A Passion Redeemed (18 page)

Charity glanced at Mitch. "Feeling brave enough to take me on in a game of chess?"

He laughed. "Personally, I think you could do with a bit of chastening."

She hiked a brow. "Oh, you think so? I'll enjoy watching you beg for mercy. My father happens to be one of the best chess players in Boston, a skill he required of each of his children."

Mitch grinned and rolled up his sleeves. "So, you going to stand there bragging all night? Set up the board."

Charity laughed on her way to the kitchen to see if Maggie was home. She quickly returned to the parlor to proclaim all was still dark. She dug through Bridget's hutch, then carried a wooden box to a small table by the hearth. Mitch hoisted two of Bridget's needlepoint chairs to either side, then squatted to stoke the fire while Charity set up the board. He stood and turned.

"All ready, Mr. Dennehy. Prepare to die." Challenge gleamed in her eyes. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, primed for victory with arms crossed and a smug smile on her face.

"Prepare to die?" He let loose a husky laugh and seated himself across from her, his eyes locked on hers. "This will be your funeral march, Miss O'Connor, not mine. Even with your unfair advantage of being white."

Charity scrunched her nose and moved her king's pawn two spaces. "Black just seems to suit you so much better, don't you think, Mr. Dennehy?"

A knock sounded at the door. Bridget popped up. "Stay put, Charity, I'll get it. Excuse me, Margaret, I'll just be a moment to get Johnny his supper."

Charity could hardly contain herself. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, tightly clasped to dispel any shaking. She could feel the breath hitching in her chest and forced herself to breathe ... calmly, quietly, working hard to display a composure she didn't feel. Inside she was all awhirl, tipsy with joy over the prospect that Mitch was finally returning her affection. She studied him from across the table, the slight pucker of a frown wedged between his brows as he contemplated his first move. Her heart wanted to burst. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man: smart, tough, no nonsense, yet a heart as soft as fresh-churned butter. She stifled a sigh. And more handsome than the law allowed. How in the world had he managed to steer clear of the altar all these years? She suddenly thought of Faith and felt a rush of heat to her cheeks.

He moved his pawn and settled back in the chair. The corners of his lips twitched. "I suggest you focus on your game if you hope to win this match, Miss O'Connor."

Her face burned hot as she fumbled to pick up her pawn.

"Charity ..." Bridget's voice drifted from the foyer.

"Yes, Grandmother?" Charity craned her neck to see Bridget standing at the front door.

Bridget shot a worried glance over her shoulder. "You have a visitor."

"Good evening, Charity." Rigan stepped around her grandmother into the foyer. "You left your glove in my car the other night, and I thought you might need it."

Charity's hand froze on her pawn, her fingers white and pinched. Not unlike her face, she was sure. She tried to breathe, but the air only fused to the back of her throat.

Rigan waggled the glove in the air. "I truly apologize for barging in like this, but the weather has been frightful. I didn't want you to be without it." He nodded curtly toward Mrs. Lynch and then Mitch. "Good evening. Please forgive the disruption."

Charity dislodged the painful lump in her throat and sucked in a deep breath, dropping her pawn on the board. She dared not glance at Mitch, but stood to face Rigan head-on. Even with her back to him, she felt Mitch's tension as if heat were singeing the hair on her arms.

"Rigan ... I ... thank you. I've been hunting for that glove for well over a month." Her eyes entreated his cooperation.

Rigan smiled. "Perhaps another. But I believe this particular glove was the one you lost last Saturday night when we went to the theater."

All the blood that had drained from her face returned in a whoosh. She began to cough.

"Charity, are you all right?" Bridget moved toward her granddaughter, leaving the door in the foyer wide open.

She gasped for air. "Yes, Grandmother, I'm fine. Just a tickle in my throat." She squared her shoulders and glared at Rigan, her tone clipped and cold. "Since that was our final night out together, I appreciate your courtesy in returning it. Good night, Rigan."

She took immense satisfaction in the blotch of red that crept into his swarthy cheeks. His eyes flickered with anger while he bowed slightly at the waist. He tossed the glove on a nearby table and nodded before turning to leave. Bridget clicked the door closed behind him, the sound as menacing as the click of a revolver.

Charity turned. Her stomach plunged. Mitch stood, face immobile except for a muscle throbbing in his temple. His eyes glittered like splintered turquoise, full of cold heat and fury.

"Mitch, I-"

"Bridget, forgive me for cutting the evening short, but I've suddenly taken ill." He strode to the foyer and plucked his and Mrs. Lynch's coats off the rack.

Mrs. Lynch stood by the sofa with worry in her eyes. "Mitch, I know you're upset, but please settle down. Don't let Rigan ruin the evening for you."

His jaw was hard and cold, as if etched in marble. Without a word, he moved to where she stood, holding her coat while she slipped inside.

Charity was barely able to breathe. "Mitch, please don't leave. Let me explain-"

"Bridget, thank you for a wonderful dinner. Ready, Mrs. Lynch?" He commandeered her arm, steering her quickly toward the door.

She shot a look of apology over her shoulder. "Bridge, thank you so much for having me. I'll return the favor soon."

The door slammed shut, its finality reverberating in the air like the sealing of a tomb.

Bridget sat on the sofa, a pale statue with yarn in her lap and needles limp in her hands. Her mouth hung open as she blinked several times. "What in the world just happened?"

Charity slumped in the chair, too stunned to speak.

"Charity, answer me." Bridget discarded her needles and hurried to her granddaughter's side. "Why was Mitch so angry?"

"Because I lied to him," she whispered.

Bridget pulled a chair close and sat down, resting her hand on Charity's arm. "What do you mean, you lied to him?"

"He hates Rigan." Her head sagged into her hands. "He made me promise I wouldn't see him again."

"I see. And he was just starting to trust you, care for you, wasn't he?"

Charity looked up and nodded, a single tear trailing her cheek.

"Well, he'll get over it. He cares for you. I can see it in his eyes."

She shook her head, the motion weighted with regret. "No, he won't, Grandmother. Mitch has this obsession with trust. It started with his mother. Now he doesn't trust any woman who lies to him." She choked back a sob. "Or cheats on him."

Bridget gently stroked Charity's hair. "Trust is not an obsession, darling, it's an extension of love. When we truly love someone, we give them our heart to hold in their hands. And when that love is returned, that very trust is balm to our souls."

A sob convulsed in Charity's throat. She grabbed her grandmother's hand and held it to her lips. "Oh, Grandmother, I love him so much, but now he'll never trust me."

Her grandmother's fingers feathered through the loose strands of Charity's hair. "But then, he never has, now has he?"

She opened her eyes. "It's not funny, Grandmother."

Bridget smiled. "No, but it's not life and death, either." She patted Charity's hand. "Earn his trust, Charity. Don't lie. Don't deceive. Be true to him ... and yourself."

"I am being true to myself, Grandmother. I love him. If I didn't bend the truth a little and plot my strategy, I would have never gotten this far with the man. He's as guarded and unapproachable as a fortress of steel."

"Yes, but once your love is tucked securely inside, I suspect you'll be assured of its safekeeping, now won't you?" Bridget stood.

"You talk in riddles, Grandmother. All I know is I love him and I'll do whatever it takes."

Bridget sighed. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Rising to her feet, Charity flipped a strand of hair from her eyes. She crossed her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bridget bundled her knitting into her arms and dropped it into a wicker basket by the side of the sofa. She stretched, pressing her hands to the back of her hips. She eyed Charity through tired eyes. "It means I worry that 'whatever it takes' may be exactly what it takes to lose a man like Mitch Dennehy."

Charity turned her back, hands shaking as she picked up the chessboard and slanted it hard. The pieces plunged into the wooden box with a jarring clatter. "Don't underestimate me, Grandmother, I won't lose him. Whatever it takes-" She pivoted slowly, arms stiff and fingers taut as she gripped the wooden box. Her left brow angled dangerously high. "And I do mean 'whatever'-I will become Mrs. Mitch Dennehy, mark my words." She arched her back with an air of defiance seldom displayed to her grandmother. "And when I'm done, it'll all be worth it."

Bridget sighed, apparently too tired to argue. "It will never be worth it, Charity. I only hope and pray you find that out before it's too late. Good night, dear. Douse the lights before you retire. And leave the back door open with a note for Johnny, will you? His supper is in the oven."

Without awaiting her reply, Bridget departed the room, leaving Charity with nothing but the taste of bitter regret in her mouth.

Turmoil and unrest. Mitch stared at the headline of Monday evening's Irish Times, and his anger resurfaced all over again. It began when he'd stormed out of Charity's parlor Saturday night and had only mounted throughout the wee hours of Sunday morning. That's when he'd learned that the Irish Republican Brotherhood, a group favoring armed revolt against the United Kingdom to secure Ireland's independence, had had a particularly busy night.

Mitch tossed the paper on his desk and rubbed the back of his neck. The last twenty-four hours had been-for both Ireland and him-a nightmare of turmoil and unrest. As if it wasn't bad enough having Dublin turned inside out, he was still seething over Charity's broken promise-a deception that had robbed him of a decent night's sleep up until Michael's frantic call at six in the morning. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since lunch. He glanced at his watch. Near midnight. Thank God for Mrs. Lynch. She took such good care of Runt. Now if he could just find someone to do the same for him.

He rubbed his hand over his scratchy jaw and yawned. He hadn't been home in almost forty-eight hours, and he was pretty sure his hygiene was questionable. He was grateful that most everyone else had gone.

Michael popped his head in the door of Mitch's office. You best get your carcass out of here. I want you fresh in the morning. The earlier, the better."

A wry smile twisted on Mitch's lips. "I can guarantee early. Can't do much about fresh."

"It's been a devil of a couple of days, hasn't it, though? I thought I was going to have to carry Bridie out of here, she was so exhausted."

Mitch stood and stretched. "Don't think you're off the hook yet. You may have to carry me. I haven't had a decent wink of sleep since Friday night."

Michael whistled. "So the old Mitch is finally back, eh, burning the candle at both ends?"

"Nope, no candles." Mitch shoved his desk drawer closed and plucked his coat off the back of his chair. "But fire was involved, and I definitely got burned."

"You care to explain that?" Michael leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, appearing intrigued.

"Nope. Good night, Michael."

Michael waited till he was almost to the double doors. "Bridie tells me you're thinking of picking up where you left off with Kathleen."

Mitch stopped, his back to Michael. Anger pushed his fatigue aside. "Bridie's got a big mouth."

"That's a given. But she also has a big heart. And she cares about Kathleen. We all do."

Mitch spun around, his jaw clenched tight for the hundredth time in the last two days. "I'm not going to hurt Kathleen. I'm looking for more this time."

"Bridie says you're in love with Faith's sister."

He swore under his breath. "Bridie needs a lip lock. I'm not in love with anyone."

Michael squinted and scratched his bald head. "That's good. She appeared to be real cozy with Gallagher, you know? And I don't want you ruffling his feathers. Or hurting Kathleen."

Heat broiled the back of Mitch's neck. He took a step toward Michael and jammed a finger under his nose. "Look, Michael, you may be my editor, but get this and get it good. My life is none of your blinkin' business, nor Bridie's ... nor Kathleen's, for that matter. So butt out."

Michael yanked on his trousers to pull them up around his ample stomach and leaned in, rising to his full five-foot-two height. He prodded a stubby finger right back into Mitch's chest. "You bet your blasted backside it's my business when it affects the welfare of this paper and its employees. You've hurt Kathleen once. You make bloomin' sure you don't do it again. And as far as Faith's sister is concerned, if there's any brain in that thick head of yours, you'll stay as far away from her as you can get. I can't afford to lose you if Gallagher wants your head. Although God knows I'd love to give it to him right about now."