A Passion Denied

  That woke him up. His head shot up, and the red in his eyes singed like fire. “Go to the devil, Collin. As if I didn’t pull your head out of the latrine more times than I can count.”

  Collin eased back into his chair, all humor depleted. “That’s right, John, you did. Which makes this all the more upsetting. What’s going on?”

  Brady closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand over his face. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why? From the very beginning, you’ve known everything about me—my past, my present, what I think, what I feel. The best of friends, closer than brothers. Don’t you think I deserve the same?”

  Brady lowered his head. “You do, but I can’t tell you.”

  Collin’s jaw tightened. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not ready.”

  Collin slammed his fist on the table. “Not ready for what? To be a friend?”

  Brady’s head lunged up, his eyes swimming with pain. “No, Collin, not ready to lose one.”

  Collin blinked. He swallowed the emotion lumped in his throat and nodded. “If I leave, will you promise to talk to Father Mac?”

  Brady nodded slowly, his eyes dull.

  Collin stood. He glanced at Father Mac. “Can you try to get him to eat? I want him healthy at work tomorrow.” Collin gave Brady’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m tired of carrying him.” He started for the door.

  “Collin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll have half of the day’s work done before you even shadow the door.”

  Collin turned, hand poised on the knob. His throat tightened. “I want you to know, John, whatever you did, no matter how bad you think it may be, I will stand by you. I’m proud to call you my friend, because I know who you are—a man of integrity, honor, and passion for God. And nothing—nothing—you can say will ever change that for me. I love you like a brother and always will. See you tomorrow.” The door clicked softly behind him.

  Brady drew in a deep breath and avoided Matt’s gaze. Tears filled his eyes. “Like a brother,” he whispered. “That doesn’t sound so good right about now.”

  Father Mac leveled beefy arms on the table and leaned in. His tone was quiet. “Worse than you thought?”

  Brady’s laughter held no mirth. “Yeah. Not only was I a child drunk, but apparently I was depraved enough to sleep with my father’s wife.”

  He heard Father Mac flinch, the faint intake of breath piercing Brady’s consciousness anew. He was an infidel. A lost soul. A man who committed incest and adultery to gratify his own flesh.

  He staggered to his feet, suddenly craving the numbing effect of the bottles he’d stolen from Michael’s stash. “I’d rather you leave, Matt. I feel sick and need to lie down.”

  A firm grip fisted his arm. “No, John, we need to deal with this now. Once and for all.”

  Brady jerked away, his eyes itching with tension. “And how do you propose to do that, Matt? What exactly do you have? A potion or magic formula that will make it all go away?”

  Father Mac stared. The brown of his eyes deepened with intensity in a face that radiated pure peace and calm. “No potion, John, and no formula. Just the saving blood of Jesus Christ.”

  The impact of Matt’s words pierced his heart. He looked away. “Maybe that’s not enough this time.”

  “It’s always enough, John.” Father Mac pulled out a chair. “Sit. Please?”

  Brady hesitated, then did as he was asked, slowly sinking into the chair. He leaned his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands. “How can God forgive something like this? Adultery, incest?”

  Father Mac exhaled and sat down beside him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “He does it all the time. I know a man who committed adultery and then murdered his lover’s husband, but God forgave him.”

  Brady looked up with shock in his eyes.

  A faint smile shadowed Matt’s lips. “In fact, he called him a man after his own heart.”

  “King David?”

  Father Mac nodded. He removed his hand from Brady’s shoulder and took a drink of his coffee. He wrinkled his nose. “Cold. Want me to warm it up?”

  Father Mac didn’t wait for his answer, but dumped both cups and replaced them with hot. He set them on the table and sat back down. “King David was an unusual character. Loved God with all of his heart, but had this unfortunate flaw.” Father Mac paused to taste his coffee, then quirked his lips. “He was human. For instance, one day he’s dancing before the Lord in a linen ephod, not giving a whit that his wife thinks he’s making a fool of himself. Then down the road a bit, he’s lusting after a married woman he sees taking a bath on the roof of her house. And what does he do, this man who loves God with all of his heart? He takes her to his bed, then has her husband sent to the battlefront to be killed.”

  Father Mac leaned in, his gaze intent. “He committed adultery and murder, yet he’s still the only man in the Bible God refers to as ‘a man after his own heart.’ Now why is that, I wonder? I’ll tell you why. Because David was a man who had a love affair with God. Imagine that—emotionally involved with the God of the universe. Trusted him, worshiped him, sought after him—and all without restraint. Did he mess up? You bet. Did he repent? With all of his heart, aching inside whenever he offended his God. Why? Because he had a Father-son relationship with him, loved him, and wanted to please him.” Father Mac hesitated, slowly tracing his finger along the rim of his cup. He finally raised his eyes to capture Brady with a fixed stare. “Just like you, John.”

  Brady looked away, swallowing the emotion trapped in his throat. “ ‘Cursed be he that lieth with his father’s wife.’ Deuteronomy 27:20.” His voice was flat. “How do you respond to that?”

  “ ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us . . . and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ 1 John 1:9.” Brady peered through slitted lids. “And you believe that? For something as vile as this?”

  “ ‘God is not a man, that he should lie.’ Numbers 23:19.”

  A ghost of a smile flickered on Brady’s lips. “Since when do you have Scripture down cold?”

  Father Mac pushed up the sleeves of his cassock. A hint of a smile appeared. “Since I began butting heads with you.”

  “I know the Scriptures, Matt. It’s just that when it comes to me, I have trouble believing they could apply.” He expelled a slow, jagged breath. “But you’re saying that if I confess right now . . . my sins with Lucille . . . they’re over with? Gone?”

  “‘Cast into the depths of the sea.’ Micah 7:19.”

  Brady closed his eyes, feeling the first glimmer of hope he’d felt in a long, long while. Over with. Gone. Miles away from guilty. As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.

  He looked up at the touch of Father Mac’s hand on his arm.

  “You ready?” Father Mac asked.

  Brady nodded, exhaling softly. He gripped Father Mac’s hand like a lifeline, a man desperate for absolution. “More than ready,” he whispered. He drew in a deep breath and made the sign of the cross, then bowed his head.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

  18

  Sweet saints in heaven, she hadn’t been this nervous since the night Collin had first brought him home to dinner. Lizzie chewed on her lip, purposely dragging her feet as she made her way down Rumpole Street to Brady’s apartment. Despite the cold weather, her palms were moist. She rubbed them hard against her long woolen coat and loosened the red plaid scarf tied around her neck so she could breathe.

  John Morrison Brady—Collin’s war buddy, business partner, and all-around best friend—had captured her heart the moment he’d asked about her favorite books, making her feel special for the first time in her life. Since then, he had held her heart in the palm of his hand and never let go.

  Lizzie touched the ring hidden deep in her pocket and picked up her pace. Until now.

  She hesitated at the steps of his building to take a deep
breath. This would probably be the last time she would see him for a long, long time, other than Thanksgiving and Christmas. And the wedding.

  The clash of feelings inside unnerved her: intense sadness steeled with resolve, merging with anticipation for her future. A future with Michael rather than John.

  But deep down inside, hope collided with regret. Michael was special to her, he really was. She fingered the ring in her pocket. But she loved Brady. She mounted the last step and stopped, hand clutched on the knob of the glass-paned door. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her mind to let go of John and think only of Michael—the way he made her laugh, the low timbre of his voice when he told her he loved her, his gentleness, his boldness . . . his kisses. Her stomach fluttered, and she opened her eyes. This could work. She could love this man, and she knew it. She pressed a shaky hand to her stomach to quell the memory of his kiss, then exhaled slowly. Sweet saints, wasn’t she already well on her way?

  Her confidence was reasonably strong when she knocked on Brady’s door, although she wished she could have told him after Mass. It would have been the perfect place, cocooned in the sacred strength of St. Stephen’s Church. She’d seen him, head bowed, in his favorite pew clear at the back of the church. She’d had it all planned—pulling him aside after the service when the building was empty, sitting in the alcove to the right of the sanctuary. They could have privacy there, she thought, and yet she could still draw on the strength of Jesus, sprawled on the bench in the balcony. But unfortunately, Brady ducked out right after Mass, and so here she was, standing at his door. She knocked again—harder this time, as if to dispel any lingering doubts.

  The door swung open, and suddenly all doubts crashed to her feet. He stood before her, the man she knew she would love till the day she died. He was dressed in the same gray dress slacks he’d worn to church, but his white, starched shirt was unbuttoned almost halfway down, providing a glimpse of a hard-muscled chest matted with hair.

  Heat braised her cheeks, and she quickly averted her gaze to his bare feet. “Brady, I’m sorry to barge in like this . . .”

  He pulled her inside. “Don’t apologize, Beth, I’m glad you’re here.” He closed the door and leaned against it. “I’ve missed you.”

  A painful longing kindled inside of her, and her eyelids fluttered closed. Me too—for the rest of my life. She stepped back and slipped her hand into her pocket, squeezing the diamond in her palm to draw from its strength.

  “Are you all right?” He was by her side in a heartbeat. He led her to the table and pulled a chair out, then reached for her coat. “Here, let me hang that up, and then I’ll finish changing. You want some coffee?”

  She sat down and hugged her arms to her waist. “No, I can’t stay. If you don’t mind, I just need to tell you something.”

  He hesitated, then scraped out a chair to sit beside her.

  She stopped him with a hand to his arm, avoiding his eyes. “No, John, not so close, please. This will be hard enough as it is.”

  His pause was longer this time before he moved to sit on the other side of the table. He cleared his throat. “What’s on your mind, Beth?”

  She looked up then . . . and wished she hadn’t. His eyes were dark pools of worry shadowed by a sunkenness that suggested more than a few sleepless nights. Hard-chiseled features seemed all the more gaunt, given the pallor of his skin and the sag of his shoulders. She suddenly realized he didn’t look well and shot to her feet. “Oh, Brady, are you sick? You look awful!”

  The edge of his lips quirked. “Thanks, Beth, but I’ll be fine. Talk to me.”

  She lost her nerve and headed for the door. “No, no, it can wait, really. You look short on sleep and probably need to go right to bed—”

  He gripped her arm, and the hard line of his jaw was a clear indication he wasn’t long on patience either. He sat her down with a firm hand. “Out with it, Beth, now. I can sleep later.” He loomed over her with that quiet energy he possessed, hip cocked and arms propped loose on his hips. The picture of calm except for the intensity of his eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she knew she would, and the thought crushed her. Oh, Brady, why does it have to be this way?

  “Beth?”

  She blinked, suddenly aware they were face-to-face as he squatted beside her. She could see the darkening of his jaw from the emergence of stubble, and those tiny flecks of gold in the brown of his eyes.

  He took her hand in his, warming her with his gaze. “Is this about Michael?”

  She caught her breath and nodded.

  “He wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”

  She nodded again, not daring to believe it could be this easy.

  He stood to his feet. “Well, you can’t marry him, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Her reverie popped like a soap bubble. She shot to her feet. “What? And who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do? For the last four and a half years, you have tried to bully me into whatever you want. Well, not anymore!” She groped in her pocket and shoved the ring on her trembling finger. She thrust her left hand in his face and lifted her chin. “You’ve always seen me as a sister, John. Well, congratulations, you’ve gotten your wish!”

  She may as well have gouged him, letting the diamond draw blood across his paralyzed cheek. Same effect. All feeling left his body for a split second except for a faraway buzzing, as if he had just polished off another half bottle of Michael’s vodka. He couldn’t feel his heart pumping and realized it had stopped, along with the air locked in his throat. And then in a painful squeeze of his heart, both pulse and air rushed back, surging on a tidal wave of pain so strong, he felt as if he were bleeding. God, no! She belongs to me!

  She shoved him out of her way and started to leave, but he was too fast. When she opened the door, he slammed it shut and pushed her against it. “You can’t marry my brother. Not when you’re in love with me.”

  Her eyes flared wide, then narrowed to slits. “Was in love with you!” she screamed. She twisted away. “For all the good it did. Well, now I’m in love with Michael, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Nothing? He stared at her face, her full lips pursed in defiance and her violet eyes bright with anger, and all resolve to take it slow melted into a pool of warmth at the bottom of his stomach. Father Mac had convinced him. Assured him he was free of the perversion of his past. Free enough, at least, to marry Beth—if she would have him.

  He studied her now and knew that she would . . .

  At least if it were the John Brady she knew and loved.

  A flicker of fear feathered his stomach. Tell her, Matt had warned, and Brady promised he would . . . once his ring was on her finger. But for now, his focus needed to be on getting it there.

  The rhythm of his pulse quickened and he swallowed hard, like a child about to taste his first candy after a long season of Lent. His lips parted as his gaze fixed on her mouth, and a heat he’d denied far too long radiated through him like an August sun on a mile of blacktop. In slow motion, he reeled her into his arms, ignoring the stiffness of her body. He bent his head until his mouth hovered over hers.

  “Nothing? Oh, but there is, Beth,” he whispered, studying her lips through hooded eyes.

  Her mouth parted in shock when his lips grazed hers, and he could smell the sweet scent of mint on her breath. An aching moan rumbled low in his throat, and he took her again, molding his mouth with a need that shook him.

  He felt her tension melt beneath his touch and he deepened the kiss, heady with the taste of her. His lips wandered to explore the curve of her jaw and then the softness of her throat, losing himself in the scent of lilacs and innocence and Beth. A soft moan left her lips, and it undid him, luring him back with a fervor that consumed him.

  All at once she lurched away, her tender mouth pink and swollen with desire. She thrust a trembling hand to his chest and stared with wild eyes, chest heaving. “No! How could you? You don’t want me—you’re just trying to stop me from marrying Mic
hael.”

  He gripped her in his arms, his breathing ragged and shallow. “No, Beth, I’m not trying to stop you from marrying Michael . . . I’m trying to make you marry me.”

  The blood stilled in her veins. Had she heard him right? He wanted to marry her? Was it for real . . . or a last resort to prevent her from marrying his brother? She wavered, dizzy at the prospect that it could be true. Her pulse was still racing from the heat of his kiss, but her hopes had been dashed so many times before . . .

  “Beth?” He cupped her face in his hands. “Forgive me, I’ve been a fool. Because of my past . . . I just couldn’t see . . . how much I needed you, wanted you. I love you, Elizabeth, with all of my heart. Don’t marry Michael, please. Marry me.”

  She pressed a hand to her mouth, and tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Brady, do you mean it?”

  He caressed the side of her face with his palm, then feathered the corner of her lip with his thumb. Heating her with a stare, he leaned in and closed his eyes, nuzzling her mouth in a gentle mating that fluttered through her like a warm, gentle breeze.

  “Oh, Brady, I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

  She felt the tug of his smile beneath the heat of his lips. “Say it, Elizabeth, say you’ll marry me.”

  A joyous giggle bubbled in her chest. “Oh yes, yes, John, I will. Mrs. Brady . . . oh, I like the sound of that.”

  He pulled away. “Mrs. John Brady,” he said in a gruff tone. He lifted her left hand. “Take the ring off, Beth.”

  She stared at the diamond and felt a stab of sadness. She had come here to tell Brady goodbye. Now she’d be telling Michael instead. With a soft sigh, she tugged it off and slipped it back into her pocket.

  He lifted her chin with his finger, and she saw worry clouding his eyes. “Are you in love with him?”

  She hesitated, not sure how to answer. Michael had been there when Brady had turned her away. Before she had known it, he’d stolen a piece of her heart. Did she love him? Maybe a little, but nothing like the torch she carried for his brother— her soul mate, her mentor, her friend.