Faith looked up at Patrick. "Father, do you remember what you used to call her?"
Patrick blinked, his mind blank. "No."
"You used to call her 'Daddy's Girl' and the apple of your eye."' The sound of Faith's words pierced the air like the shaft of moonlight streaming across the bed. "She was a beautiful child. Everyone thought so. And none more than you."
"Faith ..." Patrick's voice stilled in his lungs. He extended his hand.
Faith clutched his fingers. "Daddy, I know you love me. But I know you love Charity too. And because of me, her love was stolen from you ... and yours from her."
Patrick pulled her into his arms, his heart full of grief. "Oh, Faith, I do love you! The thought of losing you back then nearly destroyed me. I couldn't see anything but you, your welfare, your joy. I had no idea what I'd done to Charity. I only knew Hope's death had snuffed out part of the light in my soul. And as long as I had breath in my body, there was no way I was going to allow your light to die too." He pressed his face hard against his daughter's neck, tears springing to his eyes. "God forgive me, for my weakness and what I did to Charity."
Marcy touched his shoulder. "Patrick, God more than forgives you. But I'm afraid it's our daughter in Ireland who's not so inclined. I think we should pray."
Patrick rubbed the wetness from his eyes and nodded, his heart lighter at the thought. He extended his arm around his wife's shoulder, wrapping both wife and daughter in a tearful embrace. "And that, Marceline O'Connor, among a host of other things," he said with a hitch in his throat, "is exactly why I married you."
Collin cocked his head and squinted at the flyer in his hand. Hammonds Christmas Sale: Pig Assortment of Bon Bons and Nuts. He crushed the sheet into a ball and hurled it across the tiny printing shop, a rare curse hissing from his lips.
Brady looked up from the small offset press he was cleaning. "Last time I heard that word, old buddy, we were side by side in a trench."
Collin glanced at his partner with a wry grin and exhaled loudly. "Sorry. Don't know where that came from. Old habits die hard, I guess." He closed his eyes and kneaded the back of his neck, the grin widening on his face. "I don't suppose Mr. Hammond would agree that a 'pig' assortment is appropriate for his pre-Christmas sale."
Brady laughed and wiped his hands on a ragged cloth, oblivious to a telltale splotch of ink smudged across his tanned cheek. His warm eyes, which matched the thatch of brown hair falling across his forehead, shone with affection. "Although it certainly qualifies as truth in advertising," he remarked dryly, tossing the soiled rag aside and stretching back in his chair with a low groan. He propped his long legs against their prized Bullock web-fed press, careful to avoid scuffing the roller he'd just wiped clean.
He looked over at Collin and swiped his cheek with the side of his hand. The splotch of black smeared clear across his face in a bold streak, striping him ear to jaw. "Speaking of 'truth in advertising,'" he said quietly, "what exactly is bothering you, old buddy?"
Collin expelled a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing his tired body to cave into his chair. Barbs of irritation nettled through him like always when Brady got too close to the truth. But nothing like it'd been during the war. A hint of a smile creased Collin's lips at the memory of John Morrison Brady, soldier, trench mate, and all-around nice guy. Sweet saints above, how Collin had hated him! Him and his squeakyclean lifestyle and his Christian philosophy and his sad, tattered Bible that he'd carried everywhere, even into the trenches. At the thought, gratitude swelled in Collin's chest, and his throat tightened at just how blessed he was to know him. It had been John Brady and his worn Bible that had finished the work that Faith had begun, bringing him to the brink of salvation. Bringing him home. To God ... and to Faith.
Collin opened his eyes to stare frankly at his good friend. "What's bothering me? I'm not sure," he said, resigned that Brady's relentless probing would not rest until Collin's soul was at peace. "There's an edginess, an underlying nervousness twitching under my skin."
A frown creased Brady's brow. "Anything to do with Faith or the wedding? Second thoughts, maybe?"
Collin laughed out loud, the sound ricocheting through the tiny print shop he and Brady had opened almost a year ago. "No, no, not even close. Faith is ... amazing. I still can't believe she's going to be my wife."
The furrowed lines around Brady's mouth relaxed into a grin. "Worried about the wedding night, then? Being out of practice?"
Collin shot him a sheepish grin, topped off by a cocky jag of his brow. "Not on your life. But the wait has been tough, I won't lie to you. Kind of like a thoroughbred at the gate, if you know what I mean."
Brady chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Knowing you, or the man you used to be ... yeah, I know what you mean. So what's the problem?"
"I don't know. Might be Charity coming home."
Brady sat up. "You don't still have feelings-"
"No, nothing like that. I mean, I'm not exactly sure how I'll react when I see her again, but right now, the thought of her, memories of her, hold no appeal. I'm in love with Faith."
"Good. Are you worried about her? That maybe she still has feelings for you?"
Collin leaned forward for a moment, entertaining the question before pushing himself up out of the chair. "Nope, I don't think so. She actually ended it before I even had a chance to tell her it was over. And judging from Faith's grandmother's letters, Charity's got her eye on ... well, someone else."
Brady blinked. "Gee, that was a pretty clipped tone. Sounds like you care."
Collin glanced at the clock and lumbered to the door, flipping the "closed" sign in the window with a flick of his fingers. He slacked a hip and gave Brady a wary look. "Trust me, I don't care. They deserve each other."
"Who?"
"Charity and ... what's-his-name." He plucked his jacket off the coatrack by the door. "Come on, Brady, let's get out of here. Hammond's flyers can wait till tomorrow."
"What's-his-name?" Brady repeated, rolling his shoulders to clear the kinks. He stood and reached for the ink rag, then arced it into a laundry box at the back of the shop. He turned and fixed Collin with a penetrating stare. "He has a name, Collin. Call me crazy, but it sounds like you're holding a grudge."
The hackles rose on the back of Collin's neck, compliments of John Brady. He glared and enunciated through clenched teeth to make sure Brady knew he'd overstepped his boundsagain. "Mitch. His name is Mitch, okay? And back off, Brady. I flat-out don't like the guy."
"Yeah, I can see why. He's a real lowlife. Up and left the fiancee he loved so you could have her."
Collin fisted his jacket in one hand and stabbed a finger in the air with the other. His eyes burned. "So help me, Brady, one more word and I'll lay you out right here, I swear." He slammed his chair against the linotype machine. "What in blazes was I thinking going into business with you?"
The ink smudge on Brady's cheek sagged along with the tired look on his face. "Well, I suspect you were thinking of the truth. Of a friend and partner who'd tell it to you, no matter how much you didn't want to hear it."
The air in Collin's lungs was as thick as the conviction in his heart. He rubbed his face with one hand while his jacket hung limp in the other. "Thanks, Brady, I needed that. And you're right. I have no reason to hate Dennehy."
"Not if you want God's blessings in your life."
Collin heaved a weary sigh. "I know." The line of his jaw stretched tight. "But you know, this 'pray for your enemies' thing really gets on my nerves."
Brady chuckled and extended an arm around Collin's shoulder. "Yeah, I know. But in the end, it's worth it." He ambled toward the door and fished his coat neatly off the rack. "So. Charity and Mitch, huh? Not much can happen if she's moving back home."
Flicks of anxiety nicked at him once again. "Yeah, right. Thanks for the reminder. I wish he'd marry her and stay in Ireland. Just the thought of her returning home has set me on edge this last week, and I'll be hog-tied if I know why."
Brady slipped on his coat and unlooped the key from the hook by the door. He reached for the knob. "What, you don't trust her?"
Collin halted in the middle of putting on his jacket, a grin traveling his lips. "Trust her? Charity?" He laughed, dousing the lights on his way out the door. "Oh, I trust her-completely. To be Charity."
DUBLIN, IRELAND
"Nervous?"
Charity nodded, prying her gaze from the vulgar diamond on her finger to smile up at Rigan. "Uh-huh." Her gaze shifted back to the ring. She hadn't been able to look at anything else since they'd left the jeweler. She sighed. "Have you told your family yet?"
He grinned. "Nary a syllable. It may leave my father speechless, which is near impossible. You?"
She stretched her hand out to study the diamond. "Just Emma, of course, because she covered for me when I left early today, but not my grandmother or Mima. I want to surprise them. Oh, and Mr. Hargrove. The dear old gentleman was in today, teasing me about settling down with the right man. I have to admit, it felt pretty good telling him I was spoken for." She spared a quick grin in Rigan's direction. "He was thrilled. He thinks it's about time someone tied you down." She refocused on the ring, admiring the way it shimmered on her finger. "Honestly, Rigan, my nerves have never been in such a jumble, meeting your family like this. But when I look at this, it's all worth it."
Rigan chuckled as his Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce coupe crawled to a stop in front of his father's estate. He switched off the ignition and turned in the seat to draw her into his arms. He sloped her across his lap with a decadent gleam in his eye. "And what about this?" he asked, then nuzzled her ear before sealing her mouth with an urgent kiss. He pulled away. "Is that worth it?"
Charity swallowed and managed a shaky smile. Her stomach fluttered with an odd mix of excitement and trepidation. "Yes, of course, Rigan, it's all worth it." She shifted in his arms, wiggling to get up.
He pinned her in a hungry embrace while his hands roamed the back of her thin coat, exploring her waist, the curve of her hips. "Charity, you've made me the happiest man alive." He kissed her again, a low moan escaping his lips. She felt the sweep of his hands up the side of her waist to territory that was definitely off-limits.
"Rigan, no!" She clamped her hands hard on his arms. "What will your parents think if they see us like this? I'd be mortified."
He chuckled. "Of course you're right, darling. It's just that now that I'm not limited to bargained kisses, I find I have a voracious appetite for more." He brushed his lips to her cheek and prodded her toward her door, his palm lingering on her thigh.
Charity twined her fingers with his, effectively diverting his hand. "Rigan, be good. I'm not your wife yet."
"A minor point in the throes of passion, my love." He squeezed her hand and got out on his side. He rounded the car to unlatch her door and extended his arm. "Your palace awaits."
"Charity looked up, and the whites of her eyes expanded. "This ... is where you live?"
"Where 'we' will live, darling, at least in the winter. Come late spring, we'll reside at the summer house on Muckross Lake."
Charity absently took his hand and stood transfixed, her gaze slowly rising to scan the mansion's several stories. Never in all her days had she seen such splendor, not even in the best neighborhoods of Boston. An impressive cascade of marble steps flared wide as they spilled to the cobblestone drive. Gardens of perfectly manicured boxwoods flanked either side, encasing a collection of rose beds, pergola, and rhododendron, tastefully interspersed with fountains and statues. The house itself was a monument of granite and Georgian brick, with castlelike turrets rising to the sky. Graceful arches hovered over endless rows of windows while ivy tunneled between each, blanketing sections of the house with a glossy coat of green.
"Do you like it?"
Charity swallowed hard. "I ... I had no idea, Rigan. I knew you were wealthy, but I truly had no idea."
He chuckled and took her arm in his, leading her up the steps to massive mahogany doors twice the height of a man. Brass handles, burnished to a gleam, took the shape of roaring lions while the wood of the door peaked to a commanding arch before converging with lustrous white marble.
The polished door swung open, attended by the least lifelike creature Charity had ever seen. Well over six foot five, the man stood ramrod straight to the side, lips pursed and face pinched. His pointy chin was elevated, as if leading the way. "Good evening, Master Rigan."
"Good evening, Robert. This is my fiancee, Charity O'Connor."
"Congratulations, sir, and good evening, Miss Charity."
"Good evening, Robert," Charity said, cheeks flushing.
Rigan allowed her to enter first, then followed, quickly shedding his coat and draping it over Robert's arm. He peeled Charity's wrap from her shoulders and handed it to the butler. "Is the family having cocktails?"
"Yes, sir, in the library. Shall I announce you?"
Rigan planted a kiss on Charity's bare neck, sending another rush of heat to her cheeks. "No, thank you, Robert, that won't be necessary."
"Very good, sir."
Rigan hooked Charity's arm and started toward an extravagant set of burlwood doors. Charity balked, forcing the heels of her new Mary Jane shoes to dig into the plush Oriental rug.
He stopped and arched a brow. "What's wrong?"
She swallowed hard several times as she looked around the foyer, taking in the glittering chandelier, the sweeping marble staircase, the spray of fresh flowers perfectly arranged in an exquisite crystal-cut vase. She began to hyperventilate.
"Darling, what's wrong? Your skin is as pale as that alabaster sculpture."
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her hand flew to her stomach, its contents threatening to rise.
He took her clammy hand in his. A smile tilted his lips. "I can't believe it. The indomitable Charity O'Connor-afraid?"
She nodded, sucking in a deep breath. "Oh, Rigan, I ... I ... what if they don't like me?"
He threw his head back and laughed. "They won't be able to help themselves, darling, any more than I can." His gaze roved the length of her, taking in the graceful fit of her pale blue dress, cinched snugly at her small waist before falling into shear jagged layers to the middle of her calf. She didn't miss the smoky look in his eyes as he scanned her V-neck bodice, where just a hint of her breasts could be seen through the gauzy overlay. His finger slowly traced from the nape of her neck to the yoke of her dress, pausing briefly to fondle the wisps of curls that strayed from her loose chignon. The blood warmed in her cheeks. He grinned. "Especially my father who, like his son, has a penchant for beautiful women."
Rigan took her arm and tucked it firmly in his. "Besides, your father is the editor for one of the largest papers in the world. My father will like that. He has an unhealthy fascination with newsmen who work their way to the top."
Charity glanced at Rigan's profile, noting that his tonealong with his jaw-had suddenly hardened.
She had time for only one deep breath before he ushered her into a room that immediately took it away. Two entire walls of floor-to-ceiling cherrywood bookcases gleamed with shelf after shelf of gilded books rivaling those in Boston's prestigious library. A stunning collection of artwork seldom seen outside of a museum graced the other two walls, interspersed with large windows and a set of French doors that led to a lighted courtyard. A crackling fire blazed in a marble fireplace tucked in between two walls of books, and the spitting and popping of the logs were the only sounds Charity heard upon entering the room.
Rigan tugged her forward, his palm shoring up the small of her back. "Good evening, everyone. Mother, Father, I'd like you to meet the woman who's agreed to become my wife, Charity O'Connor."
Charity radiated a confident smile that defied the nausea in her stomach. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
The room was a morgue, deafening in its silence. Even the crackling fire resorted to stealth while five pairs of eyes as
sessed her, measuring her every breath, every quiver of her hand, every hair on her head. The smile grew stale on her lips. She lifted her jaw and stiffened her spine.
A silver-haired version of Rigan stepped forward, clearing his throat. He extended his hand with a disarming smile as his gaze traveled her body. "Charity, please forgive our rude lack of speech. Rigan told us you were lovely, but as usual, it seems he woefully underestimated. I'm Blaine Gallagher, the patriarch of this family. Come, take a seat by the fire while I make the introductions."
He led her to a chair next to a woman who was as plain as he was handsome. Her nondescript eyes flicked up nervously, revealing sweeping lashes offset by too large a nose. Dark hair, the exact shade of Rigan's, was piled high on her head and wisped with gray. She offered a bejeweled hand in stark contrast to the simple gray dress she wore. Her thin lips trembled into a faint smile. "Hello, Charity, I'm Rigan's mother, Olivia. Rigan has spoken of you so often, it was clear he was smitten. And now we see why."
Charity clasped her hand and smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Gallagher. It's wonderful to be here."
Rigan's father dismissed his wife with a wave of his hand. "Charity, that bored-looking young woman reclining on the settee is Rigan's sister, Fiona, and the gentleman hovering over her is her husband, Bennett."
Charity nodded, her nerves fluttering at the look of disdain on Fiona's face. She appeared to be a replica of her mother, albeit devoid of humility. She simply stared, her eyes mere slits of contempt while she guzzled her drink. Her husband-tall and striking-seemed cut from the same cloth as Rigan and his father, with a confident air and an eye for women. His smile, more than friendly, set her on edge.