Emma didn't answer.
Charity opened her lids a slit. "Don't you? I mean think this is his fault, at least partially?"
Clutching the bowl close to her chest, Emma straightened her shoulders and jutted her chin, completely out of character. "No. No, I don't. We make our own decisions, Charity, and you made a bad one. Just like I did with Rory. It isn't Mitch's fault that you fell in love with him. Nor is it his fault if he chooses to marry someone else. That's his right, plain and simple. Just like it was yours to marry Rigan. Moronic as it was."
Charity blinked. "Well, thank you, Emma Malloy. Now if you don't mind, I think I'll lay my moronic head down on this pillow and put us both out of our misery." She plopped back and squeezed her eyes shut, lips clamped in a flat line.
The sound of Emma's chuckle floated in the air, followed by a light squeeze on her shoulder. She ignored it and pinched her eyes tighter.
"I love you, Charity O'Connor. And just for the record? When it comes to being 'thickheaded,' I'm afraid you could teach our Mr. Dennehy a healthy thing or two."
Mitch yawned and glanced at his wristwatch. Four o'clock in the morning. Typical. He propped his head against the headrest of his Model T, parked in the shadowed street of the Gallagher Estate. He scowled. Little Lord Fauntleroy was either somewhere downing his last quarter bottle of booze or lying passed out in some woman's bed. A rush of rage suddenly replaced his fatigue, surging adrenaline through his veins once again. Gallagher was an animal. Using women for his own selfish pleasure. Like he'd done to Charity. Nothing but pure slime.
And you? Before Faith?
Mitch froze in the seat. Anger burned in his chest. He was nothing like Gallagher.
Love seeketh not its own ...
Kathleen's face loomed before him, lovesick, anxious to please, giving her all. Mitch heaved his fist on the dash, his breathing shallow. "I cared for her, I did!"
Love seeketh not its own ...
He groaned and hung his head on the steering wheel, his heart sick with grief. The realization pierced him with brutal force. He had used her. For his own pleasure. And when all was said and done, other than physical abuse, there was really very little difference between Gallagher and him.
The silence of conviction engulfed him. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I'm new at this. Understanding you, understanding your Word. I try to apply it like Faith did, but it's hard. I've prayed for Gallagher; you know I have. But when I think of what he did to Charity ..."
Vengeance is mine.
Mitch heaved his palm against the steering wheel. "No! This time it's mine. I won't kill him because I fear you, but I won't turn my back. Not again."
The sweep of headlights diverted his attention. A Rolls-Royce squealed onto the street, careening toward him at breakneck speed. Mitch's jaw tightened, and his fingers were itchy on the wheel. The coupe barely slowed as it approached the Gallagher entrance, finally screeching to a stop to avoid slamming into the gate. The gate Mitch had closed.
The driver's door swung open with a jerk, and Rigan Gallagher tumbled out, his slurred expletives rising into the still night air. He stumbled toward the iron bars and rattled the latch as if it were the gates of hell. Curses echoed in the dark. Mitch smiled and opened his door. Apparently Gallagher didn't like the wire Mitch had wound around the bolt. Too bloomin' bad.
Mitch moved like a shadow to the front of Rigan's car. He crossed his arms and eased back against the grill, his muscles as taut as the skin on his fists. Nerves twitched in his cheek like skittering drops across a white-hot skillet.
"Guess they finally wised up and locked you out ... Mr. Gallagher III." His voice was pure acid.
Rigan spun around, as if Mitch's tone had eaten away at his drunken stupor. The glaze in his eyes glinted into anger.
"Dennehy? What the devil are you doing here?"
Mitch stood to his full height, dwarfing Rigan by a head. He took a step forward. "Oh, just the usual. Out slumming. What about you, Rigan? Beat up any defenseless women tonight?"
"You come any closer, and I'll have your job."
His laughter was chilling as he took a step forward. "I'll make a deal with you, Mr. Gallagher. You can have my job ... and I'll have your head. On a platter."
Sweat beaded on Rigan's brow. "You're way out of bounds here, Dennehy. Have you been drinking?"
"Oh, yeah. Lots and lots of ginger ale. I wanted to make sure I was good and sober when I paid my respects to the devil."
Rigan's eyes darted nervously, first to his car, then back to Mitch's face. He licked his lips. "If this is about Charity, I saved her life-"
Mitch lunged, silencing him with a powerful thrust against the gate. His hands squeezed Rigan's throat, pinning him to the iron bars. He bared his teeth. "Don't do it, Gallagher. I'm a God-fearing man, but so help me, one more lie out of you, and I'll be forced to break a commandment."
A choking sound sputtered from Rigan's throat. Mitch tightened his grip and leaned in, his words spitting into Rigan's face. "Admit it, Gallagher. You beat her and then you raped her."
Rigan's eyes widened. With a fierce grunt, he managed an upper jab at Mitch's throat.
Mitch reeled back.
Shoulders hunched and feet straddled wide, Rigan clenched his fists up in ready stance. His voice was hoarse as he gasped for air. "Is that what she told you? Well, she lied. She does that, you know."
Mitch pounced, butting him back against the gate. Before Rigan could recover, Mitch whipped his head to the side with a sharp blow of his fist. Blood splattered everywhere. "Throwing stones, Gallagher? You make me sick."
Weaving, Rigan brushed a hand across his bleeding cheek. His eyes were slits of hate. "You're a fool, Dennehy. She's lying to you, like she always does. She gave it willingly, any time I wanted. How does it feel to be in love with a whore?"
Rage exploded inside of Mitch's brain. He delivered an ironfisted punch to Gallagher's gut, doubling him in half with a sickening groan. "Let me tell you how it feels to want to kill somebody so bad it aches, you worthless sack of dung." He reached down and grabbed Rigan's tie and yanked his body up, slamming him hard against the gate. He let fly with a jawbreaking bash to his right cheek. Rigan's face twitched to the side. Blood oozed from his nose.
"I'll kill you for this," he sputtered. He stabilized himself with one hand while wiping blood with the other.
Mitch's laugh was savage. "Yeah? Well, you're lucky. I don't have that luxury. I have to turn the other cheek." He backhanded an iron fist against Rigan's left jaw, whirling his head to the other side. "Of course, my scriptural interpretation may be a bit off."
Rigan stumbled back, breathing hard. "I'll make you pay for this, both you and your whore." He spit out a wad of blood and raised his fists. "But then, you always had a penchant for whores. First Anna, now Charity." He grinned, the loathing in his eyes as thick as the blood on his face. "I'll give you this-they're a good time in bed." He grinned like a madman as he flew at Mitch, driving him back against the Rolls' saucer headlights.
Mitch groaned and staggered up, sustaining a blow to his cheek before launching a fist into Rigan's eye. Rigan teetered back with a curse, then crumpled to the ground, legs sprawled. Mitch's laugh pierced the night with an unholy sound. "You know, turning the other cheek is okay, but I prefer an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Kind of a paraphrase-'an arm for an arm' or 'a wrist for a wrist."' He drew back to shatter Rigan's kneecap with the blunt sole of his shoe. "Of course, my personal favorite is a leg for a leg-"
What does the Lord require of you, but to do justly and love mercy?
"No!" Mitch shrieked, then bludgeoned the fleshy side of Rigan's leg instead. Rigan wailed and listed to his side. Mitch released a shuddering breath and sagged forward, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. He shoved Rigan all the way over with the tip of his shoe, extracting a garbled groan from Rigan's throat.
Mitch clutched the gate and bent to one knee. "Now you listen to me, you load of human pus. If you so much as
breathe near Charity O'Connor ever again, I'll see to it you never hold your head up in this town. I'm personally taking her back to Boston for good, and when I return, I suggest you locate elsewhere. Because if I smell your foul stench anywhere near Dublin, I'll consider it an extreme pleasure to go to the papers and reveal what a bloodsucking lowlife abuser you are. And when I'm done with you, Mr. Rigan Gallagher III, not even a mangy, flea-infested dog will lick your sores, you sorry excuse for a man."
With a grunt, Mitch rose to his feet and unlatched the gate. "Now crawl to your car like the snake you are. You'll want to clean up before Daddy sees you. He might ask questions. Then you'd have to tell him you're better at beating up women than men."
Mitch untethered the wire from the latch and tossed it into the bushes. He hurled the gates open and stepped over Rigan's crumpled body to head to his car. He glanced over his shoulder, noting with satisfaction that Rigan was writhing on his side. "Good night, Mr. Gallagher. Enjoy the rest of your evening. And if you look half as pretty in the morning as Charity did when you were done with her, I'll consider this a most productive night."
Mitch held his breath, then closed the front door to Mrs. Lynch's apartment building with a careful click. He exhaled and turned to mount the newly waxed staircase, grimacing as each squeak resounded in his brain. Leaning on the banister, he reached the top step, mere feet away from his apartment door and blessed sleep.
"Goodness me, I've been tossing and turning all night, and now I know why." Sleepy eyes peeked out from the door across the hall. Mitch groaned inwardly.
The door opened wider, revealing Mrs. Lynch in all her bedtime glory. She tugged her floral robe tighter and adjusted the matching kerchief on her head. Her eyes expanded at the blood on his shirt and face. "Sweet saints in heaven, are you all right?"
He nodded and inserted the key. "Fine, Mrs. Lynch. Good night."
"But you're bleeding."
"Not as much as the other guy." He pushed his door open, anxious to close it again.
A lavender slipper blocked his way. "Mitch Dennehy, did you hurt Rigan Gallagher tonight?"
"Go back to bed, Mrs. Lynch."
She pushed an arm and a leg through. Great. He had a stubborn, silver-haired midget lodged in his door.
"Don't patronize me, young man. Did you hurt Rigan Gallagher?"
He was too tired to fight. He dropped his hold on the knob and trudged inside. He took his coat off and threw it on the sofa. "Yes."
"Mitch Dennehy, I'm ashamed of you." Mrs. Lynch closed the door and folded her arms. "Ashamed it's taken this long to deal with that upstart."
Mitch looked up and blinked. "You're ashamed? That I didn't do it sooner?"
Mrs. Lynch hurried to his side. "Absolutely. That little rich boy has had it coming for a long time." She bullied him toward the sofa and touched a hand to his nose. "Is this your blood or his?"
Mitch yawned. "His."
"Good. How about this?" She feathered a finger across his swollen cheek.
"Oww ... mine."
"I was afraid of that. The tincture of iodine will sting on that one." She scrunched her nose, eyeing his blood-spattered shirt. "Mmmm ... that shirt's headed for the rag basket, I think. But we'll see. I'll be right back."
"Mrs. Lynch, wait."
She whirled around.
"I heard something ... in my head tonight, a thought really, not a sound. A Scripture I'd read. 'Vengeance is mine."'
Mrs. Lynch cocked her head. "Yes?"
Mitch took a deep breath. "Well, I just thought that maybe ... maybe I did the wrong thing. You know, let my temper get the best of me." He looked away, guilt weighting him down more than fatigue. "Like maybe I chose my way instead of God's."
Mrs. Lynch pursed her lips. Her blue eyes squinted back at him. "Probably. But God is God. He can use whatever or whomever he pleases-good or evil-to execute justice. Your temper got the best of you tonight, Mitch. But right or wrong, I believe God used it."
He sank back against the sofa and closed his eyes. "Thanks, Mrs. Lynch. I needed that."
"You also need sleep. But not before I take care of that nasty cut on your cheek. What time does the ship sail tomorrow?"
He lifted his arm to glance at his watch, then dropped it like a dead weight, eyes closed. "Four o'clock. I've got a lot to do before then. But at least I can sleep till noon."
"I'm glad. Well, stay right there. I'll get my supplies."
As if he could move.
When she returned, she dressed the wounds in seconds flat, then patted his cheek and headed for the door.
His eyes flipped open. "Mrs. Lynch?"
She turned at the door. "Yes?"
"In case I forget to tell you, thanks for taking care of Runt while I'm gone. And for everything you do."
She laughed. "And thank you for the month's advance on your rent. Are you sure you can afford it?"
He closed his eyes and smiled. "In case it escaped your attention, I haven't exactly been spending my money on wine, women, and song."
She chuckled and opened the door. "So, I've noticed." She slipped out and closed it again, but not before poking her head in one last time. "But those ginger ale bills are going to send you to the poorhouse, my boy." The door banged closed, leaving him with a smile warm on his lips and slumber hot on his heels.
"Grandmother, look!" Charity perched on the edge of the bed, eyeing herself in the hand mirror. "I did it. Broken arm, bum wrist, and all. This chemise is a cinch to put on with the large loop and button you sewed in. You're a genius. And the lace ... it's so pretty!"
Bridget looked up from her sewing. Her brows sloped high, colliding with the wrinkles on her brow. "Oh no, Charity, that chemise is way too small."
Observing the deep cleft between her full breasts, Charity tilted her head. "It does rather make me look like a vamp, doesn't it?"
"Oh my, it certainly does." Bridget tossed her sewing aside and stood, hand to cheek. "Take it off this instant, and I'll add some material."
Charity laughed and studied herself in the mirror. "Not on your life, Grandmother. For the first time in days, those awful bruises are fading, and I'm finally feeling pretty again. This chemise makes me feel very ... shall I say ... womanly? Besides, no one is going to see me in it but you or Emma." She flicked the lacey edging and sighed. "Such a pity."
"Young lady! It's bad enough I've made you look like a tart in that chemise, must you talk like one too? Now take it off and I'll fix it."
Charity snatched her blouse off the bed and quickly lifted it over her shoulders. "Sorry, but I'm already half dressed, thanks to your ingenuity." She slipped the good arm through the wide sleeve, then the broken one. Ignoring the worry on her grandmother's face, she fumbled with the oversized loop Bridget had stitched into her pale pink, double-breasted satin blouse. With a grunt, she managed to hook it over the goodsize pearlized button. She took a deep breath. "There. How does it look?"
Bridget bit her lip. "Way too snug."
A giggle escaped Charity's lips. "Good. Now for the skirt." She fished her burgundy and gray plaid tweed skirt off the bed and dropped it over her head. Propping her good arm, she pushed herself to a standing position. She wobbled a bit before stabilizing, then shifted her weight to her strong leg. She tugged the skirt down. "There. That wasn't too bad. Now for the button. . . " She fiddled with another wide loop, finally catching it on the large button at the waist. "The saints be praised. I did it. How do I look?"
Her grandmother eyed her up and down, worry creasing her brow. "A wee bit too 'womanly,' if you ask me."
Charity grinned. "Perfect. This will be the outfit I wear when Dr. Simms says I can go back to work. If I can get a rich louse like Rigan Gallagher to propose, I should be able to land another wealthy suitor soon enough. And let Mr. Heart-of-Stone Dennehy choke on that bit of news when it comes."
She plopped on the bed and grimaced at the jolt to her arm. She rubbed it and looked up. Her grandmother was fussing with the sewing in her lap.
Charity squinted, noting her grandmother's nervous habit of rolling her tongue across her front teeth.
"Grandmother?"
Bridget's gaze remained fixed on the sewing in hand. "Mmmm?"
"Is something wrong?"
She didn't look up. Instead, her tongue did another quick glide. "No, nothing, dear. I'm just concentrating hard on getting another blouse sewn for you."
Charity cocked her head. "Is it Father? Are you worried what he'll say when he receives my letter? He can't make me stay in Boston if I don't go home, you know."
Bridget's cheeks burned red.
"You did send it, didn't you? The letter I had Emma write?"
"I forget, dear."
"Well, even if you didn't, there's no way I can be back in time for Christmas and the wedding. Dr. Simms says I won't get full use of my leg for another five to seven weeks. You know I can't travel alone, and besides, I already told you. I don't want to go home. I want to stay here with you and Mima and Emma. Forever."
Sadness ringed her grandmother's eyes. "I know, dear."
Charity exhaled and gave her a tremulous smile. "I love you, Grandmother. You, Mima, and Emma are all the family I need. You've shown me more love and attention than I've ever known before. Making all these special clothes so I can dress myself. Cooking forme, reading to me, washing my hair, even bathing me. I want to always be here for you."
Tears brimmed in Bridget's eyes while her chin trembled. "I love you, Charity. No granddaughter could hold a more special place in my heart. And I want the very best for you. Please ... always know that."
Charity turned her head. "Did you hear something? Was that a knock downstairs?" She turned back to Bridget, her brows dipping low. "Are you expecting Dr. Simms today?"
Bridget fumbled the sewing in her lap and stood in a hurry. The blouse she'd been working on fluttered to the floor. She stooped to pick it up. "I ... I don't know. I don't think so. I'll go check." She rushed to the closet to retrieve Charity's shoes and a pair of gray woolen stockings. She laid them on the bed. "Here, practice putting these on, if you can, and we'll see about getting you downstairs like I promised." She whirled around and charged from the room, closing the door behind her.
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 21