Charity shook her head and hiked her skirt to her thighs. She snatched a stocking. This wasn't going to be easy. She did her best to push her good hand into the finely knitted wool and rolled it up her forearm. Lying back on the bed, she lifted her good leg in the air and bent it toward her, latching the toe of the stocking on her foot. It caught and she extended her leg, slowly tugging the stocking to her thigh. She sat up, pinned it to her garter and took a deep breath. "One down, one to go."
The second would definitely be more difficult with a cast. Charity reached for the stocking and smiled. Dear, wonderful Grandmother. She'd doctored it with an extra piece of material to accommodate the cast. Charity carefully rolled it up in her good hand and sank back on the bed, bare leg and cast pointed at the ceiling.
A knock sounded. Bridget opened the door and peeked inside. "Are you decent?"
Charity grunted, desperate to flip the stocking over the toe of her broken leg. It missed. For the third blasted time. "Oh, thank God you're here," she groused. "Maybe you can help me with this ridiculous thing."
Bridget bustled into the room and carefully closed the door. "Of course I will, dear. And Mitch is here to help carry you down the stairs."
Her fingers froze to the limp stocking, and heat rolled into her cheeks before her leg plummeted to the bed. "No! I don't want to see him. And I certainly don't need his help to get downstairs."
Bridget hurried to the bed and took the stocking out of Charity's hand. "Settle down, young lady, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. There is no way you can attempt those steps on your own. And you heard Dr. Simms-no crutches until after the first week."
"It's been five days, Grandmother, a few days more or less won't matter. And for the record, other than Rigan Gallagher, Mitch Dennehy is the last person I want to see right now."
Bridget bent to slip the stocking on Charity's leg and tugged it over the cast. "Now hush," she whispered, "he's right outside the door. He took time out of his busy day to help us, so you best mind your tongue and be grateful."
"Grateful?" She jerked the stocking up and pinned it to her garter with trembling hands. She glared at the door and raised her voice several octaves. "To a thickheaded womanizer who's indirectly responsible for the condition I'm in?" She flipped her skirt over her legs and lifted her chin. "When pigs fly! My crutches, please."
Bridget sighed and hurried to the door. She opened it and poked her head in the hall. "Sorry, Mitch. She's ready now. I'll get her crutches."
Mitch appeared in the doorway, his face a blank except for the faintest twitch of his lips. His eyes narrowed as he slacked a hip against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. "Hello, Charity," he drawled. "It's a beautiful day. Blue skies with lots of clouds, birds ... pigs."
"Get out! I can manage the stairs myself. I wouldn't put it past you to drop me."
"Enough!" Bridget's tone held a warning. "Now, you can't do it yourself, young lady, and that's all there is to it." She glanced down at Charity's stockinged feet. "You don't even have your shoes on."
Charity snatched the shoes off the bed and dropped them on the floor with a loud clunk. She tried to lumber up using her good arm and groaned.
Mitch took a step forward.
Her icy look froze him to the spot. "I don't want him here, Grandmother. Make him leave."
"Hush and slip into your shoes. I'll help you."
Charity shot him another slitted glare, then hobbled up on her good leg and anchored her hand to Bridget's arm. "Make him turn around, then. I don't want him watching me."
His jaw tightened before he rotated slowly, hands loose and low on his hips.
She looked him over and sighed. What a waste of a beautiful man. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, hard muscles everywhere you looked. Especially in his head.
She latched securely onto Bridget's extended arm while she slipped on her shoe, then pressed down until it felt good and snug.
Her grandmother nudged the other shoe toward her.
"Thank you," she muttered, wiggling her toe until it eased inside. "Now, if you'll just hand me the crutches ..
"She's ready, Mitch."
Charity glanced up at the waver in her grandmother's voice. "Grandmother, I can tackle the stairs myself, honestly. Just give me the crutches. I don't need him."
Crutches firmly in hand, Bridget started toward the door. "Emma?" she called, and Emma suddenly appeared, her smile as stiff as Charity's fifty-pound cast.
Mitch strode toward the bed, and Charity backed away, feeling the nightstand as it gouged the back of her knees. "What are you doing? Get away!"
He completely ignored her and whisked her off her feet, his tight-lipped expression as rock-hard as the arms that pinned her against his chest.
She tried to scratch him with her good arm, to no avail. "Put me down, you lout! I tell you, I can do it myself."
"Emma, the sling," Mitch shouted.
She nodded and darted to the nightstand to scoop it up.
Charity tried to kick, but her efforts were futile against his hold of clamped steel. She blew out a noisy breath of disgust. "Oh, you people are something else. I tell you, I can do this. Grandmother, please!"
Bridget patted her good arm while Mitch carried her through the door. "Charity, I'd feel much better if you would let Mitch carry you just this once, all right, dear?"
Charity groaned and sagged against his chest of stone, literally and figuratively, she mused, suddenly aware she was in Mitch Dennehy's arms. She glanced up at his clean, chiseled chin and felt her stomach tighten. The scent of Bay Rum drifted to her nostrils, causing her hand-the one pressed hard against his chest-to burn. With a quick intake of breath, she jerked it away and crossed her arms, willing herself to ignore the heat he generated. She sighed. What good would it do?
He strode down the steps with ease, as if she were a mere child instead of a woman. He paused in the foyer and glanced at Bridget. "I put her bags in the car. Are you sure she has everything she needs?"
Charity blinked. "Bags? Grandmother, what's he talking about?"
Tears pooled in Bridget's eyes. "Charity, love, you have to go home. For your own safety."
The air clotted in her throat. She jerked, struggling to get free. "No! Please, no! Don't do this, Grandmother. I love you. I want to stay."
His arms tightened like a vise. "Should I take her to Mima?"
Bridget nodded and wiped her eyes with her apron.
Charity battered his chest with her good arm, thrashing like a crazy person in the midst of a nightmare. "Put me down. I hate you, Mitch Dennehy. I'll never forgive you. Let me go!"
"I'm just following orders."
The sound of Bridget sobbing followed them while he carried her down the hall, his grip like steel. The moment she saw Mima's face, she started to cry. "Mima, don't let them do this. I want to stay. With you and Grandmother and Emma. Make them understand."
Her great-grandmother's cheeks glistened with grief. She shook her head, and her frail lips were wet and trembling.
Charity's heart seized in her chest.
Leaning to hold her close to Mima, Mitch allowed the old woman to press a weak kiss to Charity's cheek. "I love you, Charity. You've brought us much joy."
"No, Mima, please, let me stay. I don't want to leave." She grasped Mima's shoulder with her good arm, clinging with everything in her.
"You have to go, dear. We can't risk letting you stay. As much as we love you, you need to go home."
"This is my home!" she screamed. "My only home."
"Goodbye, darling girl. We will miss you terribly."
"No!" Charity tried to hold tightly to Mima's frail shoulder, her chest heaving with sobs.
Mitch pried her fingers loose and swept her up and away. He hurried down the hall. Bridget and Emma wept at his heels.
"Wire me as soon as you arrive, do you hear?" Bridget blew her nose on a handkerchief and stood at the front door.
Mitch nodded and turned to Emma, the right side of her f
ace mottled and red from crying. She reached out and hugged Charity's side. "I love you, Charity O'Connor. You're the best friend I've ever had. I will miss you so much."
"Emma, why? Why are you all doing this? You're breaking my heart."
"We love you, Charity, that's all we can say." Emma stepped back. "We want you safe. I pray you come back someday."
Bridget opened the door. Her face was haggard as she looked at Mitch. "You better go. I packed her coat like you requested, along with a bit of supper in her smaller bag. There's enough for several days, just in case."
He nodded and strode toward her, halting at the door long enough for Bridget to throw her arms around Charity's neck.
The anguish in her grandmother's sobs pierced Charity's soul. She clutched Bridget hard. "Grandmother, I love you; why are you doing this? I'll never understand. It's not what I want."
"Nor I, darling, but sometimes love requires sacrifice. You're the granddaughter of my heart, Charity. I will miss you more than I can say." She pulled away and backed toward the door, her handkerchief limp against her mouth.
Mitch swept past and out to the porch. "I'll take good care of her."
"We know you will." Bridget wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, then waved it in the air. "Goodbye, Mitch, Charity. We love you both."
Emma came to stand beside Bridget. Her face was swollen with tears. "I'll be praying, Charity. Please write."
Mitch bounded down the steps, moving quickly to his car. Charity craned over his shoulder for one last look. Her sobs quieted to short, raspy heaves as she stared. Emma and Bridget huddled so close on the porch that they blurred into one. Charity blinked and Bridget stepped forward, a miserable attempt at a smile on her face. "Mitch, don't let her give you any sass, you hear?"
I won't." He opened Charity's door and carefully set her inside. He reached for a blanket and tucked it around her. He shut the door, then rounded the car to churn the crank.
Charity stared out the window with tears streaming her face. Mitch got in and released the handbrake. The car pulled away from the curb with a lurch that felt like her heart was being ripped from her chest.
She blinked. The people she loved most in the world stood waving goodbye. A fresh wave of sobs choked from her lips. She pressed her head back against the seat and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears spilled with reckless abandon. Mitch nudged a handkerchief against her arm. She snatched it and wiped the wetness from her face. "I hate you, Mitch Dennehy."
She heard his long, weary sigh as the car picked up speed. "I know. So do I."
Mitch pulled his Model T into the cobblestone lot in front of the pier, barely noticing the flurry of activity that always ensued on sailing day. The sounds and smells of bleating livestock drifted in the air as drovers and handlers prodded cattle onto cargo ships. The port scurried with activity, not unlike a colony of ants skittering in all directions. Muscled men lumbered up gangplanks with bundles and crates bulging with iron, nails, salt, bricks, glass, and textiles for the westward crossing. Beadyeyed runners rasped their services like barkers at a carnival, hungry to prey upon inexperienced travelers who dreamed of immigrating to America.
Mitch looked up as a string of barges chugged steadily down the Liffey River, heaped high with crates of Guinness. Coal merchants scattered along the quays, bellowing orders to men shoveling coal into ten-stone bags. Gritty-faced stevedores with rippling backs lifted the sacks, hauling them down a single gangplank two feet wide, bouncing with every step.
His lips compressed at the sight of the Black and Tans, special British police created to fight the revolutionist Sinn Feiners. Their khaki uniforms and black hats stood out like silent threats among a throng of sweating dockers, huddled families, and dandied merchants.
Mitch yanked the lever to disengage the drive gears and turned the engine off. He looked at Charity, her eyelids closed in apparent sleep. Even with her face swollen from crying and a hint of bruising, she was still a beautiful woman. Long lashes swept high above chiseled cheekbones while soft, golden tendrils feathered her face.
He leaned back in the seat. She hated him. He let it sink in, and deep down inside, it made him feel hollow. A mere two weeks ago, she'd been desperate for his attention, lovesick to the core. Now she claimed to hate him, her tone and manner depleted of warmth. The thought left him unsettled, and he didn't know why.
He closed his eyes. Yes, he did. He was in love with her, plain and simple. He'd grown used to her interest, her flirting, the way her eyes softened when his gaze held hers. Suddenly all of it was withdrawn, and it grated on him more than it should. He intended to marry Kathleen. He had no business being concerned whether Charity hated him or not.
He was glad she was asleep. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out two gold bands. He pushed the larger one on his ring finger and pocketed the other in his trousers. He and Bridget had decided Charity wouldn't go easily. Bridget had given him her old wedding bands, just in case. He pushed the car door open and swung out, firming his resolve. One week on a ship with a woman who hated him was certainly safer than seven days with one who melted his heart at the tilt of a smile. Impassioned love didn't guarantee happiness. His father had been proof of that.
He opened her door and leaned in, shaking her shoulder lightly. She stirred and wrinkled her nose, lids still closed. "Dear Lord, what is that smell?"
"Factories-fertilizer, gasworks, glass-you name it. The aroma of Guinness hops mingling with the delightful smell of raw sewage and animal dung."
Her nose remained scrunched. "It's awful! I may be sick."
Mitch bit his tongue with little success. "After keeping company with the likes of Gallagher, I'd rather thought you'd be used to it."
Her eyes popped open to reveal a heated blue glare. "I just assumed it was you."
I washed before I came. Didn't want to offend your delicate sensitivities." He reached in to hoist her in his arms, blanket and all. He stood up carefully to test the cobblestones, then shifted her in his arms. He grunted. "You feel a lot heavier than before, which is odd, given all the tears you spent."
She folded her arms and stared straight ahead. "Good. I hope I'm sheer dead weight."
He bobbled her a bit, pretending to slip on the pavers. She lunged for his neck, her good arm digging into his back. He grinned.
"You can wipe that smirk off your face. There's nothing worse than a cocky kidnapper."
He grunted as he made his way to the docks. "Kidnapper? I prefer the term 'victim.'"
She scalded him with a look. "Excuse me, you barbarian, but I'm the victim here. You're just the baboon they hired to ruin my life."
"Our lives. Keep in mind I may not have a job when I come back."
"Or a fiancee, if she has a brain in her head."
He stopped to adjust his hold, his lips as tight as his grip. "She'll be there," he muttered. He joggled her forward a bit, indicating the ship they would board. "That's our passage. The SS Herrnina. Takes us through to Boston with stops in Liverpool and New York."
A gasp drifted from her lips. "It's so huge!"
He wended his way up the plank, following a stream of passengers. "Yes, well, unlike you, a lot of people want to go to America."
She jerked around. "We're not in steerage-"
"No, ma'am, only the best for a 'victim' like you. We have a first-class cabin."
Her brow angled high. "We?"
He glanced down through slitted eyes. "Both of us. Separately. It's costing a month's wages, but your reputation will be pristine. At least when it comes to me."
She turned away and jutted her chin high. "I'm sure Kathleen will appreciate that."
"Not as much as me," he mumbled, hauling her through the gangway. He stopped at the end of the line, his breathing noticeably heavy. "Reach inside my coat pocket."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The tickets. They're in my inside pocket."
She stared.
"Unless you want me to drop your carcass on this dir
ty planking."
"No!" Her hand fumbled inside his jacket, pink tingeing her cheeks.
His lips clamped tight.
She yanked out an envelope and pinched the corner as if it were a snake. "Here."
He inclined his head toward the mustached purser standing before them. "Give it to him ... darling."
"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs...."
"Dennehy." Mitch bit back a scowl.
Charity stiffened in his arms. She looked up. Her eyes were slivers of heat, but he ignored her. "Give him the tickets, dear." He glanced up and down the deck, then turned back to the purser. "B deck. Which way?"
The man's pencil-thin brows bunched in a frown as he waited for Charity to hand over the tickets. She blinked, then suddenly flipped them over her shoulder, smiling as they skittered on the breeze to the brink of the gangway.
"Charity!" Mitch all but dropped her as he lunged to slam a foot on top, swearing under his breath. Both the tickets and his temper teetered on the edge.
The purser bent to tug them from beneath Mitch's shoe. His eyes flicked up, first to Mitch, then to Charity, taking in the sling on her arm. "Yes, Mr. Dennehy. Your cabins are up that staircase on the starboard side of the ship, 219 and 220." He lifted his chin and handed the tickets back to Charity, then nodded at Mitch. "Adjoining, of course."
Charity flashed him an innocent smile. "Sir, would you be so kind as to call a constable, please? This lout has kidnapped me from my home. He is not my husband, as you will surely see from my name on the ticket. Charity O'Connor, not Dennehy."
The man's gaze flitted to the gold band on Mitch's hand. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the cabins on this ticket are clearly assigned to Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Dennehy. I'm afraid it's company policy to refrain from involvement in domestic disputes."
She clutched the purser's arm. "But you've got to believe me. He's not my husband." She wiggled her hand in his face. "Look-no ring. He brought me on this ship for illicit purposes, I assure you. Please, may I speak to the captain?"