A Passion Redeemed (8 page)

Bridget shuffled from the kitchen, leaving Charity alone to clear the few remaining dishes. She lifted Mitch's full glass of wine in her hand and held it aloft. Trailing her finger on the rim, she dipped it in the wine, then closed her eyes and touched it to her lips. The taste was warm and strong. Like her feelings for him.

She set the glass on the counter and headed upstairs to her room. She leaned to light the oil lamp by her bed before stirring up the peat fire in the small pot-bellied stove. Her fingers felt numb while she worked with the buttons of her blouse, barely aware when it slithered to the floor. Ina daze, she stood before the mirror and unfastened her skirt. Its pale blue folds dropped in a pool at her feet.

Her focus sharpened on the girl in the mirror ... the one with the tragic eyes.

Sky blue eyes a man could get lost in. Full, ripe lips demanding his gaze. A lush body to quicken his pulse. Every man's dream. So she'd been told.

"Not for me, Charity. I want more. "

She shivered and picked up her robe from the chair, tying the sash with a jerk.

More. He wanted more. Anger knotted in her stomach. He wanted virtue and God and a weak-minded woman. One with the icy milk of human kindness in her veins.

She looked in the mirror, her eyes steeped in pain. He wanted Faith. They all wanted Faith-Collin, Mitch. And even her father, preferring her sister as the daughter of his heart.

Charity dropped on the bed. A mix of anger and guilt shuddered through her like the chill of the room. She couldn't escape it. She'd betrayed her sister. Now regret shadowed her in shame, never allowing her to forget.

She grappled her fingers through her hair. If only she could be free. A clear conscience. A forgiven heart. The love of the man she longed for. Her fist trembled to her mouth as an involuntary cry escaped her lips. Oh, Faith, I'm sorry. When did I start hating you?

Charity pressed her fingers to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. Hadn't she, Charity, always been the beauty in the family? The younger sister who turned the heads? The apple of her father's eye? Yes. Until the 1907 Massachusetts polio epidemic changed everything. God stood by while it stole the life of her older sister, Hope-Faith's twin. Overnight, the family's focus shifted to Faith, the eight-year-old fighting for her life in a hospital far away.

Charity brushed at the wetness springing to her eyes. Even at the tender age of six, her memories were as sharp as the pain in her throat. No more tea parties with big sisters, no more center of attention, no more "Daddy's girl." No, that role belonged to Faith, along with stacks of pretty books, handmade dolls, and homemade fudge. As if she had a fairy godmother. Someone watching over her.

God?

Charity stood, staring in the mirror over her dresser. The line of her jaw hardened.

God. Some invisible being pandered to by her sister and parents. A lover of men, supposedly, good and kind. But not to her. Never to her. She squared her shoulders, clenching her fists at her sides. Nothing more than a demanding deity, thriving on partiality.

Just like her father.

She lifted her chin. Let her sister have her God. She didn't need him. She would make Mitch Dennehy fall in love with her, and it wouldn't take prayer to do it. She turned and kicked her skirt across the room, then slumped on the edge of her bed. In the flickering shadows of her dark, cold room, she put her head in her hands. And cried.

Charity cricked her neck staring up at the ominous red-bricked front of the Irish Times. Her lips tightened into a flat line. Here goes nothing.

Rigan offered her his arm. "Are you quite sure you want to do this? It seems a bit more obvious than just slumming at Duffy's."

Charity sucked in a deep breath and wrapped her arm around his, hoping to bluff him with her most confident smile. "Absolutely. Since Mr. Dennehy isn't in a hurry to see me again, perhaps you and I need to jog his memory as to what he's missing."

Rigan grinned, hazel eyes glinting as he assessed her head to foot. "Oh, I'm quite sure he knows what he's missing. Trust me, any man who looks at you knows what he's missing."

A rush of heat flooded her cheeks and he laughed, the sound of it grating her nerves. She pulled away with her chin erect. "I don't appreciate your coarse humor, Rigan."

His teeth gleamed white. "Perhaps not my coarse humor, but certainly my coarse conspiracy."

Charity pulled away and shivered. He made her feel dirty, as if she were one of the vulgar women from Mountgomery Street who lured men for a price. She wasn't! She was a woman in love and nothing more. "Your tone, your words, they make me feel as if I'm doing something wrong. I don't like it."

Rigan cocked a hip and smiled, his face contrite. "It comes with the territory, Charity. You can't play the game of seduction without snagging other men in the process, myself included."

Charity fought a faint wave of nausea. "But I'm not a seductress. That sounds so ... so cheap, so tawdry ..."

Rigan's eyes softened the slightest bit. "No, you're not, actually. Oh, you certainly look the part and act it at times, but you'll never make the grade, my dear. Deep down, beneath that voluptuous body and those deadly eyes, I detect a frail echo of a conscience."

Charity released a slow breath, her nausea abating ... or maybe it was her conscience. "Sorry, Rigan. I'm nervous, I suppose. I'll try not to let my scruples get in the way."

He grinned and bowed, offering his arm once again. She took it. "See that you don't. The stakes are too high-for both of us."

Charity leaned close as Rigan escorted her into the building, her mind suddenly far away. The image of an irate Times editor invaded her thoughts, causing the churning in her stomach to return, along with an ache in her heart. For pity's sake, she didn't want to deceive Mitch Dennehy, but what choice did she have?

"Good morning, Mr. Gallagher." The crisp tone of the Times' receptionist startled Charity out of her thoughts.

"Good morning, Miss Boyle. It's good to see you again. Is Michael treating you well?"

The young woman batted her nondescript eyes. Her professional demeanor was lost in a sea of pink flooding her cheeks. "Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Reardon is fine. He's a wonderful editor." Her lips trembled into a shaky smile. "A wee bit cranky, perhaps, because of the Brits, but fine."

Rigan smiled, sending more color into Miss Boyle's full cheeks. "Good. I'm here to give Miss O'Connor a tour. Is Michael in? And Mitch Dennehy?"

She bobbed her head, her gaze flitting to Charity's face. "Yes, sir, both of them. May I announce you, Mr. Gallagher?"

"No, that won't be necessary." He glided past, ignoring the receptionist's curious stare as he guided Charity through a set of double doors.

It was another world altogether. Miles away from the calm of her grandmother's cozy kitchen or even the busy pace of Shaw's Emporium. It was a dizzy whirl of action where rockjawed editors loomed over cowed copywriters and wide-eyed errand boys. Charity swallowed hard. Sounds and scents assailed her senses-the clicking of linotype machines and the tapping of typewriters shrouded in the smell of pungent ink and stale cigar smoke. A harried pace that spoke of import and deadlines and purpose. Charity paused, ignoring the tug of Rigan's arm.

What am I doing here?

"I've changed my mind," she whispered, backing toward the door.

"What?" Rigan turned, his eyes scanning her face. "Charity, you're white as a sheet." He jerked an empty chair from a nearby desk. "Here, sit down. Are you all right?"

"I've changed my mind. It's not the time nor place for this, Rigan." She pressed a shaky hand to her stomach, willing its contents to stay put. It took everything in her to stifle a burp.

He squatted to stare in her face. A slow curve formed on his lips. "Oh, no you don't. You're not sick. You're scared."

Charity hurled his hand away, her tone clipped. "Of Mitch Dennehy? Don't be ridiculous. I just don't think this is the time or place. This is a business, not a battleground."

Rigan's eyes narrowed. "Yes, it is a business. My business." He stood and stretched his arms down his side, adjusting the sleeves of his suit coat. "And my battleground." He pulled her up from the chair and hooked her arm over his with a firm grip.

Charity blinked. "What do you mean your battleground'?"

"It's simple. You want his heart. I want his head." He leaned close. "And your heart in the process, my dear."

Charity stared. "Rigan, you know my heart is set. Why are you doing this?"

"Short-term? To humiliate him and lord it over the man." He studied her through shrewd eyes. "Long-term? To be waiting with open arms when you tire of him turning you away.-

Charity angled her chin. "And what makes you think he'll keep turning me away?"

A low laugh rumbled from Rigan's throat. "Experience, my dear. Cold, hard experience. He's not a forgiving man."

Charity gave Rigan a sideways glance. Challenge rose up in her like a feather caught in a breeze, buoying her resolve. "But ... he is a man. When it comes to forgiving, I suppose I don't have much experience. But when it comes to men, I like to think I'm somewhat qualified."

Rigan chuckled. He pulled her toward Michael Reardon's office with a definite air of authority. "Yes, Miss O'Connor, I would certainly concur with that." He gave her a wicked grin and swung Michael Reardon's door wide open, not even bothering to knock.

"Forget it, Michael, I won't do it!" Mitch slammed the cup on his desk. Plops of cold coffee skittered across a haphazard pile of galley sheets. He swore under his breath and reached in his pocket for a handkerchief to mop it up.

Michael appeared to wait patiently while Mitch continued to mumble. Mitch glanced up at his editor, noting the thick arms folded across his barreled chest. A sheen of perspiration began right above Michael's thunderous brows, spanning up and over a bald spot. Mitch swore again.

"You don't have a choice, Mitch. He requested you. And his name is on your paycheck."

Mitch emitted a sound dangerously close to a growl. He crashed a fist on his oak desk. The force of the blow upset the coffee once again, spilling more of its contents across yesterday's news. With a snarl, Mitch righted the cup. "To the devil with my paycheck. He wouldn't recognize a hard day's pay if it bit him in the backside. He's nothing but a leech with a silver spoon in his mouth."

Michael moved in, slapping his meaty hands on top of Mitch's desk. "Keep your voice down, or he'll have your carcass tossed clear across Abby Street. I can't afford to lose my best editor while the presses are hot keeping up with the Brits." The heat in Michael's eyes tempered. He stood and exhaled a hefty breath while his stubby fingers massaged his temple. "Just do it for me, will ya, Mitch? To the devil with Gallagher; do it for me. I can't afford to lose you."

Mitch leaned hard against his knotted fist. He looked up at Michael, biting back the colorful commentary lodged deep in his throat. God help him, how he wanted to hurt Gallagher!

"What d'ya say? Just tighten your lip and give him twenty minutes of your time. Will you do it? For me?" Michael's eyes seemed to plead, pools of weariness begging for mercy.

Mitch slashed his fingers through the cropped curls on his head. "So help me, Michael, I have the mind to shove these galley sheets right down your throat and leave you high and dry." He sat up, aiming his finger within inches of his editor's nose. "You, my friend, are taking advantage of our friendship."

The stress lines in Michael's forehead eased while a semblance of a grin shadowed his lips. "Not friendship, Mitch. More like a son."

Mitch groaned and flipped the galley sheets over. "Yeah? Well, you owe me, Pop. Double time, and then some. Where is the royal prince?"

"Waiting in my office. He and a lady friend."

Mitch glared at Michael, the muscles in his neck straining tight. "His next victim, I presume?"

Michael pressed his lips tight, draining them of color. "Forget the past, Mitch," he whispered. "Gallagher's not worth the emotion. Twenty minutes of your time. Get it over with and move on."

Mitch stared, his eyes burning in his head. He snatched his handkerchief to sop up the spilled coffee. "Fine. Do what you have to do. Send Little Lord Fauntleroy in."