A Light in the Window

  Pause. “And would that ‘love’ extend to men who act like children, I hope?”

  A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she shook her head again. “It does not, Mr. O’Connor, but I’m quite sure there are enough lovely lasses in the Southie neighborhood to more than accommodate.”

  He slowed her with a gentle hand, coaxing her to a stop. His voice held a tease, but his eyes were as deadly serious as they’d been at the revelation of Tillie’s home life. “And what of the man bewitched by a lass who can’t abide him?”

  She hesitated to speak her mind, his handsome face in and of itself a warning of the smooth speech of a man like him. The same kind of man who betrayed her cousin with empty promises and an even emptier engagement. Her defenses immediately notched up. And the same kind of man as Elsie’s father, her best friend in New York. A devastatingly attractive man who’d swept Elsie’s mother off her feet with lots of tingles and tremors, only to trap her in an empty marriage in which he shamelessly pursued other women.

  Marcy heaved a weary sigh, unwilling to succumb to such a fate. “Especially a man like that,” she said quietly, hoping her smile would soften her response. After all, it wasn’t Patrick O’Connor’s fault he’d been born so handsome. But it was his fault how he’d misused that gift from God.

  Head bowed, she picked up her pace, uncomfortable with the fact she’d obviously hurt his feelings, given his silence on the remainder of the blocks home. But it couldn’t be helped. Beautiful men like Patrick O’Connor who made women swoon were not to be trusted as Marcy soon discovered with the various good-looking Don Juans who’d sought her out in New York. Unlike her cousin and Elsie’s mother, she had no desire to allow passion to steer her into such a marriage. No, she longed for friendship first, not flutters in her stomach, a man who could make her feel safe and steady without all those dangerous palpitations that could muddy a girl’s thinking. Sexual attraction was a measure for love to most girls, she supposed, but not for her. Give her a godly and studious man like Evan Farrell any day of the week over a handsome face with shuttered eyes and a dangerous smile. A shiver skittered through her, and she clutched her arms close to her waist while she hurried toward her home on the next block. At the turn, she stopped and nodded down her street, offering Patrick a hesitant smile while she reached for her portfolio. “I live just a few houses down, so I’ll take this, and you can double back to Hastings.” She tugged, but he didn’t let go.

  “Excuse me, Miss Murphy,” he said with a jag of a thick, dark brow. “But Sister Francine would have my hide if I didn’t deliver you safely to your door, and you’ve been absent five years, so you’ve no idea the terror she strikes in the heart of men.”

  Marcy sighed, lips quirking into a wry smile. “A terror well deserved, no doubt. And ‘safely’ is one of those points that’s a matter of opinion, Mr. O’Connor.” She chanced a sideways glance with just a sliver of a smile. “At least given your reputation in the South end of Boston.”

  A slow grin traveled his lips, and Marcy all but scrambled to her front gate, alarmed at the feathery feeling in her stomach. She fumbled with the latch while his words drifted behind, warm and low and husky with tease. “So I’m subject to penance with you as well as Father Fitz, am I, Marceline?”

  Racing down her flagstone walk, she quickly mounted the steps to her front porch, finally facing him at the door with what she hoped was a serene air. “Thank you for walking me home.” She extended a hand. “If you’ll give me my portfolio, I’ll bid you good night.”

  He hesitated, fingering the attaché as he studied her through cautious eyes. “Even Father Fitz forgives me of my sins, Marceline,” he said quietly, “and those are the ones I know about. With you … I’ve no earthly idea what I’ve done to make you dislike me so.”

  Marcy folded her arms, a hint of shame warming her collar. But not enough to let my guard down. She softened her tone, praying he would not take offense at her response. But she knew full well that she needed to be blunt to dissuade a man of his confidence and reputation. “I’m sorry, Patrick, and I don’t dislike you, truly, but I suspect you may be flirting with me, and if so, it’s best to let you know up front that I have no interest in flirting back.”

  Attaché in hand, his thumb slowly traced the side of it with sober eyes. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  She released a weighty sigh, not wanting to be indelicate, but well aware she needed to tell him the truth. Cautious of his feelings, she chose her words carefully, cushioning her tone with a gentle smile. “Well, it’s certainly no secret you’re a very handsome man, and unfortunately …” She tugged the side of her lip with her teeth, peeking up with a tentative gaze. “I’ve had some awful experiences with handsome men, so I’m afraid the truth is I simply don’t trust them.” Her heart sank at the hurt in his eyes, and she quickly laid a hand to his arm, desperate to ease the sting with a laugh that felt forced. “Well goodness, as the infamous Southie Lothario, I’m sure you can understand why I’d rather not risk flirting with danger?”

  He nodded. “Fair enough,” he said quietly, “but all flirting aside, Marceline, I wish you’d give me a chance to get to know you better.”

  She drew in a fortifying breath, determined to nip this in the bud once and for all. “Most certainly, and we shall, Patrick—as friends during the play. But in a romantic sense?” She gave a faint shrug of her shoulders, sympathy edging her smile. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not add my name to your long lists of conquests.”

  He shifted, his jaw stiffening enough for her to notice. “I beg your pardon, Marcy, but you don’t even know me.”

  “I know your reputation,” she said softly, “and frankly, that’s more than enough to give me pause.” She held out a hand for her portfolio, her eyes gentle. “Thank you again for the escort, truly.”

  A nerve pulsed in his cheek as he stared her down, making no move to return her father’s attaché. “One outing,” he whispered, “and if I don’t behave, you can throw me out on my ear.” The intensity in his eyes matched the plea in his tone.

  She studied him in the moonlight, the dark ringlets tumbling his forehead making him look like a little boy. Penetrating gray eyes that usually teased and flirted were now stone somber with an air of humility she didn’t expect. She felt the tug, the pull of his petition, wondering if it were actually possible that a Casanova of Patrick O’Connor’s ilk could ever be trusted, ever be faithful, ever embrace the same intimate faith in God as she. Nora’s tear-stained face and swollen belly came to mind, and a shiver wisped across Marcy’s shoulders like the summer breeze that stirred the hair against her neck. Wooing her, winning her with its silky warmth … only to usher in the cold sting of winter. She shuddered and took a step back, arms to her waist. “Please forgive me, Patrick, but you and I—we’re nothing alike.”

  “It would be dull if we were, Marcy,” he said softly. “Surely you’ve heard the expression that opposites attract.”

  Her smile was kind. “Maybe so, but not spiritually.”

  His handsome face screwed in a frown. “I don’t understand—we share the same faith.”

  She sighed and buffed her arms, not from the cold, but from the awkwardness of his statement. “Yes, we both belong to the same church …” she said carefully, “but we both don’t live by the same rules.”

  He frowned. “I’m confused—I go to church, to confession, and I’m good friends with Father Fitz …” He slacked a hip, her father’s portfolio limp at his side. “What more do you need?”

  She drew in a deep breath, not wanting to wound him, but intent on speaking the truth. “More, I’m afraid. You see, to me it’s a matter of faith that is real and deep and alive.”

  He flinched. “I have faith,” he said, a bristle of hurt in his voice.

  “Yes, of course you do,” she said quickly, gaze gentle as she tapped a finger to her head. “Up here.” She slowly slid a hand to her heart, taking great pains to soften her words. “But based on what I know of a ma
n of your ilk, I worry that it doesn’t live here.” She studied the confusion in his face and tried again. “I believe that in your mind, your faith is deep—doctrine, precepts, catechism—but when it comes to living it?” Her smile was sad as she curled her hand over her chest. “I suspect it may be heart shallow.”

  “And how would you know that, Marceline?” A spark of fire glinted in his eyes for the very first time. “As I said before, you don’t even know me.”

  Releasing a tired sigh, she regarded him with a look of sadness that clearly bled into her voice. “No, but as I said before, Patrick, I know your reputation with women, your flirtatious ways, your disregard of rules …” A lump dipped in her throat as she paused, determined to make him understand once and for all. “Your lust for things of a more … carnal nature.”

  —

  Blood gorged his cheeks at the way she said it—like he was one of the degenerate sots that littered the alleys of Ann Street like garbage—and it stung his pride with the heat of humiliation. He blinked, suddenly feeling like a little boy instead of a man, and the very notion angered him. Never had a woman turned him away before, and frustration prickled the back of his neck like a thousand needles of guilt, telling him he would never measure up, never make the grade. “You’re a waste of a man, Patrick O’Connor,” his father would say, “selling your soul to the devil instead of living for God.” But then it was “God” Who belittled him through the very judgment in his father’s eyes, rejected him through the condemnation in his father’s barbs. While the devil had only given him free reign to be accepted and approved, if only in the eyes and hearts of Southie lasses. Defiance steeled his jaw. All but one. His gaze flicked up to blue eyes soft with pity and an angel’s face gentled with empathy that was nothing more than condescension in disguise. Oh, how he craved to turn his back on the very faith she espoused.

  But he was nothing if not determined and no one if not a man used to getting his way with the gentler sex, and so he controlled the anger that smoldered inside, taming his tone. “Marceline,” he said quietly, “I’m asking you to give me a chance, that’s all. I’ve been drawn to you from the moment I saw you, and I would like to know you better.”

  Seconds passed like eons before she finally shook her head. “I’m sorry, really I am. I like you as a person, Patrick, truly, but in the romantic sense, I have no desire to be involved with a man like you, a rogue who so casually equates lust with love.”

  A man like you.

  A failure, a sinner, someone not worthy of love. To his parents, and now, apparently, to Marceline Murphy. Her pious judgment detonated his temper. Fists clenched, he leaned in, looming over her with fury itching in his eyes. “So you’re judge and jury, then, condemning me without knowing me?”

  Her jaw notched up, his tone apparently sparking her own anger. “I may not know you, Mr. O’Connor, but I do know this neighborhood is littered with broken hearts and tarnished reputations at your hand, so if you’ll kindly return my portfolio, I won’t detain you any further.”

  She might as well have spit in his face. He stood paralyzed except for the white-hot fury that scorched through him, stunned at her blatant rejection. Once again, Christian piety at its very best—judging him, condemning him, telling him he would never measure up. Deemed imperfect by imperfect people. The leather portfolio burned in his palm like the angst burned in his gut, and he could hardly fathom that the one woman he longed to know condemned him just like his father. The very notion caused the blood to pound in his brain, and his response was swift, defiant and rash, determined to throw in her face all she obviously thought him to be. “Yes, I’ll return your portfolio,” he said with a strained whisper. “But first … you revile me as a rogue, Marceline? I’ll give you a rogue …”

  Flinging the attaché to the floor, he jerked her close with a sharp catch of her breath, temple throbbing as he silenced her protest with his mouth, stilling the lash of her arms with a steel hold. Fury pulsed through his veins as he took his fill of a woman who had cut him to the core, wounded his pride and spurned him as cruelly as his own blood. The stolen kiss of a rogue—just punishment for a woman who had stolen his heart, crushing it beneath the heel of faith in a so-called loving God.

  His trigger reaction had been prompted by revenge, but she tasted of peppermint and lilacs and a summer so warm, his anger flamed into desire, filling him with a fierce possession. “Marceline,” he rasped, voice hoarse as he cupped her face in his hands. “This is not how I meant it to be …”

  She lurched away, the stinging jolt of her slap vibrating his jaw till his teeth nearly rattled in their sockets. “How dare you!”

  He blinked, the strike of her anger diffusing his own and breaking the spell the kiss had cast. “How dare I?” he whispered. “How dare I do anything else, Marceline, but be all you’ve proclaimed me to be?” Throat constricting, he bent to retrieve the portfolio, the same sick feeling of shame shuddering through him as when he fought with his father. He held it out, and her hand quivered when she took it back with tears in her eyes, making him feel like the despicable lowlife she and his father believed him to be.

  He met her eyes with a look of grief that exposed him for the lost soul that he was. “My most humble apology, Marceline, for losing my temper and causing you pain.” Head bowed, he lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “And although the word of a man of my ‘ilk’ may mean nothing, you have it nonetheless, along with my abject sorrow.” He looked up then at the one woman he wanted more than any other, painfully aware his temper and pride had just cost him any chance he might have had. “You have my promise—I won’t bother you again.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked to the street, hands in his pockets and shame in his throat. He was giving up without a fight, he knew, something he’d never done a day in his life, but he’d seen the truth in her eyes—she despised him—and with just cause. One foolish slip of his Irish temper had sealed his fate, confirming once and for all to Marceline Murphy what his father so blatantly proclaimed—he was not a man to be trusted.

  Head down and heart heavy, he plodded toward home, giving up any hope of ever turning her head. But then maybe he was more like his parents than he knew, giving up on the things that mattered most—one’s children, one’s marriage, one’s self-respect. Somewhere an owl hooted, and the mournful sound echoed the despair and loneliness that had plagued him since he’d found his father in the arms of another woman at the age of ten, betraying both his wife and his two sons. A pillar of the Church who chose lust over family, self over flesh of his own flesh and bone of his bone. A hypocrite who chastised his son for public sins he practiced in private.

  And served a God just as false.

  Patrick’s jaw tightened. No, he would never be the type of man Marceline Murphy wanted because he’d just proven he possessed a vile temper and a “lust for things of a more … carnal nature.” But by sweat and by blood, he would earn her respect with the worth of his word. A vow he would keep, unlike his father. He stopped in the street in front of his house where lights glimmered and glowed without any warmth, determined to show her he was worthy of love even though she would never give it. And he would do it in the only way he knew how.

  He’d leave her alone.

  And leave her to Sam.

  A rogue like himself, yes, but a rogue who possessed one less flaw. Marcy was a woman who craved family and fidelity, hearth and home. Who longed for the wholeness of loving parents and siblings who cared. Something Sam could easily provide. Patrick opened the door to his house of despair.

  And something he definitely could not.

  Chapter Nine

  Heart thundering, Marcy plastered herself against the inside of her front door, eyes squeezed shut and the back of her head pressed to the wood while saltwater swam in her eyes. The memory of Patrick’s kiss inflamed both her cheeks and her blood, spiking her anger. How dare he! A warning shiver pulsed through her and she was reminded just how deadly a man like him could be??
?kisses that coaxed and begged for more, disarming a girl’s will to say no. It had been a man just like him that had disarmed her cousin, but it would never—ever—happen to her, no matter how much his kiss had tingled her skin and surged her pulse. Hand trembling, she swiped at her eyes, the taste of his mouth still burning her lips and quivering her stomach.

  “Marceline—are you all right?”

  Her eyes popped open with a harsh catch of her breath. “Mother!”

  Worry flickered across Bridget Murphy’s face as she hurried down the steps, her blue dressing gown fluttering wildly. At thirty-eight, her mother was a beautiful woman with a fair amount of sass in sky-blue eyes that matched Marcy’s to a T. Waist-length pale-blonde hair—the exact shade of her daughter’s—was loosely tied with a sash at the back of her neck, spilling over shoulders now squared with worry. “Something’s wrong—what is it?”

  Marcy forced a smile, hoping to calm her mother’s frantic look. She laid her father’s attaché on the foyer table and quickly embraced her, breathing in the comforting scent of Pears soap and rose water. “Nothing’s wrong, I promise.”

  Her mother held her at bay, gaze narrow as she studied her daughter. Her tone was no-nonsense and to the point, so like Bridget Murphy herself. “No, your eyes are red and your face, flushed—something’s wrong.”

  “Nothing, truly,” Marcy soothed, “just a wee bit upset over something that happened tonight, but it’s nothing serious, I assure you, so you can go back to bed.”

  Bridget buffed her daughter’s arms before prodding her toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “Your father’s snoring up a storm and I need chamomile, so we’ll talk.” She pressed Marcy into a spindle chair at a polished oak table graced with cottage roses that infused the kitchen with the scent of summer. Filling her trusty copper teapot with water from the tap and a hefty dose of tea, her mother set it to boil on the cast-iron stove before retrieving two floral cups from the cabinet. Eyelet curtains billowed with a gentle wind scented with mulch while her mother shimmied into a chair, hands folded on the table and brows arched. “So … what happened?”