Her parents exchanged a look.
She pushed her chair back in and rounded the table to kiss them good night.
Marcy reached up andpatted her cheek. "He's just nervous, Faith. Keep your tongue in check. Men have a tendency to get a bit testy when they're about to lose their independence."
Patrick chuckled. "Your mother's right, darlin'. I wasn't too bad, I don't think, but Collin's a pretty stubborn man-"
"Hah! Don't go putting on airs, Patrick O'Connor, you were one of the worst. Snapping at me at every turn for weeks before the wedding. You and that boy are cut from the same stubborn cloth-prime Longhorn cow leather."
Patrick's brows sloped up. "How can you say that? I'm hurt."
She rose, her lips skewed into a wry smile. "Because it's true, my love. You were every bit as nasty as Collin, right up until the wedding, and don't you deny it."
He pushed away from the table and stretched, a sudden twinkle lighting his eye. "But that all changed on the honeymoon, now didn't it, Marceline?"
She blushed. "Patrick! I can't believe you're saying that in front of your own daughter."
"Really, Mother, the way you two moon over each other, do you think it's a surprise to any of us?"
"Faith!" Marcy's cheeks fused scarlet.
Patrick's laughter rang out as he stood and put an arm around his wife. "Marcy, Faith is a woman about to be married. This will all be common knowledge for her in a few weeks. Come on, woman, I'm tired. Take these old bones of mine to bed."
Marcy wriggled out of his grasp and gave her daughter a kiss. "Don't be too hard on him, Faith. He's a wonderful man, you know. Just a bit scared. Tell him good night for us, will you?"
Faith nodded and stacked the cards in a pile. She glared at the kitchen door, forcing herself to be calm. Taking a deep breath, she approached and pushed it open.
Collin sat at the table, a half-eaten ham sandwich on the plate before him. His eyes bore through her as he stuffed the rest in his bulging cheeks and chewed hard. Faith ambled over to the icebox to pour herself a glass of milk. She strolled over, plunked it on the table, and sat. Locking gazes with him over the rim of her glass, she took a sip. She licked her lips and set the glass back down. "So, are you going to tell me what's really bothering you? Or are you going to sit there and stuff your face like a pig-headed mule?"
He glared and swallowed hard, his gray eyes narrowing to black. "That's the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it. What makes you think something's wrong?"
She placed her arms on the table, fingers tightly laced. "Oh, I don't know, maybe it's all the sulking and nasty temper you've been giving me all week. If you don't want to marry me, Collin, just come out and say it."
He shoved the plate away and reached for his milk, upending it until it was all gone. He slammed the glass back down. "Don't tempt me, Faith."
She shot up from the chair with heat scorching her cheeks. She thumped a fist on the table. "Just what exactly is your problem?"
He slanted forward. "You're my problem. My oh-so-honest fiancee, the one who hides things from me."
"What are you talking about?"
He stood up and leaned hard on the table, the thick tendons of his arm protruding below his rolled-up shirtsleeve. "I'm talking about Charity."
"I told you she set sail two days ago. What more is there to know?"
He straightened, slow and deliberate, his gaze unflinching as it pierced her own. "Oh, I don't know, maybe that your exfiance is bringing her?" The word sounded like a curse.
The blood drained from her cheeks. She took a shallow breath. "Collin, I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to upset you. You've been on edge these last few weeks."
"So I have to hear it from your mother? Who, by the way, is just thrilled to see 'dear old Mitch' again." He fairly spit the name in her face. "Not unlike her daughter, I'm sure."
Faith skirted the table to stand before him, her eyes contrite as she stared up. "Collin, look at you. This is why I didn't say anything. You have nothing to worry about."
"You're right I don't because you won't be talking to him."
She stepped back. Her eyes expanded as she put a hand to her chest. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Other than hello and goodbye, I forbid you to talk to him."
"You can't do that."
"Yes, I can. A wife has to submit to her husband. It's in the Bible."
Faith planted her hands on her hips and leaned in, the heat in her eyes matching his own. "One minor problem. I'm not your wife-yet. And if this keeps up, it doesn't look promising."
Collin groaned and jerked her into his arms, crushing her to his chest. "What are we doing here, Faith? I love you. I don't want to fight."
She relaxed in his arms. "Me, either, Collin. But you can't bully me into not talking to Mitch."
He picked her up and sat down in the chair, placing her on his lap. He had a dangerous gleam in his eye. "No, but I can make sure you're too breathless to do it ..."
"Collin, what are you-"
He dipped her back and cradled her neck while his mouth searched hers with a vengeance. Her insides grew weak as the heat began to build, and she moaned when his mouth strayed to the lobe of her ear. Dear Lord, she loved this man! His hands roamed her back. They edged lower to pull her close.
She twisted away, her breathing accelerating. "Collin, stop it ... now!"
With an evil grin, he pulled her back up and steeled his arms around her, eyes half -lidded as if he'd just fallen out of bed. His gaze settled on her lips. "You won't be able to stop me in a few weeks," he whispered in a husky tone.
Her breathing quickened. "I know. Whatever will I do?"
He tugged at the corner of her lower lip with his teeth, then slid his mouth across hers. "Give in, of course." His words were warm and low against her mouth. "First this, then whatever I want."
She lurched in his arms, ready to pop him. He laughed, and his deep, throaty chuckle filled the kitchen. "I'm crazy about you, Faith O'Connor, you know that? But I have a feeling you and God will have words about a particular subject."
"And what might that be, you mule-headed Irishman?"
He tapped her nose with his finger, his grin positively annoying. "Submission. Ephesians 5:22. I suggest you read up on it before the wedding."
She slapped his hand away and tried to wriggle free. "And I suggest you read what follows, Mr. McGuire-'husbands, love your wives'-that is, if you want a willing wife in your bed."
He laughed again, hauling her close despite her objections. He dug his lips into the crook of her neck, causing her to giggle and moan at the same time. "Oh, I'll have that, all right, Mrs. McGuire," he whispered in her ear, "and you can empty your purse on that."
Mitch blinked. Oh. What a surprise. She was stunning.
He worked hard to mask his approval, but it wasn't easy. She sat on the bed, sheer layers of pale blue surrounding her like a cloud. Sweet saints in heaven, he was staring at a blessed angel. His eyes scanned up to the V-neck bodice where a gauzy overlay did little to obscure what lay beneath. He swallowed. Nope, definitely not the pearly gates.
She bit her lip as a hint of color washed into her cheeks. "You ... said to dress up, and this is all I have. I'm sorry."
He forced his gaze up to her face and smiled. "Don't be. You look beautiful. But I think you're going to have to wear Bridget's ring to fend the men off."
"Are you still wearing yours?"
He looked down at his hand, a faint smile on his lips. "Yeah."
"Then I'll wear mine. Can you get it for me?"
He nodded and left, returning a few moments later with the ring. She held out her hand. "Will you put it on?"
He slipped it on her finger, suddenly realizing he was holding his breath. He released it slowly. "Ready?" He picked her up in his arms. "Our dinner reservations are for seven. We don't want to be late." He stopped. "Don't you need the sling for your arm?"
"I don't think so. I want to feel pretty ton
ight. And my arm's much better. Really."
She seemed different as he carried her down the corridor, quiet, content, as if she had no need to talk. He was grateful. Seeing her dressed up for him, putting the ring on her finger, had left him undone, confused, moody. Heads turned as they stood at the entrance to the dining room, the sight of a man carrying a woman unusual in itself, but Mitch knew the stares would have been the same had she walked by his side. He saw men gawking at her, and his lips pressed tight. Blasted leches. For pity's sake, she wasn't the only woman in the room.
She was for him.
"Your name, sir?" the maitre d' asked.
"Dennehy," he snapped, aware of Charity's gaze.
"Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Dennehy, your table is ready. Follow me, please."
Mitch strode behind him. The maitre d' pulled out her chair, and Mitch set her down, carefully pushing it back in.
She adjusted her skirt. "Thank you."
The maitre d' handed them menus and returned to his post.
Charity leaned forward with a flush on her cheeks and shielded her face with the menu. "I'm sorry, Mitch. I suppose it's embarrassing carrying a cripple in."
He looked up. Embarrassed? By her? He grabbed her hand. "No, it has nothing to do with that. It has everything to do with my temper and the way men ogle you." He released her hand and cleared his throat, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He pretended to study his menu, not comprehending a word on the sheet. "Not the least of which is me. Forgive me, Charity, for all the times I did the same."
"But you were the one I wanted to ogle me, Mitch."
He glanced up, his mouth flat. "I've done my fair share, and I'm not proud of it. Both of our lives would be very different right now if I hadn't."
"I know." She looked away. "I ... don't think I ever really asked your forgiveness ... for what happened." She swallowed hard. "I regret it ... not because it caused me to fall in love with you, but because it caused you so much heartbreak." She looked up and took a deep breath. "And Faith."
"She's forgiven you, Charity. Whatever she did to hurt you, can't you forgive her?"
Her lips parted as if she had difficulty breathing, the gauze of her dress rising and falling.
"She loves you, you know," he whispered.
She nodded and picked at the edge of her napkin. "I know."
He sighed and refocused on the menu. "Let's order. We have all night to talk."
She ordered tenderloin and lobster like a little girl on a holiday, and he couldn't help but think he enjoyed her this way. He offered wine, but she refused, giving him the same warm feeling inside as if he had a glass himself. They talked for hours, over potato puffs and almond green beans and crepes Suzette, barely pausing long enough to chew. She divulged Mrs. Shaw's deepest secrets and laughed over Emma's gentle wit, and grew melancholy over her own dreams to be a shop owner some day. She plied him with questions about himself and taunted until he answered, making him feel like the most important man in the room. When the waiter presented the check, he fought the inclination to order cordials. He didn't want the night to end.
"I've cost you a small fortune, haven't I?" she asked, a bit of hesitation in her tone.
He smiled. "I can afford it."
"Without a job?"
His gaze narrowed. "The Times isn't the only paper in Ireland, you know. I've had offers before; I'll get them again."
"Rigan won't stop you?"
"Rigan won't be around."
"What do you mean?"
He reached inside his coat pocket for his wallet. He didn't answer.
"Mitch, tell me, please. What do you mean?"
He exhaled. "I mean I threatened him. Told him if he was in Dublin when I came back, I was going to the papers."
"To do what?"
He slapped his money on the table. "Expose him for the coward he is. Beating on women, taking advantage of them."
"But with me gone, you won't have proof."
"I don't need proof to sully his reputation. That's all I intend to do. Label him for the abuser he is so Dublin society thumb their noses at him."
"You hate him, don't you? And not just because of me."
He paused, wondering how much to disclose. He held her gaze. "I did hate him, and I'm working on that. But it's hard to forgive scum like Gallagher."
"What did he do to you?"
He pushed his chair back and stood. "You feel like some fresh air?"
Her eyes lit up. "A moonlight stroll?"
He smiled. "More like a moonlight sit, on benches on the deck. Might be pretty cold."
"We have our coats ... and the blanket you wrapped me in when you abducted me."
He grinned and pulled her chair away from the table. "I thought we weren't going to discuss our prior enmity. We're friends, remember?"
She giggled. "Oh. I forgot. Sorry."
He squatted down. "Look, you stay here, and I'll run up and get the blanket and our coats, okay?"
She nodded, watching as he jumped up and strode toward the door. He turned the head of every woman in the room, annoyingly handsome in his dark suit. Charity took a quick sip of water. Why was this happening? Now that her anger toward him was fading, she was falling in love with him all over again, and the thought terrified her. He'd made himself quite clear. Other than as a friend, he didn't want her. She thought of the way his eyes had raked over her in the cabin. Correction. He wanted her ... just not as his wife.
She groaned and dropped her head in her hands, reflecting on the last twenty-four hours. How he'd taken care of her when she was sick, his tenderness, his kindness. Her heart ached to belong to him forever. To be the woman he cared for always. And she, him.
"Are you all right, Mrs...."
She looked up, her eyes growing wide. A debonair man stood before her, devouring her with his eyes. She pressed a hand over the V of her dress. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you."
He smiled and bowed slightly. "Graham Huntington. And you are ..."
"Charity O'Con-" The name froze on her lips. She swallowed hard. "Dennehy. Charity Dennehy. My husband just left to get our coats for a moonlight stroll."
He smiled again. "A real pity, Charity Dennehy. Married happily, dare I ask?"
"Extremely." The tone was a near growl.
Charity looked up, relieved to see Mitch. He loomed over Huntington by a head, glowering as if he intended to stare him into the floor. Huntington smiled. "I was just admiring your wife's extraordinary beauty, Mr. Dennehy. You're a lucky man."
"So are you, sir, that I arrived when I did. Good night."
Huntington bowed and left. Mitch scowled and helped her on with her wrap. He muttered under his breath.
"What, Mitch?"
He began to button her coat. "I said I pity the man who marries you. Men hovering around the rest of your life, even when you're old, I'll wager. You're too beautiful for your own good, Charity O'Connor."
"Thank you. I think."
He picked her up in his arms. "Don't you get tired of it? Men hounding you?"
She smiled, a hint of sadness in her manner. "Only when the right one doesn't."
He carried her through the doors out onto the deck. The rush of cool air stung her face.
"Too cold?" he asked.
"No, I like it. Clean air, the pungent smell of brine. And the moon just look at it on the water. Like a ribbon of fire, rippling on the waves. Thank you for bringing me out."
He chuckled and made his way toward a bench at the far end of the stern. "You won't be thanking me if I don't get you bundled up in this blanket." He put her down and sank beside her, wrapping the blanket around them both. He pulled her against his chest, then leaned against the wall. "How's this?"
She sighed and nestled back, contentment swallowing her up like the strong arms of the man who held her. "Perfect." She burrowed in closer and chuckled softly. "I can't believe I thought I hated you."
"That's when you thought you were in love with me. Now that we're friends, you're right. It
is perfect."
"Mmmm." She tilted her head up. "Mitch?"
"Yes?"
"What happened with Rigan? In your past?" His arms stiffened around her, and she laid her head back. "I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I was just curious."
"Actually, now that we're friends, I'd like to. It might help you understand why I was so adamant about you not seeing him." He hesitated. "And other things."
"Other things?"
"My lack of trust in women. You, in particular. And why Faith broke through."
She held her breath. "Tell me. Please."
He was quiet for a moment while his eyes focused on the shimmer of moon striping the water. When he finally spoke, his voice was a monotone. "Rigan Gallagher is responsible for the death of my wife."
Charity felt like a wave had slammed over the hull and into her face. "Your ... wife? You were married?"
"Ten years ago. Her name was Anna."
"Anna ..." Charity whispered the name, fascinated by it. "Was she ... beautiful?"
His laugh was harsh. "Incredibly. Hair as black as midnight and eyes like gold flame."
Charity swallowed to moisten her throat. "Did you ... love her?"
He didn't answer right away, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart against her ear. "I thought I did. I was young and swept away by her beauty. By the time I learned it was skin deep, we'd been married a year."
"Did she love you?"
"I think she did at first, but I was gone so much, working at the paper till the early hours of the morning, that she got resentful. I can't say I really blamed her. She was a new bride, stuck at home all day in a run-down flat. She didn't understand what I had accomplished. That I worked my way up from a plucky paperboy hawking papers in front of the Times to junior editor. It was unheard of, and I wasn't taking any chances. It required work and a lot of hours. I hardly saw Anna at all that first year."
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 25