a deafening slam. Music to her ears! Charity finally breathed, releasing hours of tension in one cleansing sigh. She filled her lungs with the crisp, night air and turned her attention to the problem at hand.

Rigan.

Bracing him tightly with an arm to his waist, she carefully guided him down one marble step at a time. "I've never seen you drink this much before," she muttered, following it with a grunt as he veered off course.

His bitter laughter echoed in the still night. "Ah, but you've never seen me with my family before, my love. Quite an experience, wouldn't you say?"

Rigan lunged for her car door and opened it wide. "Your carriage, my lady."

"Are you sure you're up to driving? Perhaps we should ask Robert to drive me home."

"Nonsense, I'm perfectly fine." He stumbled to his side of the car to get in and fumbled with the ignition switch. He cursed before managing to push the advance lever down. The Rolls lurched away from the entry and puttered down the cobblestone drive.

"So," he said with an exaggerated drawl, "you survived, even if I didn't."

Charity jolted in the seat. "Rigan, the gate!"

He jerked the wheel. The car swerved wildly, narrowly missing the corner of an imposing granite column embedded with an open iron gate.

He chuckled. "Close call, eh, my love?"

Charity sagged into the leather seat, her heart still thumping in her chest. "A bit too close, Rigan. Please keep your eyes on the road."

"Your wish is my command."

She exhaled slowly, studying his profile out of the corner of her eye. His lean face and angular jaw, so like his father's, were as finely sculpted as one of the marble statues littering the house. She forced herself to relax. "Your father certainly runs the show, doesn't he?"

His deep laugh was menacing, reminiscent of the pirate he so often brought to mind. "Oh, you noticed, did you? Yes, Father is famous for cracking the whip." He afforded a brief glimpse in her direction. "Or the hand, whatever the case may be."

Charity shivered.

"Are you cold?" He extended an arm.

She stiffened, upright once again. "No, Rigan, keep your hand on the wheel, please."

He obliged, gripping both hands to negotiate a turn. The tires squealed.

She folded her arms to her waist, her eyes on the road. "Well, he does appear to be quite driven, which I suppose is understandable for someone who has worked his way to the top."

Rigan appeared to get a good chuckle out of that. "Darling, I think you mean 'wormed' his way to the top."

She shifted, chancing a peek at his face. -1 don't understand. He's at the helm of one of the most influential newspapers in the world, affording a lifestyle few have attained."