A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  He slowly pulled away, and with little left to lose and everything to gain, she clung to his neck and yanked him down. He jerked when she took his parted lips by surprise, but she held firm, cleaving despite the stiffness of his body. A gentle moan escaped her, and she burrowed in, the taste of him sweet in her mouth. His body was rigid and his lips hard, but his lack of response only fueled her resolve. Anger and desire raged through her, and with one hand locked to his neck, she swept his powerful back with the other and pulled him closer. His lips parted in a gasp and she deepened the kiss, the heat of his body merging with hers.

  God help me, I can’t do this! His blood pounded through his veins like heat stroke, making him dizzy with every demand of her mouth. His body felt like putty, but his will was pure steel, and by God, he’d bend it to breaking if need be. To prove, once and for all, that he was right. That he belonged here, and she in Boston, married to someone else who would taste her like this.

  But God help him, his rapid-fire pulse wouldn’t comply, nor the dangerous heat searing all intent. He didn’t want to be rough, but he had no choice. He shoved her away, and she reeled and staggered against the chair. He reached to steady her, but she pushed him away, tears of shock spilling from her eyes. She turned to go.

  He caught her arm. “Beth, I’m sorry—”

  She spun around, eyes flashing. “No, you’re not!”

  “Elizabeth, please, let’s not end it this way—”

  “Not ‘us,’ John, you. You and your pride. You’re a matched pair.” She lifted her chin, and a spark of determined fire glittered in her eyes despite the wetness sheening her cheeks. “It always seems to be the last thing you hold on to, isn’t it? Too proud to confess your past, too proud to stay in Boston, and too proud to love me. Well, she’s your mistress, John, so go ahead and put your arms around her and hold on tight.” She pushed the chair out of the way and circled the desk, giving him a withering glare. “But I guarantee, she will never keep you warm.”

  “Beth, wait, that’s not fair. The seminary is my life now, and I’m not a man who quits.”

  She paused, her hand suddenly limp on the back of a chair. Her head bowed. “No . . . only with me.”

  He watched her move toward the door and felt a stab of grief so sharp, it locked the breath in his throat. He was quitting . . . her . . . forever. The comprehension suddenly crippled his mind. Her heart was his . . . a gift from God . . . and he was letting her go. He stared down at the black cassock he wore, and felt the heat of it stifle both his body and his hope. And in one ragged beat of his heart he knew—knew this life he’d chosen would never fit.

  Just like the cassock.

  She touched the knob, and his mouth went dry. “Beth, wait . . .”

  Her back tensed at the door, and in four desperate strides, he was there. His hand covered hers on the knob, and he turned her around, blood pumping through his veins like adrenaline.

  “You didn’t hear me,” he whispered, “I said let’s not end it this way.”

  With a deep groan that rose from the depths, he swallowed her up in his arms and crushed her to his chest while his body quivered at what he’d almost lost. “Oh, Beth, forgive me for being the most stubborn man alive.” He set her back down and took her face in his hands, his eyes stinging with wetness. “I love you, and I’ve been so stupid and so blind with pride. Let me make it up to you, please.”

  She started to cry, and he bent to kiss the tears away. His lips caressed her wet face, her eyes, her lips. Her weeping grew, and he silenced it with his mouth, devouring her like a man with a craving no one could satisfy.

  No one but her.

  A dangerous heat engulfed him. He drew in a cleansing breath and held her away, arms tight with restraint. He glanced down at the cassock, then back up before giving her a crooked smile.

  “I’m getting warm, little girl, and for once I can’t blame the garb.”

  She laughed and wiped her face with her sleeve, her eyes glowing. “I love you, John, with all of my heart.”

  He tucked a finger under her chin and gave her a gentle kiss. “Good, I’m gonna need it, Elizabeth. I’ve got this thing with pride, you know.”

  She burrowed into his arms with a giggle that rumbled his chest. “Oh, really? Well, if there’s one thing I have as much as love, it’s patience—thanks to you.”

  He grinned and kissed the top of her head. “Mmm . . . your patience, my pride. Should be interesting.” He pulled back and studied her with sober eyes, still shaken that his pride had almost cost him the most precious thing in his life. “Promise me, Beth, that you’ll always let me know when my pride gets in the way.”

  It was her turn to grin. “No problem, Brady, and we can start right now, if you like.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him a sweet peck on the lips, followed by a pretty jag of her brow. “The name is Lizzie, and I suggest you get used to it.”

  21

  “What do you mean, something’s missing?” Brady ducked low to glance into the small, cracked mirror over the washstand of the usher’s room. He hefted his chin and ran a calloused hand over his jaw to make sure there were no stray whiskers before adjusting the knot of his tie. With a tug at the sleeves of his tuxedo, he frowned in the mirror. “What could be missing?”

  Collin slacked a hip against the wall and folded his arms, his expression puckered in thought. “Mmm . . . let’s see, vest buttoned, boutonnière in place, shoes shined, and tie looks good.” He reached over and adjusted the handkerchief peeking out of Brady’s upper pocket. He clicked his tongue. “Nope, something’s missing, I can feel it.”

  Brady turned and huffed out a sigh, nerves strung as tight as the cords on Mrs. Leary’s harp, its melody filtering in from the vestibule. “Don’t do this to me, Collin, I’m a nervous wreck as it is. What the devil is missing?”

  Collin exchanged a glance with Mitch, who was fiddling with Patrick’s tie. “Wait! I know what it is.” A slow grin made its way across his lips, a perfect match for the twinkle in his eye. He patted Brady’s cheek. “Ink, ol’ buddy. You just don’t look the same without it.”

  Brady smacked him away. “My stomach’s in knots, my hands are sweating, and my voice is two octaves higher. And you choose this moment to give me grief?”

  Collin chuckled and squinted in the mirror to adjust his tie. “Just getting you primed, my friend. There’s lots of grief in marriage, you know.”

  Brady cocked a brow. “For Faith, you mean.”

  Collin grinned. “Yeah, she’s one lucky girl.”

  “Father Mac says fifteen minutes.” Sean popped his head in the door. “Say, you boys look almost as pretty as the ladies.”

  “Except I can’t get this blasted tie right.” Patrick scowled at Mitch. “I thought you knew how to do this. This looks like a goiter, not a four-in-hand knot. Why can’t you just tie it like yours?”

  Mitch’s jaw shifted back and forth, a clear signal his patience was in jeopardy. “Because I didn’t tie it. Charity did.”

  Patrick gaped. “Saints alive, you’re thirty-nine years old and you don’t know how to tie a four-in-one?”

  Mitch’s eyes narrowed. A nerve flickered in his cheek, just above the noticeably forced smile. “Sean, mind telling Marcy her forty-five-year-old husband needs help with his tie?”

  Collin chuckled and sauntered to the door. “Don’t bother, Sean, I’m headed that way.” He winked at Brady. “The air’s a litttttle too thick in here for me.”

  Collin strolled across the vestibule with hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. He nodded at Mrs. Leary as she plucked away at her harp, then knocked on the door of the Bride’s Room.

  “Who is it?”

  Collin leaned close to the door. “Open up, it’s your husband.”

  The door inched open and Faith peeked out. “What do you want, Collin, we’re less than thirteen minutes away.”

  He arched a brow and flattened a palm to the door, carefully pushing it open. “Then I suggest you let me in, Lit
tle Bit, because I’ve got two messages to deliver.” He scanned the room and found Marcy futzing with Lizzie’s veil. “Marcy, Patrick needs you now, before he and Mitch come to blows. Apparently his assistant editor can’t tie a four-in-one to save his soul.”

  Charity’s mouth twitched. “I swear, sometimes that man is so helpless . . .” She winked at Lizzie. “And sometimes he’s not.”

  Marcy spun around. “Thanks, Collin.” She gave Lizzie a quick squeeze and darted out the door. “I’ll hurry, I promise.”

  Collin saluted as she passed and then turned to give Lizzie a low whistle. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Wow, Lizzie, you look absolutely gorgeous. Hard to believe it took this long to get that mule to commit.”

  Lizzie’s giggle was nervous. “Well, he hasn’t committed yet. He still has . . . ,” she glanced at the clock on the wall, “a little over eleven minutes to back out.” She bit her lip. “How is he?”

  Collin wandered over to scoop an arm around Faith’s waist. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Haven’t seen him this nervous since Miss Ramona cornered him at bingo.”

  “Good,” Charity said with an evil grin. “He deserves to sweat a little after the palpitations he’s given this family over the last year.”

  “Well, he’s sweating all right, with palpitations right along with it. I swear, Lizzie, that man is plain goofy over you. He’s been near worthless at the shop this last week. I’ll be glad to see you put him out of his misery.”

  Lizzie checked her face in the mirror one last time, then shot him a grin. “Not as glad as me. John Brady has put me through more mood swings than Charity did Mitch, pregnant with twins.”

  “Speaking of the love of my life, how is he holding up?” Charity asked, giving Collin a wry smile. “Weddings, babies, or funerals—the man just doesn’t do well.”

  Collin chuckled. “Another thing he and Patrick have in common, I think. Yep, I’d say he and Brady are pretty neck and neck as far as frayed nerves this morning. Only Mitch looks a shade more dangerous, kind of like it could go from a wedding to a funeral real fast.”

  Charity crossed her hands over her heart and pretended to swoon, punctuating it with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, be still my heart, he’s such a romantic.”

  Marcy rushed back in, her face flushed with excitement. “I swear your father gets better looking with age, inability to tie knots notwithstanding. He looks so handsome in his tuxedo!” She sighed. “Eight minutes, ladies. Collin, the knot is tied and the war is over. I suggest you rejoin the ranks.”

  He turned to go, and Faith grabbed his arm. “Wait! You said you had two messages to deliver. What’s the other?”

  “Oh, yeah. One for Marcy . . .” The slow smile reappeared. “And one for my wife.” In one sweep of his arm, he dipped her low and kissed her thoroughly. Then with a smoky look in his eyes, he tugged her back up and grazed her chin with his thumb. “That’s just to let you know,” he said, his voice warm and slow as heated honey, “I’d marry you all over again.”

  Her throat bobbed, and her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. “Me too, Collin,” she whispered.

  Charity rolled her eyes and shot Lizzie a lopsided smile. “Explain to me how you and I are the romantic ones, and she gets that . . . while all we get is a mule and a grouch.”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Collin quipped on his way out the door.

  The organ started to play, and Lizzie felt her breakfast rise in her stomach. She put a hand to her mouth and squelched a tiny belch. “Please, God, don’t let me throw up.”

  Charity rubbed her sister’s back. “That’s normal, Lizzie. Not attractive, mind you, but very, very normal. Pregnancy and weddings . . . does it every time. Right, Mother?”

  “Oh my, yes,” Marcy said with a laugh.

  Lizzie dabbed a handkerchief to her throat. “And hot . . . is anyone else hot?”

  “Yes, it’s close in here,” Marcy said. She pressed a hand to her own cheek. “But hopefully the vestibule will be cool—”

  The door flew open, and Mitch barreled through like a bull on the run. He made a beeline for Marcy and shoved Patrick’s wallet into her hand. “This is bulging in his pocket. Says to carry it in your purse.” He turned to go and stopped, staring hard at the bride. “You look beautiful, Lizzie.” His gaze shifted to his wife and traveled from her face, down her body, and back up again. Movement flickered in his jaw, and the heat in his eyes took on a smoldering quality. “You know, little girl, it’s downright criminal how you take my breath away.”

  He left as quickly as he’d come. Charity stood, jaw sagging and cheeks braised. She snatched a hymnal off the bookshelf and began to fan herself. “I stand corrected. The grouch does have his moments. And yes, Lizzie, it is hot in here.”

  Faith handed Lizzie her bouquet. “Come on, sis, you can’t let him wait at the altar too long. He might pass out.”

  Lizzie sucked in a deep breath and nodded. She followed her sisters and mother out the door. One slippered foot in the vestibule, and her throat immediately swelled with emotion. Sean stood at the front of the line with Marcy on his arm, ready to escort her down the aisle. He turned and winked at her. Faith and Charity stood behind them, blond and auburn heads bent close as they whispered, and Lizzie felt the prick of wetness in her eyes. Two sisters—so different and so dear. She closed her eyes to stave off the tears, but the gratitude in her heart wouldn’t allow it. Thank you, God, for your hand in my life.

  She felt a gentle touch and opened her eyes. Her father smiled down at her, his eyes as misty as hers.

  “I’d offer you my handkerchief, darlin’, but I suspect I’ll be needing it too. I’m not sure I want to give you away.”

  She grinned and pressed a hand to her heart, love welling in her chest faster than tears in her eyes. “You’ll never get rid of me, Daddy, because you’ll always be right here.”

  He nodded, and his lips pressed tight as if not trusting himself to speak.

  The first chords of the wedding march vibrated through the vestibule, and Lizzie took her father’s arm. She closed her eyes to seal the moment with the strong touch of his hand on her wrist, the scent of his musk soap, and the hint of pipe tobacco. She watched as Faith and Charity each made their way down the aisle, pinned by the gazes of their husbands who stood beside Brady at the altar.

  Her moment came, and joy overtook her like a tide too long from the shore. She breathed in the sweet scent of lilacs and incense, and her eyes suddenly flitted to the bench in the balcony, expecting to see a flutter of white. “I love you, Jesus,” she whispered, quite certain he was already well aware.

  She blinked to clear the blur from her eyes, and Brady came into view, unleashing all her emotion. He stood, a half head taller than Collin, and his handsome face was chiseled with calm and shadowed with a ghost of a smile. A weak sob broke free from her throat, and he grinned, lighting his eyes with such love that her heart swelled with joy.

  “I love you,” he mouthed, and she nodded, never taking her eyes from his.

  Her father stopped at the foot of the altar and turned to kiss her cheek. “I love my girl,” he whispered.

  Lizzie closed her eyes and hugged him tightly. “I love you too, Daddy. Thank you for everything.” She felt his pat on her back and opened her eyes to see Helena, sitting with Harold in the first pew of the groom’s side. Helena blew her a kiss, and Lizzie grinned.

  And then it came—the bittersweet moment she’d waited a lifetime for. Her father let go . . . and Brady took over.

  Patrick relinquished her arm, but not his hold. He watched Brady’s arm sweep his daughter’s waist, and a wave of melancholy threatened. He tightened his jaw and slipped into the first pew, unwilling to meet Marcy’s eyes for fear he would break. She sidled close and he gripped her fiercely, wondering how grief and joy could share the same heart. She squeezed his hand and he swallowed some air, then released it in one calming breath. He bent close to her ear.

  “Three down, one to go,” he
whispered, the levity of his tone a welcome relief.

  She turned and smiled, and his boundless gratitude for this woman weakened him all over again.

  “I love you, Marcy,” he whispered, then took her by surprise with a sound kiss on the lips.

  The haunting strains of Ave Maria drifted through the church, and Patrick settled in to listen, his heart full and his peace restored. A faint smile curved on his lips. With three daughters married and settled, life could only get easier, he thought to himself. The pew jolted as Katie shifted beside them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her, looking like an angel in blue chiffon and ribbons. Until her elbow flashed, gouging Cluny in the side. Patrick groaned and closed his eyes. God help me.

  Father Mac’s voice rang out from the pulpit, and Brady’s heart pumped with pure joy. “And the Lord God said, it is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helpmate for him . . .”

  Brady stole a glimpse at his bride and swallowed hard. He could barely believe that within the hour, Beth would be his wife. He squeezed her hand, and his lips tilted into a smile. Lizzie, he corrected, and felt her gentle squeeze back.

  “And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh . . . therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.”

  Brady closed his eyes. One flesh. Joined together in God. Tears stung his lids, and gratitude overtook him. How did someone like him deserve this? The love of a good woman . . . and the love of God?

  His eyes lifted to the cross over the altar, and he had his answer. The love of God. Real and true and so alive that the reality made him tremble . . .

  He felt the flicker of Lizzie’s hand in his and glanced down. She smiled up, and his heart turned over. Speaking of love that made him tremble! He gave her a crooked smile, enjoying the glorious warmth that flooded within. Thank you, God, he thought with a bob of his throat, and his smile made way for a grin.