A Passion Redeemed

  The memory brought a faint smile to Mitch's lips. "Yeah, she was something." He saw Sally heading their way with a tray piled high with food and drinks.

  Bridie shook out her napkin. "Yes, she was. And so is her sister, evidently."

  Sally plopped two steaming plates of crubeens on the table with a thud. The smell of spicy pork caused his juices to flow. When Sally finished unloading plate after plate, she stood back and grinned, hands propped on her ample hips. "Hope you're hungry. Ready to dive in?"

  Bridie smiled at Sally and picked up her fork. She winked at Mitch. "You know, Sally, I think he just might be."

  "You've been awfully quiet all night, at least since we left Duffy's. Honestly, Charity, I'm a bit dismayed. I thought you would be feeling quite victorious. You had him eating out of your hand, you know."

  Charity continued to stare out the window of Rigan's Rolls Royce as they pulled up in front of her grandmother's house. Moonlight flooded the garden, casting distorted shadows of fuchsia and larkspur across the cobblestone walk.

  He turned the ignition off and shifted to face her. "Charity, look at me."

  She glanced over, one hand hovering on the door handle. "What is it, Rigan?"

  He scrutinized her, head cocked as if trying to decipher the mystery of her mood. "What's wrong?"

  She expelled a weighty sigh and leaned back, eyes fixed straight ahead. "I don't know."

  "You got your wish. You turned his head. You should be happy."

  "I know," she muttered, her tone quiet. Ishould be. But what if he still blames me ...

  "Charity, you effectively reduced the man to moronic monosyllables and clenched teeth."

  Mischief twitched on her lips. She had caught Mitch by surprise. His clear, blue eyes had stared in bold appraisal, taking her in from head to foot without even being aware. At six foot four, he towered over her, a mountain of a man with unruly blond hair and a petulant gaze, adept at turning heads as well as she. She grinned, peering at Rigan out of the corner of her eye. "I did, didn't I?"

  Rigan's smile matched her own. We did, my dear. You and yours truly-your partner in crime."

  She giggled and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "It was glorious, wasn't it? And yes, Rigan, I couldn't have done it without you." Her finger suddenly stilled, causing the curl to spring free and spiral to her shoulder. She tilted her head to study him through narrowed eyes. "Why does he dislike you?"

  Rigan laughed and reached for her hand, warming it between his fingers. "I could ask you the same thing."

  Her rib cage suddenly felt too tight. A sick feeling settled in her stomach. She tugged her hand free and hefted her chin a notch. "He doesn't dislike me."

  "Oh, he dislikes you, all right. It was as clear as his stony stare and the humorous tic in his jaw. A thin, cold thread of disgust tightly twined with a scarlet strand of lust. What did you do, Charity? Why does he hate you?"

  Fear constricted her throat. He doesn't hate me-he wanted me! She sat up, her eyes burning with heat. "I think this conversation has come to an end. Thank you for a wonderful evening. Now, if you'll walk me to the door. . ."

  She fumbled with the door latch, finally swinging it open. He reached across and slammed it closed. The heat of his breath was hot on her face. "No, this conversation is not over. Tell me, Charity. Why does a beautiful woman like you need the assistance of a rogue like me to snare another man's heart?"

  Her pulse pounded in her throat. She didn't answer.

  He jerked her close. "All right. I'll tell you. I think somehow, someway, you're the reason he's no longer engaged to your sister. Lies, perchance. Or perhaps you exposed him, something dark and sinister from his past. Or maybe, just maybe, seduction ..." He traced his finger along the curve of her jaw, pausing beneath her lips. "That would be my personal favorite, of course. A temptress." He lifted her chin with his finger, his gaze upon her mouth. "I'm quite partial to temptresses, you know." He leaned to kiss her.

  Charity pushed him away. "Rigan, stop! What are you doing?"

  "Extracting payment," he whispered. The warmth of his words feathered her cheek.

  "Oh," she breathed, swallowing hard. He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, and the heat of his lips burned like fire. She twisted away. "Lips, Rigan, only lips. Our bargain, remember?" She stared, wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

  He grinned. "So it was, Charity, so it was." He stroked her cheek with his fingers. "I see our 'temptress' is nowhere in sight. Pity." He sighed and took her hand in his. "But temptress or innocent makes little difference to me. Either way, payment is long overdue."

  Cupping her chin in his hand, Rigan brushed her lips with his own, a gentle sway of his mouth against hers before pressing in. A shiver of heat traveled her spine as he pulled away, and her hand fluttered to her chest. She blinked, surprised he'd left her breathless.

  "I'll walk you in." He opened his door, swung out, and circled the car to open hers on the other side. He extended his arm. "I do believe, Miss O'Connor, we've struck a bargain that will serve us well."

  Charity blinked and took his hand. "I do believe ... ," she whispered and clung to his arm for the trembling of her legs on the final few steps to the porch.

  "How's it going, Jimmy?" Mitch scrounged in the pocket of his woolen suit coat. He tossed a punt into a battered can next to a tall pile of newspapers on the street in front of the Irish Times. He took a paper off the top, the stack taller than the toothless man hawking them.

  "Oh, not too bad, I suppose." Jimmy squatted, warming stubby fingers over a pitiful firepot at his feet. He cocked his head and looked up with a grin. "Let's just say me and the missus won't be going on a seaside holiday anytime soon."

  Mitch dug back in the coat. He tossed another punt in the can. "Give Mary my love."

  "I will at that, but I'll wager she'd rather have it from you."

  Mitch attempted a smile and shoved the newspaper under his arm, yawning as he headed to his Model T. He should kick himself for coming back to work after taking Bridie home. What had possessed him? The work could wait. He reached down to rotate the crank. After several tries, the engine sputtered to life. He clenched his jacket closer and got in the car, slowly weaving into the flow of traffic. A weighty bloke on a bike darted in front of him, forcing him to skid to a stop. Mitch blew through his teeth. You're testing my limits, mister. I'm in the perfect mood to run somebody down.

  His foul disposition stayed with him all the way home. He parked the car and got out, flinging the door shut before shuffling up the steps to his grey-stone flat on Cork Street. The window flowerboxes spilled over with leggy impatiens and trailing ivy, stubborn survivors of Dublin's temperate October nights. Mitch yanked on the curve-handled knob and opened the heavy Georgian door with its arched window and sunny yellow paint. It slammed behind him with a noisy thud. He mounted the gleaming wood staircase and noted that Mrs. Lynch had been busy-the warm maple flooring was buffed to a sheen. Where in the world did the woman get her energy? She was almost eighty, but her vitality left him in the dust.

  Mitch jammed the key in his door and jimmied the lock with too much agitation. It might as well have been a fortress. He rammed the door with his knee. "Open up, you blasted thing." He jangled the knob until the wall vibrated.

  "Easy does it, Mitch." Mrs. Lynch peeped around the corner of her door across the hall, silver tresses trailing beneath a lavender sleep kerchief. Her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled. "It's just like a woman-the gentler, the better."

  Mitch hung his head in exhaustion. "Sorry, Mrs. Lynch. I didn't mean to waken you."

  "Bad day at the paper?"

  He breathed in some air, then blew it out with the last of his energy. His frustration drifted out along with it. "No, not really. I'm just tired."

  "Well, I already took Runt for his constitutional, so no need to worry about that. Looks like you should go straight to bed." She squinted, her blue eyes obscured by paper-thin crinkles of skin. "You're home late. Ou
t with a lady?"

  He turned back to the door, rotating the key with painstaking ease. "No." The lock clicked and the door swung open. Mitch managed a stiff smile over his shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Lynch. Good night."

  He closed the door and flipped the bolt, adjusting his eyes to the moonlit room. He flung his coat on the wrought-iron rack as his golden retriever greeted him, tail thudding against the wall while he burrowed his cold nose into Mitch's hand. His lovesick squeals helped to soften Mitch's mood. Tapping his chest with his hands, Mitch chuckled when Runt jumped up, forepaws planted firmly against his shirt. "Hello, big guy, how's my buddy today? Did you have a nice walk with Mrs. Lynch?"

  Runt strained and groaned while Mitch rubbed the side of his snout, his tail flapping in ecstasy. Mitch leaned in and nuzzled him, scrubbing his neck with a forceful motion. "I don't know what I'd do without you, big guy. You keep me sane, you know that?"

  Runt woofed, jumped down, and commenced dancing in circles.

  "All right, all right. Dinner's coming. Give me a minute to get my bearings." Mitch struck a match and reached up to light the oil wick of a pewter wall sconce. The light flickered, then filtered into his parlor with a soft, steady glow. He stooped to pick up a piece of lavender-scented stationery off a stack of freshly laundered clothes. He held the note to the light, its edge scalloped with a lacey effect.

  Mitch-Runt has been fed and walked. I still have a few of your shirts to press. You can pick them up tomorrow. Mrs. Lynch

  He lifted the sheet to his nose, doubting the lavender fragrance would have any effect in calming his nerves. God bless her. More like a mother than a landlady. A niggling guilt settled in. Great. Perfect company for the irritability that throbbed inside like a splinter of glass. He should take her on an outing. Lunch and the art museum, maybe. She would like that.

  Runt continued to bounce, his tail reaching new heights of aerial flight. Mitch propped a hand loosely on his hip. "Don't try to con me with that pitiful 'I haven't eaten in twentyfour-hours' act. I'm wise to you, buddy-boy. I have it on the best authority you've already been fed and watered, and quite well, no doubt." Runt let out a gruff bark and sank to the floor, extending his forepaws in a long stretch.

  Mitch loosened his tie and tossed it on the chair. He lit the Tiffany oil lamp beside his cordovan sofa, then bent to rekindle the remains of a fire he'd started that morning. Warmth seeped into the room, along with the pungent smell of burning peat, but it did little for the cold feeling in his chest. He reached for the newspaper and stretched out on the sofa.

  What was wrong with him? His muscles twitched like he'd just sprinted a mile. The clock on the mantle chimed and he looked up, fatigue and edginess warring within. Eleven o'clock, but sleep was nowhere in sight. Mitch sighed and pitched the paper to the other side of the couch. He reached down to scratch Runt, who had sprawled along the foot of the sofa. Mitch exhaled a hefty sigh. His thoughts strayed to their favorite topic.

  Faith.

  His stomach no longer clutched at the memory of her, but a dull sadness still remained. There had been times when he'd been like this with her, his nerves volatile as if raw and pasted on the outside of his skin. She could always sense it, feel it. And always knew what to do. How to calm him down, soothe him, love him.

  Mitch closed his eyes and kneaded his forehead. Usually she'd put her arms around him and hold him, whispering words of love and encouragement and prayer. Always prayer.

  Mitch jumped up to dispel the thought and tripped over Runt. A swear word got as far as the edge of his tongue before he bit it back. Runt looked up with liquid-brown eyes. Mitch sighed.

  "It's not your fault, buddy," he muttered. Runt's eyes followed him as he paced the room. He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. He had been doing better lately, hadn't he? More like himself? Going for days at a time without even thinking of her. Even weeks without missing her. She was across the ocean, for pity's sake, engaged to someone else. How much farther out of his life could she possibly be?

  And then, tonight. Charity. Those hypnotic eyes, staking through his heart with bitter regret and deadly allure.

  Just like before.

  Mitch slapped the newspaper out of his way and sat back down, hunching on the far edge of the sofa, opposite Runt. He put his head in his hands. She was poison, pure and fatal, even toxic to his mood. Like a spider spinning a light, breezy web, beckoning ... "Mima would love to see you, Mitch. We all would. "

  He sat up and burrowed his fingers through his hair, cursing the attraction he felt, even now. That had always been the problem. Loving Faith and avoiding Charity. Ignoring the fascination she seemed to have with him.

  Until he gave in.

  Mitch jumped up, shaking it off. The guilt, the regret, the attraction. He fumbled through his desk drawer for the Bible Faith had given him. He uncovered it beneath a stack of coffeestained galley sheets. Clutching it to his chest, he sank back on the sofa, calm finally settling in.

  He wanted to avoid Charity completely, but something in his gut told him no. He had to see her again, if only to warn her about Rigan. His jaw hardened. She needed to know.

  Mitch leaned his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. It would be good to see her grandmother and great-grandmother again. In the eight months he courted Faith, he'd grown fond of Bridget Murphy and her mother, Mima. They had been like family. Then the war ended, and Faith's family had returned to Boston, leaving Charity behind. To help take care of Mima, she said. Somehow Mitch suspected she had other motives. She always did.

  He sat up and opened his eyes, flipping the pages of the Bible at random. He settled on 2 Corinthians, and his eyes widened as he scanned the page. Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship bath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion path light with darkness?

  A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. So much for Bridie's implication that he pursue Charity O'Connor. "As far as the east is from the west, " so is Charity from her God. Mitch sighed. It was a real pity. She was an amazingly beautiful woman who drew him like a magnet. Once, he would have gladly explored the bounds of her generosity without compunction. But Faith had changed everything. Attraction, lust, and beauty had been enough before. Not anymore. Now he craved the beauty of the Spirit, the touch of God in his soul. His love for Faith had been pure, God-directed, exhilarating. Never again would he settle for less.

  Mitch continued to read, the power of the words warming his body like the fire had been unable to do. He yawned, realizing his tension had finally dissipated, slinking away like the dusk at the end of day. He placed the Bible on the table and stood, stretching to release the kinks.

  Thoughts of Charity suddenly flashed in his mind, and he stiffened his jaw. By the grace of God, he could do this. He would warn her and be done with it. And then he'd get on with his life.

  He looked up to the ceiling, brows arched in expectation. "I'm gonna need your grace to do it, you know." He stifled a yawn and blew out the lamp. "A boatload should do."

  Charity yawned, still clad in her pink chenille robe and slippers. She ruffled a hand through the loose curls trailing her back and scratched her head. The smell of sizzling bacon made her mouth water. She shuffled to where her grandmother stood and wrapped her in a sleepy hug.

  "Good morning! How was the theater last night?" Bridget Murphy asked, glancing up from the bacon she was frying.

  "Very nice, Grandmother, although I don't know what all the dither is about with Shakespeare. Personally, I find the language a bit tedious. Why not just speak in the dialect of the day? As far as I'm concerned, it's 'much ado about nothing."'

  Her grandmother flipped the bacon over with a chuckle. "Dear me, heaven forbid you should get any culture."

  Charity thumped into the chair and propped her chin in her hand. "I know, I know, every young woman needs to be refined and cultured. But it all seems such a fuss."

  "Culture? A fuss?" Bridget turned, fork in hand. "Goodness, Char
ity, you never cease to jar my senses. Culture is sustenance for the heart and the mind."

  She scrunched her nose. "I'd rather have sustenance of another kind, thank you. I want to feel things, Grandmother, like the racing of my heart. You know, the admiring gaze of someone you love, the sound of his warm whisper in your ear." Charity arched her brows and jutted her chin. "Romance, plain and simple. And methinks it will not come hither with Shakespeare."

  Grinning, Bridget shook her head and drained the bacon grease into a can. She cracked several eggs and dropped them into the hot skillet. They crackled and spit while she reached for a mug from the cupboard. She poured coffee from the pot perched on the warming plate. With a wry smile, she placed the steaming cup in front of Charity.

  "Methinks you need good, strong coffee to clear the excess sleep from your mind, young lady. It's about time you got up. I fed Mima hours ago." She reached to give Charity a quick squeeze before returning to check on the eggs. "And how was your time with Mr. Gallagher III?"

  "Thanks, this is good." Charity sipped slowly, ignoring her grandmother's question.

  Bridget dusted the eggs with seasoning, then glanced over her shoulder. "Well?"

  A silent sigh drifted from Charity's lips. "Fine. It was fine."

  "Only fine?"

  "I like Rigan. We have fun."

  "But no palpitations?"

  She studied her grandmother over the rim of her cup, wondering how much to divulge. There was no use trying to fool her. They were too much alike. She noted the sheen of Bridget's snow-white hair coiled at the nape of her neck. Even at sixtyfive, her grandmother was a beautiful woman. And like her granddaughter, not one to dally. She turned, eyeing Charity with the same striking blue eyes she'd inherited. Charity sighed. "He's no Collin, if that's what you mean."