A Passion Redeemed

  Mitch yanked her hard against his chest, then locked her good arm tightly in his grip. "Darling, you asked me to keep your ring in my pocket because your fingers were swollen, remember?" He butted his knee to hold her while he fished in his pants pocket. He held a ring up in his hand. "Here. Do you want to try and put it on?"

  Her mouth gaped open. "Of all the low, despicable-"

  Mitch leaned close to the purser, man to man. "Sir, I'm afraid my wife is under a bit of a strain. We were married this morning, and I think she's a bit nervous, if you know what I mean."

  "He's lying!" Charity shrieked, wriggling to free her arm.

  The purser nodded in sympathy. "I understand, sir. It's a big adjustment."

  "No, wait, please! This moron is abducting me."

  "Thank you, Purser," Mitch muttered, pushing past the crowd that had begun to stare. He barreled toward the steps, clamping onto Charity like a vise.

  She thrashed in his arms, attempting to lash her good leg against his thigh. "Stop it," she hissed. "You're hurting me."

  "I'm going to hurt you, you little brat, right where it's long overdue."

  "My wrist, you're pinching my sprained wrist!"

  Instinctively, he released his hold, realizing the lie too late. Her good fist reached up and clipped him on the jaw.

  He grunted and pinned her arm to her side, squeezing hard.

  She tried to wrench free. "You're going to break it."

  He staggered to the top of the stairs and collapsed against the corridor wall. His jaw twitched faster than the pounding of his pulse. "Maybe that's the answer. Break all of your stubborn bones to keep you in line."

  "You'll never keep me in line, you thickheaded Neanderthal." Her face and neck strained white as she tried to twist free.

  He sucked in a deep breath and continued down the hall, Charity flailing and screaming all the way. Several elderly couples squeezed past with heads turning.

  She latched on to one of the men. "Sir, please, you've got to help. He's abducting me!"

  Mitch smiled. "Darling, you're just upset. You'll love America, I promise." He smiled at the couples, then dropped his tone to a bare whisper. "Honeymoon jitters."

  Understanding flashed in their eyes, causing Charity to whip about all the more. "No, he's lying. Help me, please!"

  The gentlemen smiled politely and quickly ushered their wives down the hall, the sound of Charity's accusations echoing behind.

  She jerked to face him. Her eyes glinted with fury. "I should have known. First a coward, then a bully, and now a liar. You booked me as your wife? I'd rather starve in steerage."

  He gritted his teeth. "Trust me, it can be arranged."

  "Trust is the last thing I'd do. I must have been deaf, dumb, and blind to think I was in love with the likes of you."

  "You wouldn't know the meaning of the word 'trust' if Daniel Webster personally defined it for you. And as far as love goes, 'deaf, dumb, and blind' describes you perfectly when it comes to knowing anything about it."

  He panted while he studied the numbers on each doorway and finally stopped. He shifted a hand and butted his knee while turning the knob. The door squeaked open barely an inch. He used his foot to kick it wide. With a final grunt, he set her on one of the twin beds none too gingerly, barely concerned when she bounced like a spring.

  A gasp sputtered from her lips. "Go ahead, break my other leg, why don't you?"

  "Don't tempt me," he rasped. He sucked in a deep breath and leaned over, hands on his knees. Apparently three nights a week at Pop Delaney's boxing gym hadn't prepared him for this. He was huffing like a steam engine.

  She struggled to rise up on her good arm. If looks could singe, his brows would be aflame. "I despise you, Mitch Dennehy."

  He looked up between winded breaths. "So you've said. Best news I've had all day. Give me cold, honest hate over manipulative charm any day."

  She dropped back on the bed. "Stop your wheezing, you sissy. You act like I weigh three hundred pounds."

  "Yeah? Well, it felt like it."

  "The cut on your cheek. Did I do that?"

  He absently rubbed his hand to his cheek and winced. "No."

  "Who did?"

  He lumbered over to a small table against the wall and poured a glass of water from a floral pitcher. He gulped it down. "None of your business."

  "Did you fight Rigan?"

  He stretched and rolled his neck. "I'm going to get the bags. The toilet facilities are down the hall. Do you need to use them?"

  A haze of color washed into her cheeks. "No. Did you fight Rigan?"

  He started for the door.

  "Yes! "

  He turned, his hand on the knob. "You have to use the loo?"

  She nodded.

  Exhaling loudly, he trudged toward the bed and picked her up. He started for the door.

  "No, not really. I just want to know. Did you fight Rigan?"

  He whirled around and dumped her back on the bed. "You're relentless, you know that?"

  "Did you?"

  He propped his hands loosely on his hips. "Yes!"

  "Is that why you may not have a job when you come back?"

  "Yes."

  She averted her gaze, appearing to study the porcelain water pitcher. "Did you hurt him?"

  He rubbed a hand over his face. "Black-and-blue marks that would make you proud."

  She looked up, her eyes wet. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He turned to go. "Will you be okay till I get back?"

  Barely nodding, she laid her head on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  "Get some rest," he said, noting the shadows under her eyes and the wilt in her face.

  He closed the door and headed toward the stairs, his jaw twitching with fatigue.

  Rest. Something they both needed desperately, he thought with a tightening in his gut. And probably wouldn't get.

  Time to face the music. Charity sighed. Unfortunately, when it came to facing her failings, she never could carry a tune. She rolled over on her side and tried to position her bad leg exactly right. The cabin was completely dark, and she wondered what time it was. Mitch had headed off hours ago, leaving her alone with her thoughts. That hadn't been kind. She had drifted off into periodic bouts of disturbing dreams, always jerking awake with guilt and dread. How could she do this? How could she face them all again?

  She licked her lips. But face them she would. For the first time in almost two years for her father. The thought churned in her stomach like a spell of seasickness bubbling in her throat. She put her hand to her mouth to stem the nausea.

  They hated her. They had to. After what she'd done to Faith, how could they not? She swallowed, the bitter taste of bile souring her tongue. Soon it would be the same old nightmare all over again. Everyone crazy about Faith.

  At least, everyone that mattered. Collin. Father. Mitch.

  She thought of her mother, and the tension eased in her stomach. Mother loved her, she knew it. Always worrying about her, defending her, showing she cared. And Charity loved her back, fiercely, missing her so much at times it produced a physical ache. In Ireland, they'd been especially close, bonding all the more at the false report of her father's death on the battlefield. In one awful beat of their hearts, they'd exchanged places-Marcy becoming the lost child and Charity the mother with the strong shoulders and tender heart. She'd taken control, becoming the rock everyone leaned on, never allowing her own grief to show. She'd grown up considerably that day, in a way that had birthed a new respect from her mother, grandmother, and Mima.

  Charity sighed and stretched out her bad leg. Her mother's welcoming arms were the only beacon in an otherwise dark journey. She hesitated, thinking of Sean, Beth, Steven, and Katie. Well, maybe not the only one. A pang of homesickness took her by surprise as wetness sprang to her eyes. Goodness, she probably wouldn't even recognize Katie. "Eight, going on thirty," her mother would always write. Charity smiled. At least it would be good to see them.

 
She rolled on her back and peered up in the dark. All at once, her father's face invaded her thoughts, robbing her hope. She swallowed hard. When would it stop? The sick feeling inside? She didn't want to be "Daddy's Girl" anymore. She wanted to be free from it, immune to the fact that her sister was the apple of their father's eye. A warm stream of wetness slid down the side of her face and into her neck, chilling her on impact. All she had ever wanted was his approval. But, no, that had been reserved for Faith. Every crippled step, every measure of progress, had brought a sheen of pride to her father's eyes.

  And a tear to her own.

  A gentle knock sounded, startling her. The door opened, and a shaft of light spilled across the bed. She propped herself up with her good arm, blinking in the glow of the corridor lamp.

  "Are you awake?" he asked, his silhouette looming large in the door.

  "Yes."

  "Did you sleep?"

  Her eyes adjusted to the light, making out the lean curve of his jaw, the firm press of his mouth. "On and off. Mostly off. Dreams."

  "Good ones, I hope."

  "Some."

  "Are you hungry?"

  Was she hungry? It shocked her that she hadn't even thought of it. Breakfast had been a lifetime ago. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling it rumble. "I think so."

  He shifted in the doorway. To you want to eat in your cabin or go to the dining room? Bridget sent food."

  She swung her leg carefully over the edge of the bed. "I'm not ready for the dining room." She looked up. "Do you ... could we ... eat here?"

  A gleam of teeth flashed in the dark. He leaned against the doorframe. "I was hoping you'd say that. The dining room has been crawling with people ever since we set sail."

  "We've set sail?" she said weakly.

  He straightened. "Hours ago."

  A chill shivered through her. She dropped her head in her hand, and a sob wrenched from her throat.

  Silently he moved toward the bed, letting the door thud behind him. The bedsprings squeaked as he sat beside her in the dark and bundled her in his arms. She laid her head on his chest and wept, her sobs purging the pain from her soul. He rested his head against hers and rubbed her back, holding her close.

  When she'd spent her grief, she stilled in his embrace, calmed by the heat of his body and the rise and fall of his chest. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent.

  He lifted her chin with his finger. "Are you all done? Can we eat now?"

  The corners of her lips tilted in the dark. "What if I'm not?"

  She could almost feel the curve of his smile. "Then can we eat first and cry later?"

  She sniffed. "I suppose, but can you light the lamp, please? I feel like a mole."

  He rose and fumbled in the dark to light a sconce over the table, then struck a match to the wick. A soft glow filled the room.

  A gasp parted from her lips. She hadn't noticed before. The dark hole transformed into a cozy little parlor-boudoir, complete with seascape pictures on the walls, an intricate Persianstyle rug, and two delicate Queen Anne-style chairs. "Oh, it's beautiful," she breathed.

  He grinned. "It's a cracker-box stateroom, Charity, not the Taj Mahal."

  "But it's all mine. You forget I had to share a room with Faith in Boston, with my entire family on the boat over, and with Faith and Emma in Ireland. I didn't expect this."

  He glanced around. "Well, it cost enough, even if it isn't much to look at." He squinted at her. "Did you really think I'd book us in steerage?"

  With a grunt, she shimmied to the edge of the bed. "I don't know what to think when it comes to you. One minute you infuriate me, the next, you surprise me."

  "Does that mean you don't despise me anymore?" He picked up her smaller bag and tossed it on the bed.

  She opened the satchel and pulled out the lunch basket Bridget had packed, then looked up in sober consideration. "Maybe."

  "Enough to feed me?" He pulled one of the Queen Anne chairs alongside her bed.

  With a bare hint of a smile, she placed the basket in her lap and unlatched the lid. She dug in to dole out a slab of cold corned beef and fresh-baked soda bread. She tossed the bread in his lap. He tore off a piece and put it to his lips-

  "Wait," she cried, "we've nothing to drink."

  He groaned and popped it in his mouth, then laid the rest on the nightstand. He jumped up and headed for the water pitcher.

  "Do you think I could have a glass of wine?"

  He turned around. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  A scowl creased his face. "No wine. How 'bout ginger ale?"

  "But I don't want ginger ale. Can't I have wine instead? Please?"

  His mouth snapped closed. He snatched the pitcher and poured two glasses of water. "You'll drink water or nothing at all." He set the glasses on the nightstand and sat back down.

  She squared her shoulders and cradled the basket in her lap. "Fine. No wine, no food."

  His jaw shifted back and forth the tiniest bit, a mulish habit she was quickly becoming familiar with. "No wine," he enunciated.

  She turned away and closed the basket. "Enjoy the dining hall, then." She felt the heat of his stare and released a deep breath when he finally stormed out. The door slammed behind him.

  Minutes later he returned, a scowl on his lips and a bottle in hand. He poured her wine, then set the bottle on the table and handed her the glass. "One per night. Take it or leave it."

  "I'll take it, thank you."

  He plopped in the chair and reached for his bread once again. He shoved a hunk in his mouth and stared straight ahead, chomping hard.

  She smiled. Now isn't this nice?"

  That earned her a half-lidded glare as he continued to chew.

  She took a sip of wine, then nibbled on some bread in companiable silence, humming under her breath. She was quiet for a long while, not saying a word until she handed him her glass. "Would you mind setting this on the table please?"

  He muttered under his breath and got up to lift the tablewater pitcher, wine bottle, and all-to the side of her bed. He snatched several pieces of meat and sat back down.

  "Perfect. Thank you so much."

  He watched as she picked at the meat in the basket. She foraged through the pieces, fiercely intent on selecting just the right one. When she found it, she looked up at him with a triumphant smile.

  He stopped chewing and swallowed hard. "Are you always this much trouble?"

  She took a nibble of the beef. "Not always. But usually. I just know what I want."

  "So I've learned. The hard way."

  She stuck her nose in the air and reached for her wine. "Don't be so cocky. You're officially off my 'want' list. For all I care, Kathleen can spend the rest of her days with your browbeating." She took a drink and smiled, staring at him dead-on. "Besides, you're too old."

  He choked on a piece of beef.

  She handed him a napkin.

  His eyes were watering as he coughed into it and wiped his mouth. "Too old?"

  "What are you, thirty-eight, thirty-nine?"

  His teeth began to grind. "Just turned thirty-six. And in my prime."

  "Almost late thirties is the way I see it, pushing forty." Her eyes widened and she grinned, feeling wicked. "Goodness, you could be my father."

  He rose in the chair. "You can thank God I'm not, because if I were, I would have-"

  She thrust her chin out. "What? You would have what?"

  He settled back, a stubborn bent to his mouth. "I would have swatted some sense into you a long time ago. Saved you from being so spoiled."

  Another sip of wine and she felt the warmth beginning to seep into her toes. She put it down and picked up some bread. "Spoiled? I'm afraid you've got the wrong sister. That privilege belonged to Faith."

  He leaned forward. "Spoiled? Faith? She was the most lov ing, selfless human being I ever met, more mature than you and I could ever hope to be. There's no woman like her."

  His words cut her to the quick. She d
ropped the bread back into the basket and set it aside, avoiding his eyes. Her hands trembled as she reached for the bottle to refill her glass.

  "Charity ... I'm sorry ... I shouldn't have said that. It was unkind."

  She forced a smile. "Why? It's the truth, isn't it? Everybody knows it. And nobody more than me." She took a large gulp.

  His voice gentled. "Take it easy with that, will ya?"

  Tears glazed her eyes. "Why? Right now it seems to be the only friend I have."

  "That's not true."

  "Isn't it? I'm forced away from people who love me, and for what? To live in the shadow of a sister I betrayed, her husband I once loved, and the disappointed father I could never please. And you? Well, you don't even want to be my friend."

  "You know why."

  She laughed. "Oh, yes, I know why. Because although you may be attracted to me, you're still in love with her. Just like everyone else in Boston." She raised the glass in mock salute and drained it, tilting straight up to catch the last drop. She strained for the bottle, managing to pour more before he could snatch it away.

  "You've had enough." He picked up the table and moved it back against the wall, then turned. "And I'm not in love with your sister."

  She nodded her head in exaggerated fashion, swaying with the motion. She upended the last of the wine in her glass. "Oh, yes you are. You think you're not, but you are. And both of us-me ... ," she poked her chest hard several times, then waved a shaky finger in his direction, "... and you-are going to see just how very painful Boston can be."

  Mitch swore under his breath. Great. Bridget would be delighted to know he'd gotten her granddaughter drunk their first night at sea. He should be horsewhipped for allowing her anywhere near alcohol on a near-empty stomach, or otherwise. He took the basket from the bed and set it on the table. He glanced at his watch. "Okay, let's get you to the loo and then to bed."

  She fell back, a giggle bubbling from her throat. "What time is it?"

  "Almost nine." He retrieved her suitcase by the door and set it next to her.