A Passion Redeemed (39 page)

He hated to bring it up, but she would understand. He hoped. After all, they were friends. He glanced at her to gauge her reaction. "Kathleen."

The friendship died in her eyes, replaced by steely anger. "She can't spare you for a few measly weeks?"

He exhaled and scratched his brow with the blunt side of his thumb. "She already has, Charity. She's been very patient. More than anybody I know."

"So you're going through with it then? You're going to marry her?"

He gave her a pointed look. "Yes. I am. You know that. We've discussed it over and over again. That's why we're friends and nothing more, remember?"

She reached up and grabbed his chin, jerking his face toward her. "And friends stop friends from making mistakes. You can't marry Kathleen."

"Why not?"

She chewed on her lip, apparently preparing her strategy. "Because deep inside, I don't think you love her ... do you?"

He huffed out a sigh and massaged his temple with the ball of his hand. "In my own way I do."

She was back in his face again, the blue eyes fairly sizzling with sarcasm. "A heartfelt declaration of love if I ever heard one. Please stop, Mitch, the passion is scalding me."

His jaw tightened. "Knock it off, Charity. There's more to passion than boiling your blood. And just for your information, we had that, too, in the past. We'll have it again."

"But why? You're settling for lukewarm when you can have more."

He leaned against the wall, his head back and eyes closed. His lips quirked into a faint smile. "I'm old, remember? I don't need more. Besides, I owe Kathleen. She was there years ago when I needed her, waiting in the wings. Soft, warm, a kind of ethereal beauty. Everything Anna wasn't. She got me through one of the worst times of my life."

"But that was then. This is now."

He gave her a slitted glance. "She's a good woman, Charity. She loves me and God."

"But you don't love her." Worry glistened in her eyes.

He expelled a heavy breath and reached to tuck her under his arm. "I do love her ... not like I love Faith, but enough. Our love will grow."

He felt her stiffen. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"You said 'like you love Faith.'"

"What?"

She looked up with a challenge in her eyes. "You said 'like you love Faith.' Present tense."

He blinked, then sat back. "For pity's sake. Loved Faith, all right?"

She shifted on the bench to face him. "You're lying. You're still in love with my sister, aren't you?"

He closed his eyes. A scowl tainted his lips. "Of course I love your sister. I'll always love her. For pity's sake, she was going to be my wife. But it's different now. I'm over her."

"Swear it."

He blinked at her as if she'd said she was going for a swim. "What?"

"Swear that you're over my sister. I don't think you can. I think that's the reason you didn't sleep last night. And the reason you're grouchy this morning. And I'm pretty sure it's the reason you won't stay in Boston, either. Even for a few days."

He clamped his lips tight and ground his jaw. "I'm not staying in Boston because I need to get back and find a job. And I'm not grouchy."

"You are too. You're doing that thing with your jaw again. And the real reason you're not staying in Boston is because you're a coward. Why don't you just admit it?"

He glared, incensed all the more at the anger in her eyes. She thinks I'm a coward? "The only thing I'll admit is that both of us got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. And you've got a lot of nerve calling me grouchy. I've seen better moods on a wounded Rottweiler."

She sat up straight, all color gone from her cheeks. "Suddenly I don't feel so well. I'm going back to the cabin." She snatched the crutch and pushed herself to a standing position.

He clamped a hand on her arm and stood. "You're not steady enough on those crutches yet. I'll carry you."

She jerked away. "I don't want you to carry me. I can do it."

He ignored the heat in her eyes and swooped her up in his arms, searing her with heat of his own. "I'm carrying you."

She tried to smack him with the crutch. "I don't need you. I can get along just fine."

He knocked the crutch from her hand. It hit the deck with a noisy clatter, causing several people to glance their way. He left it where it lay and strode toward the door. "So we're back to this, are we?" He kicked the door open and stormed up the stairs.

"You're a yellow-bellied bully and I hate you, Mitch Dennehy!"

"You'll get over it," he said with a grunt. He swung her cabin door open and heaved her on the bed, breathing hard from the effort.

She landed with a bounce. Wet anger glinted in her eyes. "Get out! You're a better coward than friend. I don't want to see you for the rest of the trip. Just bring me my crutches."

"That may work for the bathroom, but you may starve in the process."

Her face suddenly paled and she pressed a hand to her stomach, emitting a tiny burp. She lifted her chin. "I'm sure Mr. Graham Huntington would be glad to oblige."

A nerved popped in his cheek. "Take a nap, will you? Your disposition is downright ugly. I'll be the only one carting your sassy mouth around, not some smooth-talking dandy."

"What do you care? You're nothing but a pathetic coward, running home to Kathleen. Too afraid to face your past and put it behind."

He stared at her, seeing the hurt in her eyes for the first time. He sighed. "Get some rest, Charity. I'm worried about you. You look pale."

"Mitch .. .

He stopped, hand on the knob. "What?"

"I ... don't feel so good."

He turned. "Your stomach again?"

"I think so."

"Are you going to throw up?"

Her mouth opened and he lunged for the waste can. He shoved it in her hands. She heaved and buried her head, retching her little heart out. Mitch sat beside her and held her hair away from her face. When she finally came up for air, her lips were white and her face pinched. His heart twisted. "Are you okay? All done?"

She nodded.

He frowned and reached for the damp towel on the nightstand. He wiped her face. "You've been sick an awful lot, young lady. No appetite, upset stomach all the time."

She shivered. "I know. I don't know what's going on, but I feel like I can't breathe." She grappled for the high collar of her blouse and fumbled to open the first two buttons. She drew in some air and groaned. "I must be eating something, though, because my clothes feel so tight. This skirt feels like it's cutting me in two."

He pushed hair away from her eyes. "Maybe sailing doesn't agree with you. Something's not right. All those endless trips to the bathroom, up-and-down moods. . . " He kissed the top of her head, inflecting tease in his tone. "Nasty temper."

She didn't laugh and he pulled away, studying the haggard look on her face. His lips parted to speak, but in one wild beat of his heart, the air trapped in his throat.

No. It couldn't be.

She looked up, a hand to her mouth, barely concealing another belch. "Mitch, could you hand me that last cracker in the drawer? This nausea seems to be getting worse."

He swallowed hard. Crackers. Moods. Nausea. He'd seen it before. Twice with his own mother, before she'd eventually miscarried. Irascible moods, pale face, morning sickness.

And crackers.

He reached in the drawer and handed it to her, his gaze fixed on her face. "Charity, that night that Rigan beat you ... did he ... do anything else?"

Her eyes went wide and she began to cough.

He jumped up to pour a glass of water and handed it to her. "Take a drink."

She guzzled, then drew in a deep breath and handed the glass back with shaky fingers.

"Did he?"

She stared at him in horror, blood flooding her pale cheeks. Her lips quivered as if to speak, but nothing came out.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, panic rising in his chest. "Did he rape you? Is that it? All this nausea, up-and-down moods, trips to the bathroom-could you be pregnant?"

She blinked in shock, ready to tell the truth, but it lodged in her throat at the fury in his eyes. The blood drained from her face as she realized his train of thought. He was worried. Worried that Rigan had done to her what he'd done to Anna. She began to heave, a battle warring in her brain. Tell the truth. Or allow its absence to work in her favor.

He pushed the trash can back into her lap and stood. "I'm going to get more crackers and ginger ale to settle your stomach. But when I get back, we're going to talk."

The door slammed. She sagged on the bed while her pulse pounded in her brain. She shuddered at the awful opportunity that loomed before her. Tell the truth and lose him to Kathleen. Remain silent and let him believe a lie. A lie that could change the course of his heart.

And hers.

Charity stared at the ceiling, and her breathing shallowed as she lay flat on the bed. Her stomach persisted in a dull ache, but it was nothing compared to her heart. Fear of losing him sliced through her like the thin razor of deceit she now considered in her mind. But Lord, I love him!

Enough to let go?

For the first time in her life, the weight of that pure emotion slammed headlong into her desire to have him, roiling in her stomach like the foam on the sea.

Did she? Love him enough to let go? To put his wants before her own? She shuddered. To relinquish and bend to the will of God? She turned on her side and blinked, gentle revelation catching her unaware. When had the will of God become a factor? When had her vendetta against him softened and waned? Somewhere along the way, she supposed, between the pain of Rigan's beating and the utterance of prayer. Prayers she'd begun whispering in the dark of night, flooding her with something she'd never experienced before. His peace.

But where was his peace now? She jolted up, clutching at her throat. The thought of losing Mitch forced a groan from her lips. "Oh, God, I need him! And this is my chance. Just one small silence, that's all. Not even a lie uttered from my lips, only tears to bear the blame."

She pushed shaky fingers through her hair as she scanned the ceiling, hoping for some sense of divine approval. All she saw was Mitch's face in her mind, and her resolve hardened like the sin in her heart. Conviction pierced, but she shook it off, steeling her nerve. -1 love him, Lord. You know that. And he loves me. Please. One small white lie. I can't afford to lose him."

Breathing hard, she reached for the half-eaten cracker and broke off a tiny piece. She glanced at the door, then quickly ground it with her thumb and placed a single crumb in her eye. Guilt shivered through her. She flinched a number of times. Her eye began to water. She repeated with the second, blinking until both felt red and scratchy. She reached for the water and dipped her fingers in. Patting her cheeks, she rubbed hard to produce a blotchy effect, then dampened her pillow. She felt faint and sucked in a gulp of air, undoing another button. Her fingers stilled as she stared down at her blouse.

No.

She chewed on her lip, wrestling with her conscience. Her fingers twitched in her lap, and her gaze darted to the door. She moistened her lips. With heart thumping wildly, she unlatched another button, allowing the blouse to flap open and hint at the soft swell of her breasts. She swallowed hard and made the sign of the cross before lying prostrate on the bed. Burying her head in the pillow, she squeezed her eyes shut to wait.

The doorknob turned, and fear heaved in her stomach.

"Charity?"

She glanced up through swollen eyes and choked back a sob. He loomed large in the cabin, ginger ale in hand and worry on his face. Pain squeezed in her heart. Oh, Lord, I need him!

He closed the door and moved toward the bed. He put her drink on the nightstand and squatted beside her, searching her eyes. "You've been crying."

She turned on her side and pressed a hand to her stomach.

He stood up and stared, his gaze fixed on her open blouse. She blushed and closed the gaping material with her hands. "Sorry, I felt like I was suffocating."

He dragged a chair over to sit, his lips pressed tight. "I suggest you latch the lowest button, if you don't mind."

She nodded and looped it closed.

He fished a napkin from his pocket and unfolded it to reveal the crackers. "Here."

She took one, barely nibbling on the edge.

He touched her hand. "Tell me the truth. Did Rigan rape you?"

The truth.

Guilt twisted in her chest. She began to cry uncontrollably, cracker tears spilling like rain. God, please, I can see it in his eyes. He loves me.

"Charity, answer me."

She wept harder, unwilling to lie ... unwilling to tell the truth.

He pulled back and lifted her chin with his hand. "Are you late?"

She felt the blush to the roots of her hair.

"You are, aren't you?"

She was, by several days. She bit her lip and nodded, followed by a rush of pitiful heaves.

He wrenched her to his chest. "So help me, I'll kill him."

He rocked her and stroked her hair, guilt robbing her of the comfort of his arms. Her sobs had never come so easily.

He stood and lifted her up, then dragged the bedspread down. With gentle hands, he placed her on the far side and tucked the covers around her, leaving his side of the bed bare. Without a word, he sat down beside her and pulled her to him, resting her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. "You need to sleep, little girl. You look exhausted. And when you wake up, I'll be right here. It's going to be okay. Trust me."

"I do, Mitch. More than anyone I know." She squeezed her eyes, trying to shut out the shame she felt. "Are you going to try and sleep too?"

"Yes."

She curled closer and shivered, her body shuddering with painful whimpers. Tears seeped from her eyes that had more to do with regret than crackers. I'll tell him in Boston, Lord, 1 promise. And with a quivering sigh, she cried herself to sleep, hopefully to a place of slumber far from her wretched soul.