She bolted up in bed and wiped the tears from her eyes. “The baby? What do you mean?”
He stroked her belly with the full palm of his hand. A sense of awe filled his soul followed by a rush of love for the woman before him and the child she carried. Just as quickly, another image flashed in his mind, of a swollen belly writhing in pain and a bed drenched in blood. Mitch fought off a sting of tears. “I just don’t want to take any chances, that’s all. I love you both too much.”
Charity feathered his raspy jaw with kisses. “But nothing will happen, except you’ll make the mother of your child a very happy woman.” She pulled back to search his eyes. “Mitch, I’ve spent my whole life drawing my confidence from how I look and whether or not men were attracted to me. I know it’s not right, but that’s a hard thing to break. And although this baby means the world to me, I can’t help but feel unattractive, especially when the man I love avoids me like the plague.”
“Charity—”
She held his face in her hands. “No, Mitch, listen to me, please. I need your love tonight. I need to feel your arms around me, your love, your passion. And you need me too, desperately. Besides, Dr. Wilson says it’s perfectly safe for the baby.”
He sat up in the bed. Heat singed the back of his neck. “You asked him about this?”
“I most certainly did. When my husband goes from ravaging me on a nightly basis to near narcolepsy, I had to do something. It’s safe, Mitch, I promise. We’re not going to hurt the baby.”
She rose to her knees to press a kiss to his forehead. He was pretty sure that the painful proximity of her breasts was no accident. Heat rolled through him.
With a low groan, he tugged her close, his breath hot against the soft swell of her breasts. “God help me, you little brat, there’s no fighting you, is there?” He laid her back on her side and devoured her mouth with his, the heat of her kiss driving all caution from his mind. With a hungry sweep of his hand, he caressed her body, desperate for more. “I love you, Charity, body and soul.”
Her soft laugh tickled his cheek as she pressed in close. “Mmm . . . body and soul. Now we’re talking.”
Saints alive, she may never sleep again! Lizzie adjusted the pillow beneath her head for the twentieth time—for all the good it would do. She was fairly certain she was destined for a sleepless night, seesawing between the sweet, warm ecstasy of Brady’s kiss and the cold, hard reality of his sudden departure. Dear Lord, she was doomed! Here she was, more in love with the man than ever before, and now farther away than she ever thought she’d be. It wasn’t fair. Why had she ever fallen in love with him?
Ridiculous question. From the moment she had laid eyes on him, he’d been her Prince Charming, straight out of the pages of a fairy-tale romance. A tall, gentle soul with quiet good looks and a heart of gold. Where other suitors were riddled with imperfection, John Brady was the perfect man—a tower of strength and a fortress of conviction. A knight in shining armor. A man with an unquenchable fire that bespoke a true passion for God. Lizzie swallowed hard. And another passion, apparently, tucked away where no one could see. Warmth seeped through her bones, and her breathing shallowed. A passion she had tasted for herself, tonight in his arms. Confirming once and for all that John Brady’s air of indifference was only a facade.
She closed her eyes to relive the memory. As a young girl, a kiss in a novel had been sweet, but this—this was what she had longed for, dreamed of since she’d been small, a love-struck little girl swept into the world of happily ever after. Her lips parted to expel a quivering breath. And tonight she had experienced it for the very first time—her very own Prince Charming, his mouth on hers—warm, possessive, and hungry. Heat pulsed through her, and her eyes flipped open. Oh, she needed to stop! Her thoughts were treading on dangerous ground.
Lord, forgive me, but I love him! I want him as a husband as well as a friend. Don’t let him turn me away, please. Tomorrow would tell. Charity had vowed to talk to him. She bit her lip and curled on her side, then closed her eyes and began to pray.
A soft knock sounded before the door squeaked open. Her father entered the room, and she watched as his shadowy form leaned over Katie to bestow a good-night kiss. He turned and moved toward her, and the familiar smell of musk soap and pipe tobacco gladdened her heart. She smiled up in the dark.
“Why are you up so late, Father?”
His low laugh vibrated against her forehead as he kissed her good night. “I had some papers from the Herald to go over, but I could ask you the same thing, darlin’.” He sank down on her bed and stroked a hand to her cheek. “Rumor has it a devious plot was afoot between you and your sisters. Care to talk about it?”
“It was completely innocent, really. You see, Charity had this idea—”
Patrick chuckled. “I’m guessing if the idea belonged to Charity, it was anything but innocent.”
“Well, maybe, but Faith thought it would be okay, and we prayed about it first.”
He lifted a brow. “A prayerful plot . . . I see. And did it work?”
She chewed on her lip, and her father gave her a wry smile. “Spare me the details, darlin’, and just tell me one thing. Are you okay? You disappeared awfully quickly after dinner, without even a kiss for your tired, old father. That’s not like you, Lizzie.”
“I’m sorry, Father. I just haven’t been myself lately.”
He studied her for a long moment, then kissed her forehead again. “I know, darlin’, and it’s been worrying me. I love you, Lizzie. From the moment you could read a book, you’ve always been my shy bookworm, in love with the idea of being in love. But I believe God has the real thing waiting for you, down the road a wee bit. But you just have to be patient and understand . . . it might not be Brady.”
She nodded her head, and a single tear sailed down her cheek. “I know, Father. Pray for me, will you?”
He reached to gently brush the tear from her face and then scooped her into a deep hug. “I already do, darlin’, and I’ve no plans to stop.” He rose to his feet. “I love you, Lizzie, you’re my girl. Now get some sleep, you hear?”
Her father’s calming scent lingered long after his footsteps faded from the room. She finally turned on her side with a groan. “Sleep,” she muttered to herself, then punched her pillow with a final thrust. “Easier said than done.”
Patrick jolted awake, his toothbrush still foaming in his mouth. Sweet mercy from above, how could a man fall asleep on his feet while brushing his teeth? He spit in the sink and rinsed, quite certain he had never been this tired.
With a yawn that almost hurt, he lumbered down the hall to his room, vaguely aware that he hadn’t even kissed Marcy good night. He crawled into bed like a man dragging himself onto a lifeboat, desperate to collapse and drift away. The warmth of Marcy’s body drew him close, and he sank hard against her side, her familiar scent relaxing him further. He looped an arm around her waist and exhaled, giving himself over to blissful sleep.
Marcy rolled away, and he jolted awake with a grunt. Half numb, he butted in close once more, almost asleep when she did it again. Comprehension suddenly prickled like icy sleet pelting against bare, frigid skin. His eyes popped open in shock, and his breathing quickened. She had barely spoken through dinner and then had fallen asleep by the fire after. God help him, had he forgotten her birthday? Their anniversary? He pinched his brow and tried to think. No, nothing like that. Could she be angry because he’d forgotten to kiss her good night?
He released a weary breath and sidled close to her back, hooking a firm arm to her waist. She tried to wriggle free, but he held her securely, his mouth against her ear. “And what have I done now, darlin’, to incur your wrath?”
“Let me go,” she hissed, and he clutched her more tightly. When she couldn’t break loose, she tried kicking his leg. Pain seared through his shin, and he groaned. All exhaustion washed away in a rush of angry adrenaline. His breathing was heavy as he arched over her. “Marcy, what in blue blazes have I done now?”
He half expected to see sparks in the dark, shooting from her eyes. She squirmed beneath his grip. “Don’t you dare act like you don’t know.”
He groaned. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be doing it, now would I? Forgive me, but I’m rather partial to my sleep.”
She jerked free and shoved him away. “Well, sleep all you want—on your own side of the bed, but don’t expect to cozy up against me. You want cozy, Patrick O’Connor? Why don’t you throw your sore leg over a stack of the Boston Herald?” She shot over to the far side of the bed, teetering on the edge. The bed quivered with her silent weeping.
Patrick hung his head. “Marcy, listen to me, please. We’re two editors down right now, what with Logan in the hospital and Schyer out of town, and we can barely keep up. Even Mitch has been pulling extra hours.”
She spun around, her face wet with fury. “Not like you! Three and four times a week you’re late for dinner, working on Saturdays and always bringing work home. For pity’s sake, Patrick, you’re the editor, the one in charge. You can do what you want.”
He reached for her hand. She jerked it away. “I don’t want to work all these hours, darlin’,” he whispered, “but somebody has to.”
“No, they don’t! Ben never worked these hours when he was editor, and as his assistant, neither did you. Sometimes I think you’re married to the Herald instead of to me.”
“Marcy, darlin’—”
“Don’t you ‘darlin’’ me. Something’s got to change, Patrick, or the sleep you’re so ‘partial’ to will be taking place in a very cold bed, indeed.”
His chin hardened. “Don’t threaten me, Marcy. I don’t like it.”
“No? Well, I don’t like having a husband who’s never home, nor one who only uses a bed for one thing—his precious sleep!”
Heat stung his neck. He lowered his head, ashamed at the truth of her statement. He couldn’t remember the last time he had really held her in his arms, kissed her like he meant it, wanted her like he used to . . .
With grief in his heart, he reached out and gently pulled her to him, and this time she didn’t fight. “Marcy, forgive me. I, well . . . work has been so demanding, I lose track . . . of everything.” He cupped her face with his hands and kissed her gently, slowly, taking his time to enjoy her. “I love you, Marcy, more than I can express, and I’ll work on it, I promise. You’re my world, darlin’, I don’t want it to grow cold.”
He felt her arms succumb and twine around his back. With a low groan, he kissed her again, deepening it until her passion matched his own.
She kissed him back with a vengeance and then pulled away. “Patrick, I’m not over this yet,” she whispered, “not completely. But I do love you . . . so much it hurts.”
He sighed and held her close, tucking his head into the curve of her neck. “I know, darlin’. God knows I don’t always deserve it. But I do know.”
5
Brady shifted on the sofa and then flipped to stare at the ceiling for the umpteenth time. He glanced at his watch in the moonlight and groaned—4:40 a.m. He tried closing his eyes once again. The scene with Beth on the swing reeled in his brain like a silent movie. His eyes blinked open, dazed and staring, just like they’d been all night, always accompanied by a throb of heat, and always with a siege of guilt.
He sat up on the couch and shifted his bare feet to the floor, dropping his head in his hands. His heart was racing and his hands were sweating, and his body buzzed with a desire he thought he’d long since conquered. God knows he hadn’t asked for this. Had, in fact, done everything in his power to avoid it. But the beast had been unleashed the moment Beth’s mouth had singed his. He licked his dry lips, and the taste of fear pasted his throat. God help me, he prayed, all the while craving the touch of her body against his. Shame burned along with the heat of desire, and he shivered involuntarily, fingers trembling as they sifted through his hair. God forgive me.
He jumped up and began pacing the room. He was desperate to block the thoughts from his mind: the touch of her skin, the taste of her mouth.
All at once, he sagged to his knees with a painful groan and buried his head in his hands. “Strengthen me, Lord, I beg you. Infuse me with your grace to do your will and not my own. You said the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Oh, God, you know me so well—I need your strength, please, for I am so weak.”
God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.
The air stilled in his lungs. God’s Word, so warm and familiar, drifted in his mind like a soft, calming breeze that gentled his soul. His breathing slowed and his runaway pulse returned to a normal rhythm. He drew in a deep breath and sat back on his heels, eyes still closed. “Thank you, Lord, for your peace, your strength. You have never failed me, not once. Please help me to never fail you.”
Something wet and akin to sandpaper slurped across his cheek, and Brady opened his eyes. A sleepy Miss Hercules, still damp from her bath, delivered another soggy kiss. The smell of wet dog rose to his nostrils, a timely reminder of God’s intervention in his life. He lassoed the sheepdog around the neck and smiled, planting a kiss of his own on the tip of her cold, wet nose. “You smell to high heaven, you know that, girl? But since it’s ‘high heaven’ that sent Cluny and you, I guess I won’t complain.”
Miss Hercules grunted and plopped on the floor with a loud thump, finally slumping against the sofa to sleep. Brady carefully stepped over the bulk of her body and crawled onto the sofa with a tired groan, having little choice but to follow her lead.
The obnoxious thumping in his brain reminded him of hangovers from rowdier days. Bam, bam, bam—like someone pounding his skull with a padded two-by-four. Brady tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too great. It was all he could do to lift himself from the makeshift pillow beneath his throbbing head.
Bam, bam, bam. Woof, woof, woof. Brady moaned and flailed a hand over the side of the couch in an effort to calm Miss Hercules, who staggered up, as sleep-drugged as he. “Lie down, girl, and go back to sleep. I can’t move yet.” With a sleepy growl, Miss Hercules plunked against the couch, jarring Brady’s senses.
Brady massaged his eyelids, crusty with sleep, until he was able to peel them open. He blinked several times before he realized the noisy pounding had come from his front door rather than his head. With a painful grunt, he tried to rise from the couch, only to stumble over Miss Hercules, who had wasted no time rejoining the ranks of the dead.
Boom, boom, boom! The knocks were more insistent now, and Brady stubbed his toe as he scrambled for the door. A swear word he hadn’t uttered in years leapt from his lips, causing heat to shoot up the back of his neck. Breathing hard, he unflipped the lock and hurled the door wide, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Sweet mother of Job, is this what you look like every morning?”
Brady blinked. The motion produced a nagging ache between his eyes. “Charity. What the devil are you doing here?”
“Well, nice to see you too.” She maneuvered her stomach to saunter into his flat, then took off her coat and tossed it on a hook by the door. She flashed a smile so bright, it hurt his eyes.
He massaged his temple with his fingers. “Sorry, I have the most awful headache.”
“Mmmm . . . restless night?”
He eyed her through narrowed lids and flipped the door closed. “Very.”
Miss Hercules chose that moment to rise from the dead and amble over. She sniffed the calf-length hem of Charity’s blue cotton shift. Charity spun around with a startled squeak, lurching a protective hand over her stomach.
“Dear Lord, it’s a horse!” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Oh my, and it smells like one too.”
Brady’s laugh was followed by a moan. He kneaded the bridge of his nose as he shuffled back to the sofa. “Her name is Miss Hercules, and she belongs to a friend of mine.” He sat on the edge of the seat. “What are
you doing here?”
She patted Miss Hercules on the head, then smelled her hand and scowled. “Oooo . . . mind if I wash my hands?”
He nodded toward the bathroom down the hall, then sank back with a yawn.
She returned a few moments later and settled on the other end of the couch. “Goodness, I must have slept through that tornado last night . . . or did it just touch down in your bathroom?”
“Don’t make me smile, it hurts.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never seen you—or your things— in such disarray.” She hesitated. “You’re not hung over, are you?”
That got his attention. He opened one eye to glare, and it was well worth the pain. “You know better than that. I haven’t touched the stuff since I was seventeen.”
“Sorry, but it was a natural assumption, you know, with the headache and all.” She leaned in. “Shouldn’t you take some aspirin or at least eat something? Want me to make you some coffee? Mine has got to be better than the sludge you make at the shop.”
He managed a smile. “Collin railroaded me into buying a newfangled dripolator at the shop, I’ll have you know. But, no thanks, all I really need is a few hours of decent sleep.”
“But it’s almost nine! Aren’t you going to church?”
Brady groaned and glanced out the window. “No, it can’t be that late. My head’s barely hit the pillow.”
Charity gave him a ghost of a smile. “So . . . what exactly kept you tossing and turning all night, Mr. Brady? Miss Hercules? A nasty tornado? Or my sister?”
Brady scowled. “Knock it off, Charity. I’m not in the mood.”
She grinned and jumped up. “Tell me where the aspirin is, my friend. Your disposition needs it something awful.”
“Second shelf, next to the stove.”
She bustled into the kitchen, humming under her breath. He heard the cabinet open and close, followed by running tap water. Her smile was positively annoying as she handed him the glass. He grabbed it and palmed the aspirin, giving her a hard stare while he swallowed.
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