A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2)

by Julie Lessman

  Bridget sat on the sofa, a pale statue with yarn in her lap and needles limp in her hands. Her mouth hung open as she blinked several times. "What in the world just happened?"

  Charity slumped in the chair, too stunned to speak.

  "Charity, answer me." Bridget discarded her needles and hurried to her granddaughter's side. "Why was Mitch so angry?"

  "Because I lied to him," she whispered.

  Bridget pulled a chair close and sat down, resting her hand on Charity's arm. "What do you mean, you lied to him?"

  "He hates Rigan." Her head sagged into her hands. "He made me promise I wouldn't see him again."

  "I see. And he was just starting to trust you, care for you, wasn't he?"

  Charity looked up and nodded, a single tear trailing her cheek.

  "Well, he'll get over it. He cares for you. I can see it in his eyes."

  She shook her head, the motion weighted with regret. "No, he won't, Grandmother. Mitch has this obsession with trust. It started with his mother. Now he doesn't trust any woman who lies to him." She choked back a sob. "Or cheats on him."

  Bridget gently stroked Charity's hair. "Trust is not an obsession, darling, it's an extension of love. When we truly love someone, we give them our heart to hold in their hands. And when that love is returned, that very trust is balm to our souls."

  A sob convulsed in Charity's throat. She grabbed her grandmother's hand and held it to her lips. "Oh, Grandmother, I love him so much, but now he'll never trust me."

  Her grandmother's fingers feathered through the loose strands of Charity's hair. "But then, he never has, now has he?"

  She opened her eyes. "It's not funny, Grandmother."

  Bridget smiled. "No, but it's not life and death, either." She patted Charity's hand. "Earn his trust, Charity. Don't lie. Don't deceive. Be true to him ... and yourself."

  "I am being true to myself, Grandmother. I love him. If I didn't bend the truth a little and plot my strategy, I would have never gotten this far with the man. He's as guarded and unapproachable as a fortress of steel."

  "Yes, but once your love is tucked securely inside, I suspect you'll be assured of its safekeeping, now won't you?" Bridget stood.

  "You talk in riddles, Grandmother. All I know is I love him and I'll do whatever it takes."

  Bridget sighed. "That's what I'm afraid of."

  Rising to her feet, Charity flipped a strand of hair from her eyes. She crossed her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Bridget bundled her knitting into her arms and dropped it into a wicker basket by the side of the sofa. She stretched, pressing her hands to the back of her hips. She eyed Charity through tired eyes. "It means I worry that 'whatever it takes' may be exactly what it takes to lose a man like Mitch Dennehy."

  Charity turned her back, hands shaking as she picked up the chessboard and slanted it hard. The pieces plunged into the wooden box with a jarring clatter. "Don't underestimate me, Grandmother, I won't lose him. Whatever it takes-" She pivoted slowly, arms stiff and fingers taut as she gripped the wooden box. Her left brow angled dangerously high. "And I do mean 'whatever'-I will become Mrs. Mitch Dennehy, mark my words." She arched her back with an air of defiance seldom displayed to her grandmother. "And when I'm done, it'll all be worth it."

  Bridget sighed, apparently too tired to argue. "It will never be worth it, Charity. I only hope and pray you find that out before it's too late. Good night, dear. Douse the lights before you retire. And leave the back door open with a note for Johnny, will you? His supper is in the oven."

  Without awaiting her reply, Bridget departed the room, leaving Charity with nothing but the taste of bitter regret in her mouth.

  Turmoil and unrest. Mitch stared at the headline of Monday evening's Irish Times, and his anger resurfaced all over again. It began when he'd stormed out of Charity's parlor Saturday night and had only mounted throughout the wee hours of Sunday morning. That's when he'd learned that the Irish Republican Brotherhood, a group favoring armed revolt against the United Kingdom to secure Ireland's independence, had had a particularly busy night.

  Mitch tossed the paper on his desk and rubbed the back of his neck. The last twenty-four hours had been-for both Ireland and him-a nightmare of turmoil and unrest. As if it wasn't bad enough having Dublin turned inside out, he was still seething over Charity's broken promise-a deception that had robbed him of a decent night's sleep up until Michael's frantic call at six in the morning. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since lunch. He glanced at his watch. Near midnight. Thank God for Mrs. Lynch. She took such good care of Runt. Now if he could just find someone to do the same for him.

  He rubbed his hand over his scratchy jaw and yawned. He hadn't been home in almost forty-eight hours, and he was pretty sure his hygiene was questionable. He was grateful that most everyone else had gone.

  Michael popped his head in the door of Mitch's office. You best get your carcass out of here. I want you fresh in the morning. The earlier, the better."

  A wry smile twisted on Mitch's lips. "I can guarantee early. Can't do much about fresh."

  "It's been a devil of a couple of days, hasn't it, though? I thought I was going to have to carry Bridie out of here, she was so exhausted."

  Mitch stood and stretched. "Don't think you're off the hook yet. You may have to carry me. I haven't had a decent wink of sleep since Friday night."

  Michael whistled. "So the old Mitch is finally back, eh, burning the candle at both ends?"

  "Nope, no candles." Mitch shoved his desk drawer closed and plucked his coat off the back of his chair. "But fire was involved, and I definitely got burned."

  "You care to explain that?" Michael leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, appearing intrigued.

  "Nope. Good night, Michael."

  Michael waited till he was almost to the double doors. "Bridie tells me you're thinking of picking up where you left off with Kathleen."

  Mitch stopped, his back to Michael. Anger pushed his fatigue aside. "Bridie's got a big mouth."

  "That's a given. But she also has a big heart. And she cares about Kathleen. We all do."

  Mitch spun around, his jaw clenched tight for the hundredth time in the last two days. "I'm not going to hurt Kathleen. I'm looking for more this time."

  "Bridie says you're in love with Faith's sister."

  He swore under his breath. "Bridie needs a lip lock. I'm not in love with anyone."

  Michael squinted and scratched his bald head. "That's good. She appeared to be real cozy with Gallagher, you know? And I don't want you ruffling his feathers. Or hurting Kathleen."

  Heat broiled the back of Mitch's neck. He took a step toward Michael and jammed a finger under his nose. "Look, Michael, you may be my editor, but get this and get it good. My life is none of your blinkin' business, nor Bridie's ... nor Kathleen's, for that matter. So butt out."

  Michael yanked on his trousers to pull them up around his ample stomach and leaned in, rising to his full five-foot-two height. He prodded a stubby finger right back into Mitch's chest. "You bet your blasted backside it's my business when it affects the welfare of this paper and its employees. You've hurt Kathleen once. You make bloomin' sure you don't do it again. And as far as Faith's sister is concerned, if there's any brain in that thick head of yours, you'll stay as far away from her as you can get. I can't afford to lose you if Gallagher wants your head. Although God knows I'd love to give it to him right about now."

  Mitch blasted out a loud breath of frustration and leaned in, standing his ground. "Trust me, Michael, we're in tight agreement on one thing. I have no intention of going anywhere near Faith's sister ever again. And as far as Kathleen goes? If and when I pick up where we left off, it will be with a ring on her finger. Is that bloomin' sure enough for you?"

  His editor readjusted his pants one more time. "Good." He expelled a heavy sigh, releasing all the bluster along with it. His eyes softened. "We just care about you, Mitch. Is that a crime?"

/>   Mitch scrubbed his face with his hands. "Good night, Michael."

  "Good night, Mitch. Get some beauty sleep, will ya? You need it bad."

  Bridget looked up from her plate piled high with turkey and stopped chewing, watching Charity pick at her stuffing. She and Mima exchanged glances. "Charity, I know it's left over from Saturday, but you seemed to enjoy it then. And you haven't even touched the cranberries."

  Charity shot her a mournful gaze. "I'm sorry, Grandmother, it's not the food-it's delicious. It's just that my appetite isn't what it was on Saturday."

  Bridget put her fork down. "Apparently nothing's what it was on Saturday: your appetite, your mood, your sleep. Have you tried to call and straighten this all out?"

  Charity prodded at a piece of turkey. "Of course. I've left messages everywhere-the Times, Mrs. Lynch's, even Duffy's, because Mrs. Lynch says that lately, he practically lives there for his meals. But he won't return my calls. She says he's been working long hours, trying to keep up with all the turmoil going on right now."

  Mima put a frail hand on Charity's arm. "Give him time, Charity. He'll come around."

  Charity dropped her fork on the table to grab Mima's hand. There was desperation in her tone. "But I don't have time, Mima! I'm leaving for Boston in less than a month. My time is dwindling." She closed her eyes and hung her head, massaging her forehead with her hand. "I can't believe it. Here it is, Thanksgiving, and the very thing I'd be the most thankful for is slipping away."

  Bridget softened her voice. "Charity, maybe it's not God's will-"

  Her eyes flew open and her head snapped up. "It's my will, Grandmother, and it will be me who wins Mitch's heart, not God." She pushed her chair back and stood. "Dinner was wonderful. Please leave the dishes for me. I'll do them when I get back."

  Bridget's eyes widened. "But where are you going at this late hour? It's almost eight."

  "I'm going to confront him, whether he likes it or not. He has no difficulty ignoring my messages, but he can't ignore me in the flesh." Charity leaned to give Mima a tight squeeze, then rounded the table and planted a quick kiss on Bridget's cheek.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Don't worry, Grandmother, I won't do anything that offends your moral sensibilities. When it comes to sins of the flesh, I'm afraid our Mr. Dennehy is too devoted to God for that. But I do happen to know, firsthand, that sins of the flesh are a particular weakness of his. And since all is fair in love and war, I'm going to put on my most tempting dress, unpin my hair, and pay him a visit."

  Bridget jumped to her feet. Her napkin floated to the floor. "Charity, no!"

  Charity smiled over her shoulder. "Good night, Grandmother, Mima. I'm warning you-don't touch those dishes." She stopped at the door to pose against the frame, suddenly delirious with the feeling of a little girl about to misbehave. Bridget made the sign of the cross while Mima's lips gummed in disapproval.

  Charity blew them a kiss. "I love you both, you know that. But don't wait up."

  Mitch yawned and leaned against the door of his office to watch Bridie and Kathleen at their desks. Bridie's usually disheveled topknot sagged lower on her head than usual. Several long strands of silver hair escaped to flutter down the back of her neck. Even at this late hour, her fingers flew over her typewriter keys, pounding out yet another article on the latest upheaval in Ireland's struggle for independence.

  His eyes flicked over to Kathleen at the next desk, her long, lithe body poised and calm while she typed the reams of chicken scratch Mitch had tossed at her earlier. Her rich, chestnut hair was piled high on her head, exposing the graceful beauty of her long neck, feathered with soft ringlets of stray curls. He assessed the way she sat straight and strong, as if fatigue couldn't affect her focus. And, as he had done more than once in the past week, he compared her to Charity. Where Kathleen seemed almost prim, Charity was definitely not proper. Where Charity was flirtatious and sensual, Kathleen was soft and shy, exuding an air of innocence despite giving her all to Mitch years before. His jaw tightened. He should marry her. He owed her that. Besides, where Charity was bold and defiant, Kathleen was quiet-spoken and compliant.

  The perfect wife.

  He cleared his throat and both women looked up. "I'm ravenous. Who feels like eating?"

  Bridie cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. "Who's buying?"

  He grabbed his coat off the hook and gave her a droll smile. "Who do you think?"

  "In that case, I'm ravenous too." She chuckled. "How 'bout you, Kathleen?"

  Kathleen smiled as her cheeks tinted a pretty shade of pink. She peeked up at Mitch with liquid-brown eyes that brimmed with adoration. "I suppose I could eat a bite."

  "Humph, a bird's bite, if I know you. And all to spare this slave driver the expense of a high-priced supper. Not me. I take great pleasure in spending his money. He can afford it."

  Mitch tugged Kathleen's coat off the rack and held it while she slipped it on, fixing Bridie with a narrowed gaze. "Can't afford not to. You'd make me pay, one way or another." He started for the door.

  Bridie chuckled. "Ah, yes, one of my greatest pleasures in life, making you pay." She stood up and waggled her brows. "Hey, what about my coat?"

  Mitch kept walking. "I'm providing dinner, not chivalry. Get your own coat."

  He heard her mumbling as she snatched her wrap and wrestled to put it on. She hurried to the door. "You did it for Kathleen," she muttered with a pout.

  Mitch grinned and held the door as they scurried past. "Kathleen doesn't give me grief."

  "Yeah, that's her problem," Bridie said under her breath.

  "Be good, Mrs. O'Halloran, or you'll be buying your own pint to go with the meal I provide."

  "Yes, sir," she said, bundling her coat tighter to ward off the cold. "My lips are sealed."

  "When pigs fly," he said.

  Their laughter carried on the night breeze as they hustled around the corner to the welcoming sounds and smells of Duffy's. He held the heavy oak door as the women hurried in and waved to get Sally's attention.

  She hurried over and ushered them to a booth in the back. "So, you have the whole gang with ya tonight. Working them to the bone, I suppose, with all that's going on. Where's Jamie?"

  "Sick," Mitch said, perusing his menu.

  "Of working for him," Bridie whispered, pointing to Mitch behind hers.

  Sally and Kathleen giggled while Mitch handed the menu back. He settled in, rested his head on the back of the booth, and closed his eyes. "Ignore her, Sally, she's just mad because I can push her around. I'll take the biggest steak you can rustle up, the rarer the better, a hefty side of colcannon, and a double order of apple fritters."

  Sally nodded while she scratched on a pad. She looked up, a tease in her tone. "Another bottle of Bushmill Malt, Mr. Dennehy?"

  He opened his eyes halfway, searing her with a nasty look. "Ginger ale. And I swear you two are related."

  Sally tossed her head and giggled. She patted Mitch on the arm. "Oh, you know we love you, don't you, you big bully?" She turned to Bridie. "What'll it be, sister dear?"

  "The same as him, only throw in an order of crubeens for good measure, a mug of Guinness, and scones and lemon curd all around."

  Mitch groaned. "I still have to pay rent for this month, Bridie. Have a heart."

  She handed her menu to Sally. "I do, Boss. I'm thinking you can always move in with me ..." She folded her hands on the table and looked up at the ceiling, the picture of innocence. "Or Kathleen."

  Kathleen blushed scarlet and Bridie jumped. "Ouch! Did you just kick me, Mr. Dennehy-"

  "Kathleen, what do you want to eat?" Mitch said, ignoring Bridie.

  Kathleen studied the menu as if it were the most fascinating thing she'd ever read, her cheeks beet red. She cleared her throat. "An apple tart, please."

  Mitch grabbed the menu from her hand, thinking he had never met a more unassuming person. "Kathleen."

  She looked up, eyes blinking wide.

  "A
re you sure you don't want something else?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then, would you like coffee with that apple tart?"

  A gentle smile tugged at her lips as she nodded.

  "Two coffees as well, Sally. One for me, and one for the lady."

  "Me too," Bridie piped up.

  "And one for the troublemaker," Mitch muttered. He leaned back, feeling the heaviness of fatigue settling in his shoulders and neck. He barely listened to Bridie and Kathleen's idle chatter. The lull of sleep pulled at his eyelids until Bridie's voice jolted him back.

  "Boss!"

  "What?"

  "I said you look beat. How much longer do you think we'll keep these hours?"

  He straightened up in his seat. "For the next few weeks anyway, until things calm down."

  "Do you think the Limey's will ever cut us loose?"

  Mitch yawned as Sally unloaded their drinks. He reached for the ginger ale. "If the unrest escalates into bloodshed, I don't see how they can fight it, short of war. But that won't happen."

  Bridie grabbed her Guinness, guzzling half of it before finally setting it down again. "No, the Brits are a civilized lot, for all the crick they put in our necks. And they've had their fill of war, that's for sure. I really think we're close, I do."

  "Oh, I hope so," Kathleen whispered.

  Mitch looked up and studied the soft curve of Kathleen's lips, the shy bent of her head. His eyes roved the length of her from across the table, taking in her full breasts and slim waist. He looked up, catching her gaze. Her cheeks flamed and he smiled. "Kathleen, how's your mother?"

  She ducked her head and nodded. "Fine, she's fine. I was actually able to purchase several copies of Braille books for her, so she occupies herself quite well with knitting and reading while my sisters and I are at work. Elise, of course, still stays at home to care for her."

  Mitch nodded, ashamed of the times he'd taken Kathleen to his apartment for his own pleasure. Her one request had always been getting home by ten for her shift with her mother.