More tears welled in her eyes when they came up empty-handed. “It’s n-no use … it’s g-gone, and now we’ll never f-find it …”
He took the handkerchief from her hand and gently swiped at the new tears on her face. “Yes, we will—where’s that faith of yours, Marceline?”
Her blubbering continued, voice trailing off into another wretched wail. “I g-guess-it was s-stolen along with the m-money …”
His chuckle was soft and low. “Well, then we’ll use my bit of faith, near honed to perfection by you and Father Fitz.” He bent near to tuck a finger to her chin. “Did you not listen to Father Fitz’s homily last Sunday? ‘In nothing be anxious; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.’”
She blinked, her sobs ceasing with an expanse of eyes.
He grinned, dabbing her cheeks with the cloth. “Yes, Marceline—rogues do pay attention in church from time to time. So then … we pray, we tell Father Fitz, and we call the police, yes?”
She nodded dumbly, shock apparently stealing her tongue as well as her grief.
“Fair warning, however—this is not my strong suit. I’ve only heard Father Fitz pray out loud on my behalf once or twice, but I doubt you or the Almighty will mind, eh?” Taking her small hands in his, he closed his eyes. “Father, we’re in a pickle here and we need Your help. Please give Marcy the grace and peace to know this will all turn out, show us exactly what we need to do, and please help us recover the money. Amen.” He opened his eyes and pushed the handkerchief back into her hand before pulling her to her feet. “All right now—dry your eyes, blow your nose, and let’s go see Father Fitz.”
Her chin began to tremble, striking terror in his chest. He gripped her arms with a gentle smile, his tone light but firm. “Enough with the tears, darlin’, or I’ll be bawling right along with you and no good at all.”
More tears pooled nonetheless before she launched herself into his arms, clutching him so tightly, his heart climbed in his throat. “Oh, Patrick, I am so grateful you were here right now—you’re just what I need!”
His eyes sheathed closed, the fit of her body against his as natural as breathing. And you’re just what I need, darlin’, but it obviously wasn’t meant to be. Tamping down his bitter regret, he patted her back and pulled away, tucking his finger to her chin once again. “I’m glad I could be here for you too,” he said quietly before helping her on with her coat and grabbing his own.
And if it were up to me, Marceline, he thought with a squeeze of his chest, I’d be there forever.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Stomping his snow-caked boots on the stoop of Brannigan’s Pub, Patrick opened the door to his past, the smells of cheap booze and even cheaper women a painful reminder of Marcy’s effect on his life. He peered through the smoky fog, searching for Sam with a grim press of his lips, angry that Marcy was plagued with worry—not only about the welfare of the lost funds, but that of her “unofficial fiancé” when he didn’t show to take her home.
He pushed his way through the noisy throng, Ragtime drifting through the haze along with laughter and off-key crooning as several of the more inebriated patrons sang along with Tommy Thomkins’ piano.
“Well, the saints be praised—my prayers have been answered tonight!”
He halted mid-crowd when a shapely redhead grabbed him and kissed him hard on the mouth, the taste of stale beer on her tongue roiling his stomach. Peeling her arms from his waist, he forced a tight smile. “Can’t stay, Clarisse, I’m looking for Sam—have you seen him?”
Her lips pushed into a pout as she briefly glanced over her shoulder. “He’s been sitting at the bar all night, but he might be in the loo, not sure.” She cozied up with a clear invitation in her eyes. “But I guarantee you, Patrick,” she said, seduction warm in her tone, “I’d be a lot more fun than your partner in crime.”
He gave her shoulder a tender squeeze, remorse softening his words for all the times he’d taken advantage of women like her. “A tempting offer, my friend, but I have serious matters to attend to.” He bent to press a soft kiss to her cheek. “Be good, Clarisse.”
“I always am,” she said with a saucy wink, “and nobody knows that better than you.”
Regret stabbed as he made his way to the bar, speaking to those who greeted him on the way. He slid onto a stool and hailed the bartender before craning his neck to survey the crowd. “You seen Sam, Lucas?” he asked when he turned back to the bar.
“I have, indeed, but I’m afraid he’s indisposed right now.” Lucas inclined his head toward the back room, his smile more of a scowl. “Drank near half his paycheck, I’ll wager. Pert near blackened some bloke’s eye before I tossed him in the back room to save both his hide and my bar.” He reached for a mug. “You need a brew?”
“No, not tonight, but thanks. I just need to find Sam.”
“Well, hopefully he’s sober by now—plied him with hot coffee an hour or so ago, but you’ll be needing to sober him up for anything noble, I’ll warrant.” Lucas nodded toward the door at the back of the bar where a hallway of rooms hid all caliber of sin. “But help yourself—third room on the left.”
Patrick strode down the darkened hall, shame scalding the back of his neck at the various lewd sounds seeping through the doors, wondering how he could have ever been drawn to such empty pursuits. Jaw twitching, he knocked on the third door and waited.
“It’s taken.” Sam’s rusty voice croaked on the other side.
Patrick opened the door, eyes squinting to adjust to the lack of light. “Sam? It’s me—Marcy needs you.”
Movement rustled the bed as a bare-chested shadow lumbered up, hand to his eyes and a growl in his throat. “What the blazes are you doing, O’Connor? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Fire singed Patrick’s temper, burning the sockets of his eyes when a blonde rose to clutch a sheet to her unbuttoned blouse. He focused on Sam, a spasm in his jaw that matched that in his fists. “Yeah, I can see that—busy betraying Marcy.” He spit out the words like venom. “You’re almost engaged, O’Rourke, or have you forgotten?”
“The key word being ‘almost,’ O’Connor, so stay outta this.”
A nerve pulsed in Patrick’s temple as he glared, his words as clipped and blunt as the fists clenched at his sides, just itching to rearrange Sam’s face. “I’ll give you exactly twenty seconds to get dressed and out of this room, O’Rourke, or so help me, I’ll tell Marcy you’re too busy in bed to be where she needs you to be.”
“You wouldn’t,” Sam hissed. His eyes bore into Patrick’s.
“Oh, you bet I would. You don’t deserve a woman like her, and God knows she doesn’t deserve a man like you if this is how you intend to treat her.”
Sam grappled for his shirt on the floor, his glassy gaze fused to Patrick’s while he methodically put it back on. “I’m warning you—it’ll be the end of our friendship if you tell her.”
“It’s the end of our friendship either way,” Patrick ground out, teeth clenched so tight, his jaw ached.
“You don’t mean that.” Sam wobbled to his feet. His fingers were clumsy as he attempted to button the fly of his trousers. “We have too much history, too much alike to let a woman come between us.”
Patrick took a step forward, fists hard as rock. “Marcy is not just any woman, you blackguard—she’s supposed to be the woman you love.”
Sam had the gall to laugh. “Aye, the woman we both love, if truth be told, which is exactly why you won’t tell her because it would kill her, and well you know it.” He slowly buttoned his shirt, eyeing Patrick with a wary look. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I fully intend to remain faithful to Marcy once my ring is on her finger because as you know, she’s not a woman prone to satisfy a man’s needs without the gold band in place.” He sat on the bed to put on his shoes, the woman beside him all but forgotten while his gaze locked with Patrick’s. “And we’re men with needs, Patrick, the both of us. But …”
He slowly rose to his feet, hands propped to his hips. “If you insist on being Marcy’s advocate and protector, then I’ll make the engagement official with a ring sooner rather than later, faithful to the core.”
Patrick’s eyes flicked to the woman and back, his voice thick with disgust. “You don’t know how to be faithful, O’Rourke.”
A spark of anger shot from eyes spidered with red. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my friend—I know how to do a great many things.” His smile was casual and cool, but Patrick didn’t miss his steely tone. “Especially how to persuade Marceline that I have needs to be met.”
White-hot fury exploded in Patrick’s brain and he lunged, fist coiled in rage as he bludgeoned Sam’s jaw, the force of his blow hurtling O’Rourke to the wall. The woman in the bed screamed and jumped up, clenching her blouse closed as she fled from the room. Patrick stood over him, chest heaving and voice brutal while Sam rubbed his face with the back of his hand, shock glazing his eyes. “You ever talk about Marcy like that again or do anything to compromise her, and I swear—I’ll hurt you in ways you never dreamed possible.” He backed away, too afraid he’d hit him again, his words burning like acid on his tongue. “Now, get your sorry carcass over there and pick her up at the rectory like you told her you’d do.”
Sam sat up, eyes shuttered closed for a brief moment before a low groan rumbled from his throat. “No, that wasn’t tonight, I swear—” He shielded his face, as if trying to recall, then groaned again when he apparently realized his mistake. He peered up, his guilt obvious from the deep ridges in his brow. “Blast it, Patrick, I must have misunderstood—I would have never forgotten Marcy like that.”
“No, but you sure in the devil would betray her with another woman quick enough, wouldn’t you?”
Patrick’s scorn struck like a cobra, causing Sam to wince. He gouged shaky fingers through tousled hair, his voice hoarse and his breathing heavy. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” Patrick said, a sneer twisting his lips. “I’d love to hear your noble excuse for betraying the one woman you claim to love.”
Sam’s eyes bulged with anger. “Curse you and curse your blasted pretty face.” Hunched on the edge of the bed, he put his head in his hands.
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” Patrick snapped.
Sam was silent for several moments before he spoke, his words bit out in pain. “It means there isn’t a woman alive except Marceline Murphy who prefers me over you.”
“What?” Patrick stared in disbelief, then stabbed a finger toward the hall. “You’re bloomin’ daft, O’Rourke—a lass just left your bed, for pity’s sake. Women crawl all over you.”
Sam glanced up, face sculpted in stone. “Aye, Patrick, they do, providin’ the Southie Adonis turns them away first, then naturally his loyal side-pal will do.” Bitterness spewed from his mouth. “But even then, some only in hopes of getting to you.”
Patrick scowled, his tone curt over the absurdity of Sam’s claim. “You’re out of your mind, O’Rourke. If that’s true, then why is Marcy in love with you?”
Sam shook his head, eyes in a cold stare. “I honestly don’t know,” he said quietly, his whisper as tormented as his face. “But I can tell you one thing—it’s the only time it’s ever happened, and I refuse to let her go.”
Mouth slacking, Patrick gaped at his so-called best friend, his anger ramping up all over again. “So Marcy’s nothing more than a contest—is that it?”
Sam stared him down. “In the beginning, yes,” he said, his manner intense, “but I’ve been seeing the woman for over five months now, Patrick, and as God is my witness, I’ve fallen in love with her.”
Patrick’s lip curled. “Yeah, that’s why you were in bed with somebody else.” He took a step forward, hands clenched. “You have no intention of marrying her, do you?”
A muscle jerked in Sam’s throat. “You and I both know I’ve never claimed to be a marrying man, but Marcy’s changed that, I swear, and I plan to make the engagement official in the new year.”
“While sleeping with other women, no doubt.” Patrick seared him with a look, eyes itching hot.
Sam looked away. A tic pulsed in a cheek hollowed by drink and fatigue. “I told you you wouldn’t understand,” he whispered.
“Oh, that’s right, your bruised ego over something you’ve imagined in that harebrained head of yours. You’re sick, O’Rourke, you know that?”
A hollow laugh grunted from his friend’s lips as he closed his eyes to knead the bridge of his nose. “Aye, I do,” he said quietly, releasing a heavy sigh before he looked up to meet his gaze with a haunted one of his own. “A sickness I can’t seem to fix.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
Sam buried his hands in his pockets, head bowed. “I mean throughout our entire friendship, Patrick, I’ve been nothing but an afterthought in people’s minds when it comes to you. Not as bright or handsome or charismatic as the beloved Patrick O’Connor. Nor favored by teachers or even the management at the Herald. I’ve spent so many years trying to measure up—with women, in school, at work—that sometimes I …” His eyes shuttered closed. “Almost feel as if it’s a sickness. Like I’m driven by this insatiable craving for affirmation …” He quickly looked away, shame evident in the slump of his shoulders. “Especially of—as Marceline would say—‘a more carnal nature.’”
Patrick blinked, jaw distended. “You’re lying.”
Sam looked up then, the truth naked in his eyes. “I wish I were. Marcy’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t want to lose her.”
Patrick slashed a hand toward the bed. “Then stop all this, Sam. Commit to her and tell her the truth.” His back straightened with a thrust of his jaw. “Or I will.”
Sam nodded slowly, a quivering breath shuddering from his lips. “I will, I swear.” He lifted his chin, facial muscles tight with determination. “As God is my witness, I plan to do everything in my power to be faithful to her, Patrick, you have my word.”
“Your word.” Patrick’s tone made it sound like an obscenity. “Your word used to be golden, O’Rourke, but not after this.” He shifted with a slack of his hip, hands slung low. “And I’m guessing Marcy thought she had your ‘word’ too.”
Ruddy color bled into Sam’s face. “I have never told Marcy I wouldn’t see other women—”
“No, but you conveniently let her assume it, didn’t you, Sam? The all-powerful silent commitment that goes along with an ‘unofficial engagement.’” He spit the words out like a curse. “The perfect means to keep her for yourself while you do what you bloomin’ well please.”
“Blast it, this is all new to me, committing to one woman,” he shouted, fingers trembling as he raked a hand through his hair. “Give me a chance to make it right.”
Patrick studied him with a keen eye, his respect for Sam wavering even if his affection was not. Sweat beaded on Sam’s brow while Patrick remained silent, considering the best course—both for Marcy and his closest friend. He trusted Sam with his life, but something had changed since Marcy, shaking his trust. He finally huffed out a noisy sigh. “One last chance,” he emphasized with a stiff thrust of his finger, his stance as deadly as the threat implied. “You settle down and commit to the woman now or cut her loose, do you hear? But if you commit, O’Rourke, so help me, I will be watching you like a hawk, and if I catch you with another woman other than harmless flirtation over a beer or a dance …” He squared his shoulders, hands falling firm at his sides while his jaw calcified to rock. “You’ll not only risk losing Marcy, my friend, you’ll risk losing me.”
Sam nodded, gaze dropping to the floor. “Agreed.” He exhaled heavily, then mauled his face with his hands. “Was Marcy mad when I didn’t show?”
A grunt parted from Patrick’s mouth. “Worried sick is more like it. Over you and the five hundred dollars somebody stole from the fundraiser.”
Sam’s body froze for the briefest of moment
s before his head shot up. “What?”
Patrick strode to the door and glanced back, tone hard. “Every dime she’s earned for the fundraiser—gone, just like that. She’s devastated, O’Rourke, and you’re the one she wants, although only God knows why.” He turned to go.
“Patrick—wait.” He clawed the back of his neck before delivering a contrite look. “I’m … sorry for what I said about Marcy—I didn’t mean it. You just made me mad, and I … only said it to get under your skin.” He slipped his hands in his pockets, gaze locked on Patrick’s feet and his manner considerably humbled. “I do love her, even though my actions don’t always show it, and I swear …” He looked up then, a glint of resolve in black eyes that burned with intent. “This won’t happen again.”
Patrick nodded. “You’re right, because if it does, you’ll pay.” He moved toward the door without another word.
“And, Patrick …”
Pausing, he shot a glance over his shoulder, hand on the knob.
A lump shifted in Sam’s throat. “You’re … not going to tell her, are you?”
Patrick studied his best friend for several moments, wondering how two friends who had been so very much alike could now be so different. Sam had a selfish streak when it came to women, true, but he’d always given Patrick his all. The rest of Patrick’s anger seeped out on a quiet sigh. “Not if you tell her the truth first and treat her right. And be there when she needs you—like now. She’ll be at the rectory a while filing a report with the police, so get a move on.”
Sam expelled a loud sigh of relief. “I’m on my way.” He took a step forward and stopped, worry etched in his face. “Are we okay, then … you and I?”
Patrick’s pause was longer this time. He wanted to turn his back on him, but that would be like cutting off his own arm. But then Sam’s deceit with Marcy was slicing into his heart, so he was dashed if he did and dashed if he didn’t. His mouth went flat. “Yeah, we’re okay.” His brow jagged high in warning. “Unless this happens again.”
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