“Oh, Sean . . .” Emma’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I tried to see her, of course, but her father refused, threatening me with the authorities if I came around again. So I laid low for a few weeks, hoping to reason with him when he cooled down, only”—a nerve flickered in the hollow of his cheek as his jaw hardened along with his words—“when I went back, she was conveniently married to someone else, handpicked by her father.”
Emma caught her breath. “Sean, I’m so sorry . . .”
“No, I’m sorry for burdening you with this, Emma, but I guess I’ve never really gotten over it.” He attempted a smile that failed miserably. “And I did warn you it wasn’t pleasant.”
“Yes you did,” she whispered. She squeezed his hand as she studied him, her gaze bonded to his. “Now let me warn you, Sean O’Connor. There is no way I can allow someone as dear to me as you to carry such a heavy load.”
A muscle quivered in his jaw. “Trust me, Emma, if I could lay this down, go back and change the past, I would. Because as surely as I draw breath, I know it was my weakness, my desires . . . that ultimately cost my child’s life. And as if that isn’t horrible enough, I have to live with this seething anger inside, not just toward Clare’s parents, but Clare herself—the woman I would have loved and protected for the rest of my life . . . if only she’d stood up to them and given me a chance.”
“Oh, Sean . . .”
His voice was lifeless as he stared straight ahead, obviously mired in thoughts as dark as the hate with which he wrestled. “They say confession is good for the soul, Emma, but all it does for me is dredge up painful things I’d rather forget.” His voice broke and he put a hand to his eyes, his silence thick with shame and regret. “Like the kind of man I am deep down inside.”
“Sean . . . we’re all sinners . . .”
The torment in his eyes chilled her. “Yes, Emma, we are . . . but we’re not all murderers.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “No! You didn’t murder your baby, Sean—Clare’s father did!”
“Not the baby,” he whispered, “a man, Emma. A man I killed during the war.”
Her brows knit together. “A lot of men were killed during the war. It’s the nature of the beast, defending one’s country. That’s not murder.”
He sank back against the seat, closing his eyes as if he dreaded seeing the shock on her face. “It wasn’t my country I was defending, Emma, it was Clare.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“I mean I lost my temper.” He gouged his forehead and then opened his eyes, chest expanding as he drew in air. She saw the hard press of his lips as he finally locked eyes with hers. “Like the night at Kearney’s when I assaulted your friend. I told you later that it’s only happened twice in my life—once with you, and once during the war.” Unleashing a weary sigh, he sifted hands through his hair to clasp the back of his head, eyes trailing into nothingness. “I’ve always known I had a temper, but I kept it under wraps because it’s not something I’m proud of. And then on one of my weekend leaves, I was supposed to meet Clare at a new pub, but when I walked in, some guy was manhandling her and I just lost it. Slammed him against the wall just like I did Martin, only this guy fought back, and the next thing I know, my buddies are pulling me off, afraid I’m going to kill him.” A lump shifted in Sean’s throat and he closed his eyes again, his face a mask of pain. “And I would have, Emma, because the rage was like nothing I’ve ever felt before . . . so dark, so evil, like I wanted to kill him for even touching Clare. I turned away, and then Clare screamed. I swear I never even felt the knife, only something warm and wet on my arm as this guy came at me again. When I realized it was my blood on his blade, I snapped. Picked up a heavy wooden chair like it weighed nothing at all and swung it, catching him on the side of the head so hard I swear I heard his neck crack.”
Emma watched as Sean put a hand to his eyes, his voice choked with emotion. “I can still see it, even after all these years—that look of total shock in his eyes before he slumped to the floor, knife still in hand. The pub was crowded that night, and my buddies dragged me out of there so fast that nobody really knew what happened. I didn’t find out until later that he was dead, nothing more to the locals than a knife fight gone awry.” His throat shifted. “But I know better.”
The horror of the situation sickened Emma until she thought she would faint. Forcing herself to breathe, she struggled to reassure him. “It was self-defense, Sean,” she whispered.
He looked up then, and never had she seen a more broken human being. Tears glistened in his eyes, and she fought the urge to pull him into her arms. “So everyone said,” he whispered, his voice thick with shame, “but in my heart, Emma, I have to live with the truth—that it was my rage, my temper, that were ultimately responsible for a man’s death that night, and nothing anyone could ever say or do will free me from that prison in my mind.”
“You’re wrong,” she whispered, knowing full well that Someone already had done and said something that could set Sean free.
He hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound.
She reached for his hand. “God can.”
He stared at her a long time, the tic in his jaw confirming his doubts. “Maybe,” he muttered, “but even God can’t convince me that falling in love again is a risk I should take. Not only because I don’t deserve a second chance after botching the first, but I don’t trust myself either.” His smile was hard. “Nor any woman.”
“Not even me?” she asked softly.
He cupped her face and smiled, the hardness fading in his eyes. “Ah, but you’re not just ‘any’ woman, Mrs. Malloy. No, you’re one in a million. Not only are you the only woman I love, respect, and admire outside of my family, but the only woman alive I trust with the deep, dark, and dangerous secrets of my soul.”
“Just your secrets . . . or your soul too?”
He cocked his head, eyes narrowed in tease. “Why do I get the feeling I should say no?”
Her eyes gentled. “Do you trust me, Sean? To help set you free from the past?”
He leaned back against the seat, eyes fixed on hers as the smile sobered on his face. “I’d give anything to be free of my past, Emma, but I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Anything?”
Folding his arms across his chest, he peered at her, eyes squinted in thought. “Anything.”
“How about forgiveness?” Her voice was a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the car.
An edge crept in his tone. “I’ve already forgiven Rose, Emma, what more do you need?”
“It’s not what I need, Sean, it’s what you need to live the kind of life God wants you to have. The heart of the matter, literally—your anger toward Clare, her parents, and even yourself.” She breathed in deeply. “And forgiveness from God for your rage that played a part in taking a man’s life.”
He stared at her, his gaze unblinking. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Oh, you can, trust me. I believe in you because I know the caliber of man that you are. And I believe in God because I know the caliber of God that he is . . . and how much he loves you.”
He glanced up, moisture in his eyes. “I can pray to forgive Clare because I loved her and I can even pray to forgive myself because I was just a stupid kid who fell in love. But I have no stomach to forgive her father, Emma, because he ruined my life, taking the life of my child and the girl I would have made my wife. If anything, I pray for God to curse him.”
Chards of ice pricked Emma’s skin, a painful reminder of her own battle with hate. She drew in a cleansing breath and released it slowly, along with silent prayers for God’s help. “‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ And the ‘truth’ is, Sean, that it’s sin that ruins people’s lives, and no one is immune. Sin ruined my life with Rory and it was sin—yours and Clare’s—that ruined yours.”
Air seeped through her lips as she slowly released the breath she’d been holding. Thank you, God.
He glanced at his watch, his mood sober as he reopened his door. “If we’re going to be back by seven-thirty, I better go get the ice cream. You want to go in with me or wait here?”
“I’ll wait here if you don’t mind,” she said, as unsettled as he appeared to be by the secrets he’d shared. She gave him a gentle smile. “But I’d make it fast if I were you—she’s liable to create a ruckus if we take too long.”
He grinned, the tension in his face easing considerably. “I don’t think so—Father can handle Gabe.”
Her lips tilted in a mischievous smile. “I was talking about Charity.”
He paused, one leg braced on the street while he studied her for several seconds, the grin on his face fading into a soft smile. And then all at once, he leaned in, pulled her into his arms, and rested his head against hers, his words warm and fervent in her ear. “Rory Malloy must be the sorriest moron alive, because I have never met another woman like you.” Pulling back, he pressed his lips to her cheek, and her heart stopped as his thumb slowly kneaded the small of her back. He tucked a finger to her chin with a smile that caused her stomach to flutter. “I’ll tell you what, Emma Malloy, if you didn’t have that ring on your finger, you’d be in trouble right about now. But since it’s there, then I’ll just thank you for being the best friend a man could ever have.” And with a final stroke of her cheek, he climbed from the car before hunching to give her a smile. “You sit tight, Mrs. Malloy, I’ll be right back.”
He closed the car door and she swallowed hard, watching the easy sway of his broad shoulders as he strode toward Robinson’s, hands in his pockets.
Sit tight? She closed her eyes and put a palm to her face where his lips had been. “Tight” certainly wasn’t a problem at the moment, she thought with a rush of heat to her cheeks. His hug had knotted her stomach and nettled her nerves, making her rib cage feel two sizes too small. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, desperate to return to a semblance of calm. But all she could feel was the touch of his hand stroking her back, the warmth of his lips as they’d caressed her cheek, and the scent of a man who had held her close and quickened her pulse.
She blinked. What on earth is wrong with me?
Maybe the intimate nature of their conversation had set her on edge. She inhaled and put a shaky hand to her chest. Yes, that was it—discussing personal things that drew them closer than ever before. Releasing a shaky sigh, she closed her eyes. And in one ragged beat of her heart, she was back in his arms again, only this time his lips nuzzled her mouth instead of her cheek, clutching her close as he deepened the kiss.
No! Her eyelids shot up as she caught her breath, a forbidden warmth purling through her body like an opiate, drugging her conscience. Her breathing came in halting breaths as her mind raced. No, God, please—this can’t be happening!
The evening was warm, but the sweat on her brow was not from the weather. Her uneven breathing stilled as her paralyzed lungs refused to comply. God help me, I’m falling in love . . . The very thought sent her heart thudding against her rib cage so hard she was gasping for air.
“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Malloy, if you didn’t have that ring on your finger, you’d be in trouble right about now.”
Too late. She was in trouble now and knew it—her body humming from the touch of his hand, the feel of his lips, the smile that turned her world upside down. No—this couldn’t be! She had to do something—anything—to keep these feelings away. Water welled in her eyes as she stared at the band that Rory had placed on her hand.
Till death do us part.
She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to remain true to her vows.
If a man vow a vow unto the Lord or swear an oath to bind his soul with a bond; he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth.
Her eyelids flipped open while her breathing shallowed in her chest. Whatever it took, she would spare Sean the indignity of falling in love with a woman like her. A woman who deserved both the scars on her face and the man that put them there.
“Come back to me, Em . . .” Rory had written, the first letter she’d received in eleven years. Two thin sheets of paper buried deep in her bureau drawer, postmarked last month by a man in Dublin who now wanted her back. Painful words that revealed a painful truth.
“I need you, love, and we’ll renew our vows in front of a priest this time . . .”
Hot tears streamed her face. No! She would never return, but she would keep her vow . . .
And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.
She’d quoted it to Sean, but some truths were never meant to be revealed. Her hands shook as she fingered the ring. Just like some people were never meant to be free . . .
But Sean was. With quivering hands, she pulled her handkerchief out of her purse and quickly blotted her face. If ever a man was meant to be free to love a woman, it was Sean O’Connor. Never had she met a kinder, stronger human being, one whose teasing humor and big heart were a balm to her soul. He needed someone to love and return that love with all the happiness he truly deserved, and Emma had every intention of seeing it done. Inhaling deeply, she squared her shoulders and patted her hair, the seeds of a plan already forming in her mind.
Moments later, she glanced up to see him strolling back down the sidewalk, two buckets of ice cream swinging in his arms while wheat-colored hair fluttered in the breeze. Moisture stung in her eyes. Oh, God, bring him a good woman who will love him to the depths of his wounded soul! And if it’s Rose, please help her to be the woman you want her to be.
A quarter block away, he flashed her a grin, and her heart swooped in her chest. She waved, then put a palm to her waist to calm her nerves, her thoughts tumbling as fast as her stomach. And make it quick too, Lord, will you, please?
He opened the door and slid in, his eyes twinkling like a little boy with mischief on his mind. “Now that didn’t take too long, did it, Mrs. Malloy?” he said, giving her a smile that made her stomach dip. “And knowing you, I’ll bet you spent the time wisely, telling the Almighty exactly what’s on your mind.”
She swallowed hard, quite sure the Almighty already knew, even if she had just realized it herself. Drawing in a deep swallow of air, she extended her hand to take the ice cream, then averted her gaze, one thought foremost in her mind.
Thank you, God, for Rose Kelly.
11
Heaven help him, could he be any more drained? Mitch’s first Thursday night meeting with Marjorie Hennessey and he was so edgy and tired he was sorely tempted to take up drinking again. Not only had the vamp kept him until almost midnight, but she’d forced him to come to her Beacon Hill mansion instead of the Herald as agreed, making him both sick and tired of Marjorie Hennessey. He entered the dark foyer of his home and eased the front door closed with a silent prayer no one was awake. He had neither the fortitude nor energy to deal with any more women tonight, least of all his wife, whose talent for exercising his patience was second to none. Although, he thought with a press of his jaw, Marjorie Hennessey certainly came close.
He clicked the dead bolt and winced, the sound constricting his gut. “Please, God, let Charity be asleep.” A faint jingle sounded behind him, and his thirteen-year-old golden retriever, Runt, pressed his snow-white snout into Mitch’s hand, earning a scrub of Mitch’s fingers.
“Thanks for the welcoming committee, big guy, but I hope you’re the only one.”
With a wide yawn, he mounted the steps along with Runt, taking great pains to avoid every squeak and groan of the curved mahogany staircase, stealth of the utmost importance. Noiselessly, he slipped into the bathroom to brush his teeth, stripping down to his customary pajama bottoms before entering the room where Charity lay buried beneath the covers. Gritting his teeth, he lifted the top sheet and eased into the bed as slowly as humanly possible, coaxing the springs into total submission with nary a squeak. His air suspended until every aching muscle became one with the mattress, and only then did he release it in one long and silent breath.
Charity twitched, and his heart seized in his chest, but she only rolled over with a soft little snort. Eons passed before he allowed himself to even begin to relax, and when he did, thoughts of Marjorie Hennessey attacked without mercy. He shut his eyes, wishing he could shut out Hennessey’s spoiled niece as easily. Although he’d couched his refusal of her charms in every way possible short of quitting his job, she was a woman who didn’t take no for an answer. He’d made it perfectly clear—from polite coolness to point-blank rudeness—that he had no interest in dallying with a wealthy socialite. But Mrs. Hennessey was not a woman to be put off.
Not unlike his wife, he thought as Charity shifted beside him in her sleep. He released a silent sigh. She was worried about Marjorie—he knew it. From the moment he’d told her he would be working Thursday nights with the socialite, he could sense it in the way Charity looked at him, clung to him at night, subtle things like cooking more, fixing his favorite meals, pouting when he worked late. Especially tonight, his first meeting with the “Queen,” as Charity had dubbed her. Every word out of her mouth seemed to probe, dissecting his day, curious about where he went, every woman he talked to. One edge of his mouth crooked up. Except for his secretary, that is. Thank God Dorothy was twenty years his senior and happily married, or his wife would be fretting about her too.
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