"Because I'm in love with Rigan. "
His lips stilled on her throat while his pulse throbbed in counterbeat with hers. She turned, and her image distorted into another woman whose hazel eyes gleamed like a wildcat on a kill. Silken curls, black as midnight, dropped from his hands as her name fused to his tongue. "Anna ... "
Her scarlet lips contorted into a cruel smile. "I'm carrying his child. "
"I'll kill him!" His words issued forth in a strangled rasp, spewing from lips as parched as his tongue, which cleaved to his throat like adhesive. He attempted to swallow, his eyes sealed with paste.
"Not before he'd fire you, I'm afraid."
Mitch jerked and sucked in a breath, jolting upright. His eyes flew open to see Mrs. Lynch hovering over him, her silver hair pulled in a lopsided knot on the top of her head. Her thin lips bowed in an impish smile, but her usually twinkling eyes held more concern than luster.
"What?" His utterance of that single word caused a slash of pain so severe, it forced him to collapse against the sofa once again. He closed his eyes and groaned, the tips of his fingers thick and clumsy as they attempted to massage the bridge of his nose.
"Mr. Reardon. He called, you know. Said that if you didn'tand this is a direct quote, mind you-if you didn't get your sorry backside into work before one o'clock, he would-I believe he said 'boot' . . . yes, I'm quite sure that's the word he used'boot' you straight to the nightshift." Her tinkling chuckle was soft, but it still hurt his ears. "I've brewed you some coffee," she whispered.
He tried to get up again but only accomplished sagging to one side, his elbow connecting with something hard. He opened his eyes. The whiskey glass. It lay horizontally, sticky droplets of alcohol spattering his plush leather sofa. He picked up the glass, the smell causing him to heave. Mrs. Lynch gently tugged it from his hand and replaced it with a steaming cup of coffee.
"What time is it?" he croaked. The smell of the coffee produced a second wave of nausea, but he sipped it anyway, grateful for the warm liquid coating his throat.
"Noon. Bridie called at nine, Kathleen at ten, and now Mr. Reardon just a few moments ago." She leaned in to pat his cheek, her fingers cool against his skin. "They're worried."
His eyelids lifted just enough to allow a glimpse of the worry lines etched in his landlady's face. "And you're not, I suppose.-
She laid a tiny, blue-veined hand on top of his. "You're like a son, Mitchell. And you haven't done this in a long, long time. What brought it on?"
He set the coffee on the table and hunched over, elbows draped on his knees and eyes staring at the floor. "It was a one-time thing, Mrs. Lynch. It won't happen again."
He felt the sofa give as she perched beside him. She patted his back, the gentle tapping providing a comfort that quelled his spirit. "I know it won't, Mitch, because I know the caliber of man you are. What reduced you to this?"
He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He didn't want to talk about Charity. Not to anyone. Especially Mrs. Lynch. But she cared. And she was relentless. Two factors that convinced him he needed to tell her something. Anything. "I dreamt about Anna," he whispered.
The hand on his back paused. "It's been a long time since that troubled you. Why now?"
He stood, wincing from the pain in his head. "Who knows? Gallagher actually found his way to the Times last week. Maybe that's what put me in a funk."
"He was at the Times? Whatever for? I didn't think he even knew where it was. He's never done a day's work in his life."
Mitch moaned while stooping to retrieve the Bible from the floor. "To ride me, as usual. So help me, I'd smash his face in if I wasn't a God-fearing man."
Mrs. Lynch chuckled. "Or needed to eat." She shot up from the sofa, as spry as any youngster. "Well, get cleaned up and ready to go in. I don't want you losing your job." She grinned, giving her delicately wrinkled face an endearing elfin quality. "I need the rent."
It pained him to smile, but he did. "Thank you. You're better than any mother."
She tossed her head, shaking the disheveled knot further off-center. "You mean, grandmother. And yes, I believe I am. I always told Mr. Lynch that we needed to have more than our Betsy because one daughter couldn't possibly supply me with all the grandchildren I'd require." She sighed. "But, alas, it wasn't meant to be. And now with Betsy halfway around the world. . ." Her blue eyes dimmed, suddenly glazed with a faraway look.
"How is Betsy, by the way?"
She snapped back from her reverie. "Oh, that British husband of hers has her falling in love with India, I'm afraid. India, of all places, for heaven's sake. But she claims to love it ... and him, which is good, I suppose, albeit lonely for me." She paused at the door. "She won't be home for Christmas."
He swallowed, his throat so dry the saliva congealed on his tongue. "Actually, we've been issued an invitation for Christmas this year, the both of us. At Faith's grandmother's."
She blinked. "Why, that sounds lovely. But how did that come about? I had no idea you kept in touch with Faith's family."
He gulped the rest of his coffee. "It's a long story, but if you'd rather not go-"
"Oh, no! I would be delighted to go ... thrilled to go. It will be good to see them again. I can hardly wait." The excitement in her eyes made her look all of twelve, despite her age.
He smiled, absently rubbing his head. "You won't have to. We're invited to a Thanksgiving celebration next Saturday. In honor of Faith's sister. She's returning to Boston for good before Christmas. It's an American holiday celebrated the following Thursday. But Charity wanted to have it this weekend so she would be off work to help with preparations."
Her eyes glowed. "Ohhhh! That sounds wonderful. What shall I bring?"
His smile was sheepish. "I'm afraid you'll have to bring your apple duff. I bragged on it."
She tossed her head to the side and giggled. "Did you, now? And I suppose I'll have to make an extra for your pantry, to pay for the compliment." She glanced at the watch pinned to her sleeve. "You've no time to waste, Mitchell, you best hurry." She turned to go, then wheeled around, pursing her lips. "One more thing. Before you face that irate editor of yours, promise you'll eat the hot breakfast I made. It's keeping warm on the stove."
He managed another smile. "What would I do without you, Mrs. Lynch?"
She lifted an almost invisible silver brow. "Starve, no doubt." She wagged her fingers in the air and disappeared through the door, closing it with a loud slam that shook him to the core.
He glanced at the clock on the mantle. The motion jarred his brain. 12:10. He plodded to the bathroom and scowled, squinting at the blinding sunlight streaming through the window. He stared in the mirror, nose to nose with a man haunted by his past: sunken eyes, pasty skin, bloodless lips. He rubbed the itchy growth of beard darkening his jaw and wondered if he would ever feel better than he looked right now. He splashed cool water in his face, lathered with soap, and reached for the razor. Skimming it across his skin, he thought of Charity. The blade nicked. He winced, staring at the blood pooling on his cheek.
This wasn't going to happen. Not again. He'd promised they'd be friends, but he'd been wrong. They could never be friends. It would be lovers or nothing. And he chose "nothing." He was through loving women he couldn't trust. A woman without God. He'd die of loneliness first.
Rinsing the blood from his face, he stared in the mirror, the weight of his burden forcing his eyelids closed. Thoughts of Charity invaded his mind and body like a warm venom pulsing in his bloodstream. He sagged over the sink, fatigue sapping his resolve.
One more month. Surely he could tolerate friendship for one more month. And then she'd be gone forever, along with the temptation. And at least he would have kept her from Gallagher.
Hate gurgled in his stomach like acid. The thought of Rigan's lips on Charity's mouth, his filthy hands touching her soft skin, strangled his throat like a fist of rage. His knuckles strained white on the grip of the razor. Never had he wanted to kill a man more.
To slit his throat. To watch him bleed. Just like Anna.
Mitch positioned the razor against his jaw and looked in the mirror. What he saw chilled him to the bone: the eyes of a murderer, dark with hate and fury.
The razor slipped from his hands and clattered into the sink.
Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment: but I say unto you, that every one who is angry with his brother shall be in danger of the judgment.
Mitch hunched over, his fingers gripping the sink. He struggled to inhale, suffocated by hate. His head lurched up and his teeth clenched in his jaw. "No! You can't expect me not to hate him. I have a right."
Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but ... humbled himself and became obedient to death-
Mitch pressed his palms to his face and drew in a ragged breath. Jesus had laid down his right to be God. Could he lay down his right to hate? When had it resurrected? The hate, the pain? All these years, he'd thought it was over, long buried and gone.
Until Charity.
As if conjured up, her image appeared in his mind, ensnaring him with thoughts of last night. Touching her. Kissing her. Exploring her. He shivered, heat licking inside like a thousand raging fires on the verge of blazing out of control. She'd destroyed his life once. And now, when he'd been ready to move on, she was back, poisoning him with desire and rekindling his malice.
How could he fight it ... fight her?
All at once, the memory of Faith lighted upon his mind, as gently and softly as if she stood before him, her emerald eyes awash with hope. She had wrestled with her own betrayal, her own hate over what he and Charity had done to her. But in the end, she'd remained true to her beliefs, choosing life over death, forgiveness over hate. She had shown him what it was to live for God's desires rather than her own. To delight in him.
Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.
Mitch hung his head over the sink, wetness stinging his eyes. He was truly happy for her, he was. Soon she would be Collin's wife. She had her heart's desire ... while his was buried beneath a mountain of lust and hate.
A quiet thought slowly drifted through his brain, as inconspicuous as the tiny wisps of whiskers scattered in the sink. He could have it. That quiet strength, that solid peace, a true commitment to a Being who shouldered burdens and carried you through. That's what he needed. A depth of faith that was more than a pass through a Bible, a visit to a church. A living, breathing relationship with a living, breathing God.
His eyes blurred as he stared in the mirror. He blinked once, and everything shifted into focus. He released a draining breath. "All right, God, I'm done. Done keeping you at arm's length. Done doing it on my own. I'm ready to give you everythingmy life, my hopes, my desires. Help me. Guide me. Show me what to do."
Forgive.
His jaw tightened and then released. Slowly, he expelled a weighted breath, like fingers being pried away and letting go. "Okay, I'll try. But not on my own. Help me."
Pray for him.
The concept was clear, but the application was as foreign as the Greek in which the apostle Matthew had penned it: love your enemies ... bless those who curse you ... pray for those who persecute you.
Mitch closed his eyes, unable to imagine ever uttering a prayer for Rigan. "I can't."
Pray.
His fists balled on the edge of the sink. Faith had once told him, when you can't pray, pray that you can. He opened his eyes to glare upward. "All right ... help me to want to pray."
His fists relaxed. The tension eased from his face. Hope overtook him like a flash flood. Mitch exhaled, aware that his hands were trembling. He looked up at the ceiling. "Dear God in heaven, where have you been all my life?"
Sucking in a deep breath, he carefully tested his mind, edging toward thoughts of Charity. A surge of heat rolled over his body like a hot summer breeze off the coast of Donegal. Mitch sobered considerably. He doused cool water on his face and reached for the razor, then put the blade to his throat. He exercised extreme caution while his lips flattened into a hard line.
Charity.
Obviously an area that still needed some work.
Bridie sauntered to the threshold of Mitch's nearly closed door and peeked in. She grinned. The poor guy looked like he'd just been poured out of the very bottle he'd drained the night before. Rumpled clothes, bleary eyes, pasty skin tinged the color of the amber liquid that, no doubt, still traveled his bloodstream. His hulk of a body sagged pathetically over his desk, elbows planted on piles of disheveled galley sheets while he cradled his head in his hands.
She tiptoed in with the utmost care, then slammed the door with a resounding bang.
Mitch's body jerked in the chair like a marionette on elastic strings. A salty word from his former vocabulary peppered the air, eliciting another grin from Bridie's lips.
"What the devil are you doing?" he growled, jumping to his feet. His hand went immediately to his head with a groan. "Blast it, Bridie, when this pain is gone, I'm going to make your life so miserable."
She strolled over and tossed her article on his desk, letting loose with a deep chuckle. "Well, you're certainly the king of miserable. Practicing on yourself, are ya?"
He lowered himself into the chair slowly, his hand grafted to his head. He massaged his forehead with his fingers, a pained expression on his face.
Bridie plopped into the chair in front of his desk and folded her hands in her lap. "So, what pushed you off the wagon this time?"
He looked up from under swollen lids. "Go pester someone else."
"Can't. You're the only one who's any fun. The only one I can get a rise out of." She adjusted the sleeve of her blouse and grinned. "The only one who hasn't gone home."
Mitch sank deeper in the chair and closed his eyes. "Leave me in peace, will ya?"
She sat up and leaned in, arms flat on his desk. Her smile shifted into serious concern. "That's what I'm trying to do, Mitch, leave you in peace instead of this wretched misery you've drunk yourself into. What did it this time? I'm guessing a woman's involved because that's the only time you go on these benders. So who is it? Charity?"
A groan trailed from his lips. "Go home, Bridie."
Bridie settled back in the chair and shimmied into a position of comfort. "Can't do it, Boss. You might as well start talking because I'm not leaving until you do." She propped her feet up on the trash can for good measure.
He managed an exasperated sigh before dropping his head back against the chair, eyes still closed. There was a half-day's growth of beard beginning to shadow his jaw. "I need a woman bad, Bridie."
Her feet fell off the can. Heat steamed her cheeks. "Well, sweet saints above, that might just be the one thing you could say to get me to go home."
Mitch's eyes, usually a clear and penetrating blue, slowly lumbered open, now glassy and spidered with red. "I mean it, Bridie. I need a wife."
Bridie swallowed the chuckle tickling her throat. "Well ... I can certainly understand how a man of your age and ... experience ... would feel the need to ... commit, but who exactly did you have in mind?"
"Kathleen."
Bridie sat up. "Kathleen?"
Mitch reached for a half-empty cup of cold coffee. "Yes, Kathleen. She's always been in love with me. You said so yourself." He opened his drawer and grappled for aspirin.
I ... I know, but, Mitch, you don't love her. You've never loved her. To be honest, you used her and broke her heart. Would you risk doing that again?"
He scowled, then popped the aspirin in his mouth and gulped the coffee, wincing as it went down. "I wouldn't hurt her this time. I'd learn to love her. She's a woman I can trust. A woman who only wants the best for me."
Bridie sighed. "Yes, but I remember the agony you put her through, gallivanting with other women while you took the best of her. And then there was the heartbreak of Faith ..."
Mitch leaned back in th
e chair again and slammed the drawer shut with his foot. "That was the old me. I do things by the book now. I need a woman, so I'll marry one."
Bridie twisted her lips in a wry smile. "Mmmm ... lucky Kathleen."
"Look, Bridie, I don't need your grief right now. I care about Kathleen, you know that. I'll go to my death protecting her and taking care of her. Who knows? Maybe her love will stir mine and we'll live happily ever after."
"That's nothing but a line from a fairy tale, Mitch, and you know it."
"Yeah? Well maybe I want a fairy tale right about now. I'm getting pretty sick of the real thing." His mouth settled into a mulish press and he closed his eyes, this time squeezing them hard as if to shut her out.
Bridie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she studied him through squinted eyes. The confirmed bachelor who had it all-looks, brains, talent, a comfortable living. Everything but the right woman. She folded her arms and jutted her chin. "What are you running away from, Mitch? Or should I say whom?"
His eyes flashed open and he leaned forward, jutting a massive finger into her face. "Look, Bridie, I've had just about enough of your flip responses. If I want to marry Kathleen, I'll bleedin' well marry Kathleen."
Bridie studied the flare of his nostrils and the muscle throbbing in his chiseled cheek and took a quick gamble. "Even if you're falling in love with Charity?"
His steeled jaw went white.
Bingo!
"What the devil are you talking about?" He snatched his cup off the desk and chugged the rest of the coffee.
She was smart enough not to smile. "You've been seeing her, haven't you? I tell ya, Mitch, when it comes to women, you're the front page of the Times."
He slapped the cup down on the disheveled pile of papers. Splotches of coffee splattered everywhere. "Blast it all, woman, it has nothing to do with her."
This time Bridie grinned. "So she is involved."
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 10