A Passion Redeemed (32 page)

Mitch looked up as a string of barges chugged steadily down the Liffey River, heaped high with crates of Guinness. Coal merchants scattered along the quays, bellowing orders to men shoveling coal into ten-stone bags. Gritty-faced stevedores with rippling backs lifted the sacks, hauling them down a single gangplank two feet wide, bouncing with every step.

His lips compressed at the sight of the Black and Tans, special British police created to fight the revolutionist Sinn Feiners. Their khaki uniforms and black hats stood out like silent threats among a throng of sweating dockers, huddled families, and dandied merchants.

Mitch yanked the lever to disengage the drive gears and turned the engine off. He looked at Charity, her eyelids closed in apparent sleep. Even with her face swollen from crying and a hint of bruising, she was still a beautiful woman. Long lashes swept high above chiseled cheekbones while soft, golden tendrils feathered her face.

He leaned back in the seat. She hated him. He let it sink in, and deep down inside, it made him feel hollow. A mere two weeks ago, she'd been desperate for his attention, lovesick to the core. Now she claimed to hate him, her tone and manner depleted of warmth. The thought left him unsettled, and he didn't know why.

He closed his eyes. Yes, he did. He was in love with her, plain and simple. He'd grown used to her interest, her flirting, the way her eyes softened when his gaze held hers. Suddenly all of it was withdrawn, and it grated on him more than it should. He intended to marry Kathleen. He had no business being concerned whether Charity hated him or not.

He was glad she was asleep. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out two gold bands. He pushed the larger one on his ring finger and pocketed the other in his trousers. He and Bridget had decided Charity wouldn't go easily. Bridget had given him her old wedding bands, just in case. He pushed the car door open and swung out, firming his resolve. One week on a ship with a woman who hated him was certainly safer than seven days with one who melted his heart at the tilt of a smile. Impassioned love didn't guarantee happiness. His father had been proof of that.

He opened her door and leaned in, shaking her shoulder lightly. She stirred and wrinkled her nose, lids still closed. "Dear Lord, what is that smell?"

"Factories-fertilizer, gasworks, glass-you name it. The aroma of Guinness hops mingling with the delightful smell of raw sewage and animal dung."

Her nose remained scrunched. "It's awful! I may be sick."

Mitch bit his tongue with little success. "After keeping company with the likes of Gallagher, I'd rather thought you'd be used to it."

Her eyes popped open to reveal a heated blue glare. "I just assumed it was you."

I washed before I came. Didn't want to offend your delicate sensitivities." He reached in to hoist her in his arms, blanket and all. He stood up carefully to test the cobblestones, then shifted her in his arms. He grunted. "You feel a lot heavier than before, which is odd, given all the tears you spent."

She folded her arms and stared straight ahead. "Good. I hope I'm sheer dead weight."

He bobbled her a bit, pretending to slip on the pavers. She lunged for his neck, her good arm digging into his back. He grinned.

"You can wipe that smirk off your face. There's nothing worse than a cocky kidnapper."

He grunted as he made his way to the docks. "Kidnapper? I prefer the term 'victim.'"

She scalded him with a look. "Excuse me, you barbarian, but I'm the victim here. You're just the baboon they hired to ruin my life."

"Our lives. Keep in mind I may not have a job when I come back."

"Or a fiancee, if she has a brain in her head."

He stopped to adjust his hold, his lips as tight as his grip. "She'll be there," he muttered. He joggled her forward a bit, indicating the ship they would board. "That's our passage. The SS Herrnina. Takes us through to Boston with stops in Liverpool and New York."

A gasp drifted from her lips. "It's so huge!"

He wended his way up the plank, following a stream of passengers. "Yes, well, unlike you, a lot of people want to go to America."

She jerked around. "We're not in steerage-"

"No, ma'am, only the best for a 'victim' like you. We have a first-class cabin."

Her brow angled high. "We?"

He glanced down through slitted eyes. "Both of us. Separately. It's costing a month's wages, but your reputation will be pristine. At least when it comes to me."

She turned away and jutted her chin high. "I'm sure Kathleen will appreciate that."

"Not as much as me," he mumbled, hauling her through the gangway. He stopped at the end of the line, his breathing noticeably heavy. "Reach inside my coat pocket."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The tickets. They're in my inside pocket."

She stared.

"Unless you want me to drop your carcass on this dirty planking."

"No!" Her hand fumbled inside his jacket, pink tingeing her cheeks.

His lips clamped tight.

She yanked out an envelope and pinched the corner as if it were a snake. "Here."

He inclined his head toward the mustached purser standing before them. "Give it to him ... darling."

"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs...."

"Dennehy." Mitch bit back a scowl.

Charity stiffened in his arms. She looked up. Her eyes were slivers of heat, but he ignored her. "Give him the tickets, dear." He glanced up and down the deck, then turned back to the purser. "B deck. Which way?"

The man's pencil-thin brows bunched in a frown as he waited for Charity to hand over the tickets. She blinked, then suddenly flipped them over her shoulder, smiling as they skittered on the breeze to the brink of the gangway.

"Charity!" Mitch all but dropped her as he lunged to slam a foot on top, swearing under his breath. Both the tickets and his temper teetered on the edge.

The purser bent to tug them from beneath Mitch's shoe. His eyes flicked up, first to Mitch, then to Charity, taking in the sling on her arm. "Yes, Mr. Dennehy. Your cabins are up that staircase on the starboard side of the ship, 219 and 220." He lifted his chin and handed the tickets back to Charity, then nodded at Mitch. "Adjoining, of course."

Charity flashed him an innocent smile. "Sir, would you be so kind as to call a constable, please? This lout has kidnapped me from my home. He is not my husband, as you will surely see from my name on the ticket. Charity O'Connor, not Dennehy."

The man's gaze flitted to the gold band on Mitch's hand. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the cabins on this ticket are clearly assigned to Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Dennehy. I'm afraid it's company policy to refrain from involvement in domestic disputes."

She clutched the purser's arm. "But you've got to believe me. He's not my husband." She wiggled her hand in his face. "Look-no ring. He brought me on this ship for illicit purposes, I assure you. Please, may I speak to the captain?"

Mitch yanked her hard against his chest, then locked her good arm tightly in his grip. "Darling, you asked me to keep your ring in my pocket because your fingers were swollen, remember?" He butted his knee to hold her while he fished in his pants pocket. He held a ring up in his hand. "Here. Do you want to try and put it on?"

Her mouth gaped open. "Of all the low, despicable-"

Mitch leaned close to the purser, man to man. "Sir, I'm afraid my wife is under a bit of a strain. We were married this morning, and I think she's a bit nervous, if you know what I mean."

"He's lying!" Charity shrieked, wriggling to free her arm.

The purser nodded in sympathy. "I understand, sir. It's a big adjustment."

"No, wait, please! This moron is abducting me."

"Thank you, Purser," Mitch muttered, pushing past the crowd that had begun to stare. He barreled toward the steps, clamping onto Charity like a vise.

She thrashed in his arms, attempting to lash her good leg against his thigh. "Stop it," she hissed. "You're hurting me."

"I'm going to hurt you, you little brat, right where it's long overdue."

"My wrist, you're pinching my sprained wrist!"

Instinctively, he released his hold, realizing the lie too late. Her good fist reached up and clipped him on the jaw.

He grunted and pinned her arm to her side, squeezing hard.

She tried to wrench free. "You're going to break it."

He staggered to the top of the stairs and collapsed against the corridor wall. His jaw twitched faster than the pounding of his pulse. "Maybe that's the answer. Break all of your stubborn bones to keep you in line."

"You'll never keep me in line, you thickheaded Neanderthal." Her face and neck strained white as she tried to twist free.

He sucked in a deep breath and continued down the hall, Charity flailing and screaming all the way. Several elderly couples squeezed past with heads turning.

She latched on to one of the men. "Sir, please, you've got to help. He's abducting me!"

Mitch smiled. "Darling, you're just upset. You'll love America, I promise." He smiled at the couples, then dropped his tone to a bare whisper. "Honeymoon jitters."

Understanding flashed in their eyes, causing Charity to whip about all the more. "No, he's lying. Help me, please!"

The gentlemen smiled politely and quickly ushered their wives down the hall, the sound of Charity's accusations echoing behind.

She jerked to face him. Her eyes glinted with fury. "I should have known. First a coward, then a bully, and now a liar. You booked me as your wife? I'd rather starve in steerage."

He gritted his teeth. "Trust me, it can be arranged."

"Trust is the last thing I'd do. I must have been deaf, dumb, and blind to think I was in love with the likes of you."

"You wouldn't know the meaning of the word 'trust' if Daniel Webster personally defined it for you. And as far as love goes, 'deaf, dumb, and blind' describes you perfectly when it comes to knowing anything about it."

He panted while he studied the numbers on each doorway and finally stopped. He shifted a hand and butted his knee while turning the knob. The door squeaked open barely an inch. He used his foot to kick it wide. With a final grunt, he set her on one of the twin beds none too gingerly, barely concerned when she bounced like a spring.

A gasp sputtered from her lips. "Go ahead, break my other leg, why don't you?"

"Don't tempt me," he rasped. He sucked in a deep breath and leaned over, hands on his knees. Apparently three nights a week at Pop Delaney's boxing gym hadn't prepared him for this. He was huffing like a steam engine.

She struggled to rise up on her good arm. If looks could singe, his brows would be aflame. "I despise you, Mitch Dennehy."

He looked up between winded breaths. "So you've said. Best news I've had all day. Give me cold, honest hate over manipulative charm any day."

She dropped back on the bed. "Stop your wheezing, you sissy. You act like I weigh three hundred pounds."

"Yeah? Well, it felt like it."

"The cut on your cheek. Did I do that?"

He absently rubbed his hand to his cheek and winced. "No."

"Who did?"

He lumbered over to a small table against the wall and poured a glass of water from a floral pitcher. He gulped it down. "None of your business."

"Did you fight Rigan?"

He stretched and rolled his neck. "I'm going to get the bags. The toilet facilities are down the hall. Do you need to use them?"

A haze of color washed into her cheeks. "No. Did you fight Rigan?"

He started for the door.

"Yes! "

He turned, his hand on the knob. "You have to use the loo?"

She nodded.

Exhaling loudly, he trudged toward the bed and picked her up. He started for the door.

"No, not really. I just want to know. Did you fight Rigan?"

He whirled around and dumped her back on the bed. "You're relentless, you know that?"

"Did you?"

He propped his hands loosely on his hips. "Yes!"

"Is that why you may not have a job when you come back?"

"Yes."

She averted her gaze, appearing to study the porcelain water pitcher. "Did you hurt him?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Black-and-blue marks that would make you proud."

She looked up, her eyes wet. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He turned to go. "Will you be okay till I get back?"

Barely nodding, she laid her head on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Get some rest," he said, noting the shadows under her eyes and the wilt in her face.

He closed the door and headed toward the stairs, his jaw twitching with fatigue.

Rest. Something they both needed desperately, he thought with a tightening in his gut. And probably wouldn't get.

Time to face the music. Charity sighed. Unfortunately, when it came to facing her failings, she never could carry a tune. She rolled over on her side and tried to position her bad leg exactly right. The cabin was completely dark, and she wondered what time it was. Mitch had headed off hours ago, leaving her alone with her thoughts. That hadn't been kind. She had drifted off into periodic bouts of disturbing dreams, always jerking awake with guilt and dread. How could she do this? How could she face them all again?