A Passion Denied

  Brady tried to breathe, but the air adhered to the walls of his throat. He stared in a daze as Collin’s words taunted in his brain. Lizzie’s falling for him, John.

  “John!”

  Brady blinked and Collin blurred back into view, his brow wrinkled with worry.

  “You have to tell her you love her. Right away. You can’t afford to wait.”

  Brady closed his eyes and willed himself to calm down. He would get through this. God didn’t bring him this far to lose Beth to his brother. A cold shiver quivered through him, and he opened his eyes. “I can’t, Collin. And you can’t tell Faith, either. I need you to swear to me. I’m not going to risk hurting Beth again if I can’t handle the intimacy between us. Not until I know I’m totally free. I won’t hurt her again. I can’t—I love her too much.”

  Collin stared, his mouth set in a grim line. “Then you may lose her, John.”

  Brady stood to his feet and rolled the kinks from his neck. Suddenly he felt as tired and worn as the overheated press in the back room. “No, I won’t. There’s another way.” He peered down at Collin, his gaze intense. “Swear to me, Collin, now . . . that you won’t tell Faith.”

  Collin studied him for several seconds before releasing a heavy sigh. “I swear, but so help me, John, you better have a foolproof plan up your sleeve.”

  “I do.” His mouth settled into a thin line. “I’ll just give my brother what he wants.”

  Collin shot him a narrow gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s a good thing we hired that pressman when we did. He starts next Monday, right?”

  “Yeah, but what’s that got to do with your brother?”

  Brady swiped the dirty rag from the desk and slung it over his shoulder. He gave Collin a pointed look. “I’m almost caught up, but I suggest you get him in here now—today—because come Monday, I’m going to New York.”

  Collin sat up in the chair. His eyes circled in shock. “New York? What the blazes for?”

  “To make a deal with the devil,” Brady muttered. He headed toward the back room with resolve stiffening his spine. He tightened his jaw and shot his partner a look intended to end all discussion. “Get the new hire in here today, Collin, and I’ll be back in a few hours to help you break him in.”

  And before Collin could answer, Brady jerked his jacket off the hook and slammed the door behind, leaving his partner little choice but to comply.

  Brady stood on School Street and gazed up at the gleaming white marble front of the fourteen-story Parker House Hotel, wondering which room would be the scene of the crime. A scowl tipped the edges of his clamped lips. The crime his brother had committed in using Beth for his own purposes. And the crime he was about to commit in rewarding him for his efforts. Despite the brisk day, Brady shoved the rolled-up sleeves of his starched white shirt farther up his arms and reached for the sculpted bronze doors of one of Boston’s luxury hotels, a prestigious landmark since 1855. He entered the oak-paneled lobby with its crystal chandeliers and elegant furnishings, once frequented by the likes of Thoreau, Hawthorne, Longfellow, and Dickens, and felt an immediate surge of anger. It was the perfect place for the upper class. But as far as Brady was concerned, it was no place for his brother, who had no class at all. Even without the inheritance, he didn’t need the money, and yet he’d had no qualms about using Beth to force Brady’s hand.

  Brady ignored the curious looks from various well-to-do guests in the plush lobby, and made his way to the imposing marble front desk. Once Collin had spilled the bad news, Brady had left him in a stupor and gone home to clean up and change. But even with his fresh-scrubbed face, clean shirt, and newly pressed seersucker slacks, he was no match for the fashionably dressed clientele of The Parker, and the look of surprise on the clerk’s face indicated as much.

  “Why, good morning, Mr. Brady. You’re up and about early today. I don’t believe the mail has arrived yet, but how may I be of assistance?”

  Brady gave the clerk a tight-lipped smile. “I’m John Brady, looking for my brother, Michael. May I have his room number, please?”

  Comprehension flooded the man’s face, coupled with relief, no doubt, that the modestly dressed gentleman before him was not a guest. “Yes, sir, of course. Suite 315. You may use the elevator across the lobby or the staircase to your right. Good day, Mr. Brady.”

  Brady mumbled his thanks and took the stairs two at time, barely out of breath when he reached the third landing. His heart was pumping at a fast clip, but not from the steps. Thinly disguised fury simmered beneath his calm exterior, and he flexed his clenched fingers to ease the tension. He saw the glint of a brass-plated room number on a suite at the end of the hall and strode toward the door. With several hard thrusts, he hammered the paneled oak with his fist, totally indifferent to the fact that it was only nine a.m. and his brother was probably still asleep.

  Brady waited, his breathing little more than a halting pattern of shallow air as he thought about Michael kissing Beth. With a fresh rush of ire, he pounded on the door until his fist was numb from the effort, ignoring the sound of doors opening behind him down the hall.

  “What the devil is going on . . .” Michael’s door lashed open in a tirade of expletives, underscoring the unwelcome disruption of his sleep. His glare turned to shock as he stared, obviously caught off guard in rumpled silk pajamas, with bleary eyes and a growth of bristle on his tightly pressed jaw. He blinked. “John! What the devil are you doing here?”

  “You win, Michael. Leave her alone and I’ll sign the papers.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’ll sign the papers. You and Helena can have it all—the printing business, the house, the estate—only give me your word you’ll leave Beth alone.”

  Michael scoured his face with his hand, avoiding Brady’s eyes. “It’s not that easy anymore, John. I’m in love with her.”

  The words detonated Brady’s anger like the flick of a grenade. He fisted Michael by his silk shoulders and slammed him hard against the oak door. “The devil you are! I know you. To you she’s just another pretty face, a means to get to me. Let her go, Michael. I’ll give you everything you want.”

  Michael pushed back, ramming Brady against the doorjamb with a grunt. He readied his stance, fists raised and eyes glinting. “You don’t know me, little brother, any more than you know yourself. You could have avoided all of this, but instead you harbored ill feelings from the past despite your oh-so-noble relationship with God. You had her—all to yourself—but your warped pride kept you away—from Lizzie and from me. I wanted you to sign, it’s true, but I also wanted to become brothers again, John, but your sick perspective wouldn’t allow that.”

  The painful blast of Michael’s words caused Brady to falter back in shock, his brother’s neatly placed barb depleting his fury. Dear God, he’s right. His own unwillingness to let go of the past had imprisoned him, kept him from Beth’s love and restoration with his brother. Even now, he could feel the bitterness roiling in his stomach, in defiance of the God who had called him to forgive.

  Lucille. He closed his eyes and tasted the hate on his tongue for the woman who had stolen his past. The woman who was trying to steal his future.

  No, my son.

  The sense of the Spirit was so strong that Brady flinched against the door, opening his eyes to his estranged brother, an unlikely bearer of the truth. Cold realization prickled through him like shards of glass, severing the lies he had believed far too long. It wasn’t Lucille who had stolen his past, nor Lucille who was trying to steal his future. It was sin that had robbed him of the hope and blessing of God in his life.

  Sin, and only sin.

  First, Lucille’s.

  And then his.

  Brady listed against the door and put his head in his hands. God forgive me.

  He’d thought he’d dealt with the hate, on his own and then again with Father Mac, but for the first time, he could clearly see he’d been deceived. Running away had only dulled
it, convincing him he no longer bore a grudge. But Lucille still haunted him from the grave, shackled by the tentacles of his own hate. A hate that prevented him from giving his love to Beth . . . and granting the kinship his brother deserved.

  Sorrow pricked his eyes. “Forgive me, Michael, you’re right. My sick perspective on Lucille . . . my hate for her . . . was my own choice, my own sin. It kept me from loving Beth the way I should and from giving you and Helena the simple courtesy of procuring your rightful inheritance. Please forgive me.”

  Michael slowly lowered his fists and exhaled. “I forgive you, John. If Lucille had done to me what she did to you, I don’t know that I’d forgive her either.” He stepped back and nodded toward the elaborate parlor of his guest suite. “You want to come in?”

  Brady shook his head. “No, thanks. If you don’t mind, we’ll have plenty of time to talk in New York.”

  Michael’s brow jutted high. “You’ll come? Even though you know how I feel about Lizzie?”

  Brady released a halting breath. “Yeah. On one condition.”

  Michael folded his arms and cocked against the door. “What?”

  “I’m in love with her, Michael. Have been for a long time. And she loves me, too, you know that.”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “So?”

  “So, I’m asking you to give me time. I’ll return to New York and sign anything you want. Only you have to give me your word to stay away from Beth for one month. After that, she’s fair game. And we remain on good terms as brothers.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then I don’t sign, you never see me again, and I ask Beth to marry me tonight, dealing you a triple loss.”

  Michael stood to his full height, fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t be so sure she’ll say yes, little brother. We’ve gotten very close.”

  Brady worked at restraining his anger, his jaw tight. “So I’ve heard. Do we have a deal?”

  Michael rested his hands on his hips and lowered his head, studying the paisley carpet as if weighing his chances. He glanced up at Brady, his eyes in a squint. “Why a month? Why not go head-to-head? Afraid you’ll lose?”

  Brady kneaded the back of his neck, eyeing his brother with cool composure. “Because I want to take it slow. I don’t want to hurt her again.”

  “In case you can’t? Love her as a woman, I mean?”

  Blood shot straight to Brady’s cheeks. His arms stiffened at his sides, and a nerve twitched in his jaw. “You don’t make this brother thing easy. Give me your answer—now!”

  Michael grinned. “Okay, John, you have a deal. When do we leave?”

  “I have your word? You’ll stay away for a full month, from the day I sign the papers?”

  “I’ll give you my word I’ll try—”

  “No, Michael. I want your word you will stay away from Beth. For a solid month.”

  Michael studied him with a curious gaze and then slowly smiled. “Sure, little brother, I’ll stay away from Beth. For a solid month.”

  Brady released a shaky breath. “Okay. Then we leave on Monday morning. Pick me up at the shop in that fancy car of yours—nine a.m. sharp.” Brady turned to leave.

  Michael grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute. This is Saturday, and Lizzie’s babysitting for Charity tonight. And she told me she’s busy all day tomorrow.”

  Brady’s lips flickered in a near smile. “Yeah, I know. She’s going fishing with Cluny and me, then out to dinner. Should be a fairly late night, I think. Goodbye, Michael.”

  “But when am I supposed to tell her goodbye?”

  Brady glanced at his watch. “Well, you can always say goodbye in the vestibule of church on Sunday. Or in about two hours, she has a thirty-minute lunch break at Bookends, then about half that much time before she, Mary, and Millie go to Charity’s to babysit.” Brady grinned. “Twins can be a lot of trouble, you know.”

  Michael’s smile turned sour. “Yeah, I know—firsthand.”

  With a scowl and a flick of his silk-sleeved arm, he promptly slammed the door, fanning Brady’s face with a most satisfying breeze.

  15

  Brady was a nervous wreck. He paced back and forth from his kitchen to the parlor in clipped, jerky strides sure to make Miss Hercules dizzy as she moped on the floor, eyes tracking his every move.

  “Cluny? You about done? For pity’s sake, we’re going fishing, not to a church social.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Brady, I’m almost there.”

  Brady glanced down at his own tan cable-knit sweater. He wondered if it was overkill for a crisp fall afternoon, given the fact that Beth had a warming effect on him lately. He unbuttoned the cuff of the white shirt beneath and thrust the thick sleeves up, revealing muscled arms strained with tension. He blew out a blast of frustration and yanked the sleeves back down, then glanced down the hall. “Cluny?”

  “Coming! Just one more thing.”

  “What in sweet blazes are you doing, and why didn’t you do it at home?”

  “Cain’t. Gram would get suspicious if I took a bath, and besides, she doesn’t have that sweet-smelling stuff.”

  Brady halted, midstride. “You’re using my aftershave?”

  Cluny strutted out of the bathroom dressed in brown knickers and a thick cream sweater that did wonders for his sunken chest. His blond hair was slicked back with brilliantine, revealing a glowing pink face that looked as if he’d tried to scrub his freckles off. He parked his hands on his hips and strolled up to Brady, leaning close to give him a whiff. “So, what do you think? I do believe Katie Rose may just swoon.”

  Brady took a step back and fanned the air with his hand. “Yeah, from asphyxiation. How much did you use, anyway? The whole bottle?”

  Cluny appeared hurt. “Nope, just a few drops.” He crossed his arms and scowled. “Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for you to slap a little on. It sure beats the fish smell you’ll be wearing before we’re through.”

  Brady shot him a narrow look, realizing the kid was probably right. He started toward the bathroom, mumbling under his breath.

  “You cussing again, Brady?”

  “No. And I don’t cuss. Is there any left in the blasted bottle or did you use it all?”

  “You’re awfully touchy for a guy about to go fishing with his girl and best buddy.”

  Brady poked his head out of the bathroom, singeing Cluny with a look. “She’s not my girl—yet. And if you so much as breathe a word to Katie Rose—”

  “My lips are sealed.” Cluny crossed his heart and winked.

  He strode down the hall, patting his cheeks with the aftershave. “You got the worms?”

  Cluny hoisted a tin can. “Right here.”

  “Good.” Brady reached for his tackle box and four rods, prompting Miss Hercules to jump up, ready to go. He clutched Cluny by the scruff of the neck and led him to the door, then wrinkled his nose. “Don’t know why I bothered to put any aftershave on. All I need to do is rub against you. Come on, you little troublemaker. I can only hope the walk will air you out.”

  Brady was certain that Cluny had chattered all the way to the O’Connors’ front gate, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember one word the kid had said. All he knew for sure was his mouth was dry and his hands were sweating, and the blasted sweater was so hot that he worried even Cluny’s aftershave wouldn’t save him.

  “Brady? You coming?”

  Brady snapped out of his fog at the base of the O’Connor steps, realizing his legs were stiff. They refused to budge, two mules with heels dug in. He blinked up at Cluny, poised on the top step with a furrow in his brow and Miss Hercules by his side.

  “You okay, Brady?”

  A reedy breath escaped through his lips. Okay? How in blue blazes could he be okay? He was about to spend an afternoon and evening with a woman who wreaked havoc with his internal thermostat, sent his pulse into overdrive with a bat of her violet eyes. Okay? Not even close. Brady licked his lips, wondering when all the moisture had left his mouth. r />
  Sweet God in heaven, he wasn’t equipped for this! He had little or no experience with women. A six-week engagement before he’d left for the war didn’t even count, it was so long ago. And since then, he hadn’t allowed himself to even look at a girl, much less date one. He thought of Beth’s sweet face, her graceful, beautiful form with soft curves in all the right places . . .

  God help him, he was a goner! Sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and he jerked at the sound of Cluny’s voice.

  “Brady, are you sick?”

  “No, Cluny, I’m fine.” He sucked in a deep breath and licked his lips once again. “Just a little dizzy, that’s all.”

  Cluny slacked a hip and flashed some teeth. “Sure you’re not scared?”

  Brady mounted the steps, blistering Cluny with a glare. “I said I was dizzy.”

  “Yeah, dizzy for Lizzie and scared of a girl.”

  Brady forced a grim smile. “It’s a good thing you don’t live with me anymore, or I’d kick your sorry little butt out. Ring the bell.”

  Despite Cluny’s annoying grin, there had never been a more perfect Sunday afternoon. The sky was a brilliant blue and tufted with thick cotton-ball clouds that rolled across the heavens, playing cat and mouse with a pale sun. A soft breeze feathered his cheek, tickling his senses with the smells of moist autumn leaves, smoky wood fires, and the faint scent of the sea. He inhaled deeply and grinned as he reached the top step, suddenly overpowered by Bay Rum. Brady shook his head as he watched Cluny press the bell for the second time. That little lothario better hope and pray that Katie had a cold.

  “Brady! We’ve missed you.” Katie bolted out the door and threw her arms around Brady’s waist, ignoring the tackle box and poles clutched in his hands.

  Brady chuckled and attempted to hug her back. “Whoa, Katie, there are hooks on these rods. I’ve missed you too.”

  Cluny cocked a hip and tucked the can of worms under his arm. “What about me and Miss Hercules? Did you miss us?”