Land of a Thousand Dreams (24 page)

14

Caught in the Net of Love

You gave me the key of your heart, my love;
Then why do you make me knock?

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY (1844–1890)

S
ara had no idea what to expect upon reaching the Walsh estate. She had met Alice Walsh once, more than a year ago, at a city-wide mission bazaar, but in truth she scarcely remembered her, beyond a dim, elusive image of a plain woman with a shy smile.

She was uncommonly nervous about being here, and it wasn't only apprehension about how she might be received. She was, in fact, about to enter the home of a man reputed to be one of the most ruthless, unscrupulous criminals in the city—a man Michael had resolved to ruin. That realization alone made her feel as if she were somehow trapped in a dream episode. Nothing seemed quite real, yet in some vague, inexplicable way she felt threatened.

She put her hand to the brass knocker of the front door and hesitated, her heart pounding. Surely she had been altogether foolish in coming here. Why on earth had she ever let Grandy Clare convince her it was the right thing to do?

Even as she was ushered inside by a pinch-faced maid, Sara was seized by an irrational urgency to turn and run. More than likely, Tierney would not even see her. And even if he
did,
why would she expect anything but more of the same cold contempt he habitually turned on her?

When Alice Walsh bustled into the spacious entryway from an adjoining room, Sara's first thought was that she'd been mistaken in her memory of the woman. She wasn't really plain at all. Short and plump, she was actually rather sweet-faced with a pleasant smile and wide, shining blue eyes that held a look of timid uncertainty.

“Miss Farmington? How nice of you to come and visit Tierney! He'll be so pleased.”

He'll be livid,
Sara thought with a tight smile, but said nothing.

“Would you like tea before you go up? It will only take a moment.”

Alice Walsh seemed so eager to accommodate that Sara felt almost guilty for refusing. “That's very kind of you, but I'm afraid I can't stay. I just wanted to say hello to Tierney and talk with him briefly.”

The woman actually looked disappointed. As she followed her up the sprawling stairway, Sara found herself wondering about Alice Walsh's life. Somehow she sensed the woman was lonely. If she was as decent as she seemed—and she remembered that Michael, too, had been puzzled by the contrast between Walsh and his wife—how could she bear being married to a man like Patrick Walsh?

But, then, many would question her own wisdom in marrying Michael, she was sure, although for entirely different reasons. It wasn't for her to approve or disapprove of the choice Alice Walsh had made.

Still, she could not help but wonder how a woman could love a man if he truly possessed, as Michael claimed,
“no more conscience than a snake.”
Worse yet was the possibility that Walsh had deluded his wife, that perhaps Alice Walsh was indeed a good, decent woman who simply lived with a man she did not know.

At the top of the stairs, Sara paused, shivering. When she had first entered the house, she thought the temperature unduly warm. Now, she felt chilled, as though she had walked inside a dank underground cellar untouched by the light or warmth of the sun.

After checking to make sure Tierney was awake, Alice Walsh left him and Sara alone, stopping only long enough to remind Sara again that, should she change her mind, there would be tea downstairs in the parlor.

Sara could hardly believe that the young man lying in Patrick Walsh's guest-room bed was the same handsome, slightly arrogant Tierney Burke who had so vehemently opposed her marriage to his father. His skin was an ashen gray, his left cheek still swollen, the bruises turned to an ugly purplish-green. The cut in his lip, half-healed, contorted his mouth into a perpetual sneer.

But the worst by far was his eye. From the center of his left eyebrow, at an angle sloping toward the outer corner of his eye, ran a deep, angry gash held together by a dozen stitches. It was a miracle, Sara realized, that Tierney hadn't lost the eye altogether. Another half inch, and…

Sara forced herself not to consider the possibilities of what might have happened. He was alive. He
hadn't
lost the eye, and although he would undoubtedly have a noticeable scar as a permanent reminder of the attack, it could have been worse—much worse.

Tierney's surprise at seeing her was obvious. He sat up in bed, arranging the pillows to support his back. For a moment—only a moment—the boy's usual air of defiant scorn seemed to slip. By the time Sara approached the bed, however, the cloak of cold, hard cynicism in which he normally wrapped himself was securely back in place.

Bracing herself against his antagonism, Sara managed to force some warmth into her smile and her voice. “Hello, Tierney. I thought you might like some company by now.”

It was like watching a fort under siege. Gates slammed shut, bolts thudded into place, and weapons were raised to the ready. He made no reply, simply gave her a flinty, waiting look from those piercing blue eyes. The swollen gash on his lip enhanced the menacing expression.

Determined to ignore his rudeness, Sara stepped slightly closer to the bed. “I've brought you the
Tribune
,” she said, handing him the newspaper. “Your father said you enjoy the papers.”

His gaze flicked from her face to the newspaper, and Sara thought for a moment he was actually going to refuse it. Finally, though, he reached for the paper, muttering a grudging, “Thank you.”

He's only a boy,
Sara reminded herself, determined he would not get the best of her.
He's Michael's son.

Once he had been a boy, a little boy who lost his mother.
Had he been frightened?, she
wondered.
Had Tierney ever been a frightened little boy instead of the erratic, complicated youth of today?

Trying for a cheerful tone of voice, Sara said, “Your father told me you'll be going home on Friday. I'm sure you're looking forward to it.”

He nodded. A curt nod, followed by a low rumble of acknowledgment.

“Yes, of course,” Sara said lamely. “You're feeling much stronger, he tells me.”

The fortress held. “Aye.”

She would not be cowed by a boy. She would
not.
“Tierney—” She tried to swallow, found her throat dry and tight. “Tierney, I had hoped we could talk.”

His gaze never wavered. “Why did you come here?” he asked, his words glazed with ice.

His bluntness unnerved Sara. She deliberately delayed her reply, studying him, the straight dark hair, the terrible scar over his eye, the blade-sharp cheekbones, a beard already as heavy and dark as his father's. She sensed his anger, smarted from his undisguised contempt.

Suddenly she realized something else, something both she and Michael had missed: Tierney was no longer a boy. He was a man. A young man, perhaps too soon grown—but a man, all the same. Because Michael still thought of him as a boy, still referred to him as a boy, Sara, too, had fallen into the same error.

But this lean-faced, angry young man had left the innocence of childhood far behind. It was an unsettling realization, for Sara had presumed all along that, in time, she could win over a
boy.
With enough affection, enough attention and care, she had told herself, he would come around. He would accept her, and thereby, accept her marriage to his father. They would eventually be a family.

It wasn't going to be that easy…
.

Something in the disturbing blue eyes, the hard mouth, the tight set of his jaw served notice that she was up against more than what might have been an understandable antagonism and resentment of her intrusion. She suddenly knew herself to be pitted against an adult intelligence—
a formidable
intelligence, she suspected—and the highly volatile temperament of a troubled, complex young man.

Shaken, Sara clenched her hands at her sides, struggling all the while to keep her smile in place. “Tierney, I really want us to be friends. I thought it might help if we could somehow…clear the air between us. Perhaps get to know each other a little better.”

Every angle of his face was taut, his eyes guarded, openly hostile. He reminded Sara of a drawn bowstring with an arrow ready to fire. “I think I know you well enough,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn.

Anger flared in Sara. She had all she could do not to rail back at him, to go on the offensive. Instead, she met his contempt with a level look and said evenly, “I know that's what you
think.
But, in fact, you don't know me at all. I'm suggesting that, for your father's sake, you at least be fair enough to give me a chance.”

His unpleasant, freezing gaze raked her face. “What do you care,” he said slowly, “whether I
know
you or not? You've got what you set your cap for. I understand the wedding is to be a Christmas event.”

Sara gave a stiff nod. “Your father told you. Did he explain that it will be just family and friends—a small service at home?”

His mouth twitched, then cracked to a nasty smile. “At
home?
That would be the mansion on Fifth Avenue, I expect?”

Clinging to a remnant of her self-control, Sara said, “In the chapel, yes. You…you will be there, for your father?”

Something flickered in his eyes, then ebbed. “Not bloody likely,” he said in a low, hard voice.

“Tierney!”
Shocked by the profanity, Sara fought against the hot tears flooding her eyes. That he would dare to wound Michael by deliberately staying away from the wedding was inconceivable!

“You wouldn't do that to your father,” she said, blinking furiously to blot the tears before he saw them. “Surely you wouldn't hurt him that way. Don't you know how much you mean to him?”

He glared at her in insolent silence. For a long time they remained that way, as if engaged in a duel of wills. Frozen between indignation and disbelief that he would actually behave in such a crude, hateful manner, Sara felt a wild urge to lash out at him, to loose an entire stream of invective just to see if she could pierce his control.

Just as quickly, she remembered that she had come to make things better, not worse. “Why…” Her voice faltered, and she hesitated, then went on. “Why, exactly, do you dislike me so much? If you question my feelings toward your father—”

He laughed, an ugly, harsh sound. “Oh, I don't question your
feelings,
Miss Sara,” he shot back in a mocking tone of voice. “Not for a minute.”

She stiffened. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, a gesture of indifference.

Sara knew she was rushing headlong into treacherous water, that she was dangerously close to losing what was left of her composure. But something urged her on, forced her to ignore any sense of caution. “You don't understand why your father wants to marry me—is that it?”

Tierney shrugged again, a gesture of indifference. When he lifted his eyes to hers, they held a look of such transparent scorn that Sara felt as if he had struck her.

“No, that's
not
it!” he drawled with an ugly sneer. “Only a fool could fail to see why he's marrying you.”

His scathing look held a world of innuendo. Rage warred with despair in Sara. For a moment she thought she would strangle on the torrent of fury and pain washing over her. “How
dare
you!” she burst out, her voice trembling as violently as the rest of her body. “How dare you insult your father in such a way! You
know
he would never play false with a woman, not for all the money in the world!”

Sara stepped closer to the bed, her pain and anger out of control. “You know the kind of man your father is! How can you possibly lie there and pretend you don't?”

He reared toward her, his mouth open to counter her blast of anger. Sara flinched, but refused to back down. The blood roared in her ears, her voice shook, but she went on. “I came here because I'd hoped to convince you that I can make your father happy. I thought if we could talk, alone, you might see that you have no reason at all to resent me.”

Resolved not to flinch under the look of pure enmity he now fastened on her, Sara strained to keep her voice from breaking. “The truth is,” she choked out, “you don't care at all about your father's happiness. If you did, you wouldn't be lying here, the victim of your own foolhardiness. You wouldn't have gone to work for a criminal like Patrick Walsh in the first place, and this never would have happened to you! You're altogether too selfish to concern yourself with your father's happiness, or anyone else's, for that matter! You don't care about anything or anybody except
yourself,
and—”