A Light in the Window (16 page)

Weak in the knees
? Marcy held her breath as they passed Sam’s empty room on their way down the hall,
the lemon scent of William’s Shaving Soap all but melting her bones to fresh-churned butter. The image of Sam lying on his bed in the dark with tousled curls and chest bare suddenly quivered her stomach, a quick reminder that passion was dangerous when one was smitten.
Who knew?
Her tongue swiped her teeth once and then twice before she swallowed the gulp that lodged in her throat.
Sweet heavenly host, Jewels … that would be me.

“Julie, are you asleep?”

Silence.

“Julie!” Though Marcy’s whisper carried a soft urgency, it was only met by the wispy cadence of her best friend’s shallow breathing, the covers on Julie’s side of the bed rising and falling as steadily as Marcy’s relentless thoughts. Up, down, up, down … just like her mood since her head had hit the pillow over three hours ago. Should she open her heart to Sam?
Yes, no, yes, no.
True, she’d always cared for him, but could her faith keep her strong until it changed him into the man she needed him to be?
Maybe, maybe not, maybe, maybe not.
Lord, please—should I even risk it?
Yes, no, yes, no … yes … yes … yes.

 
Chewing her lip, Marcy lay in the dark, wishing more than anything that Sam was asleep behind the closed door of his room so she could steal down to warm some milk. But, alas, all she’d heard for the last three hours was Julie’s gentle breathing, the occasional squeak of the bed, and the deep bong of Mrs. O’Rourke’s antique grandfather clock proclaiming the hour. No click of the front door, no creak of the stairs, no water running while he got ready for bed. She needed to be alert to help with Mother’s company tomorrow, and she could ill afford to be tired, but sleep evaded her as neatly as all sensible thought while she pondered Julie’s words.
“My mother and I would certainly like to see what you could do for Sam.”
Marcy gulped as the clock chimed two. True enough, but what, pray tell, would
he
do for her other than provide dangerous temptation?

No!
She rolled over on her side, drawing in a calming breath.
This is Sam
, she reminded herself,
not Patrick O’Connor
. This was the boy she’d idolized from little on, the hero who’d always made her feel safe and protected. For goodness sake, this was her best friend’s brother and a member of a family she loved and longed to be a part of since she’d been a little girl. Patrick O’Connor had been a bad influence, certainly, and Sam now shared Patrick’s infamous reputation, but unlike Patrick, Sam had always treated Marcy with affection, kindness, and respect, so surely that wouldn’t change?

Would it?

Venting with a groan, she swung her legs from the bed, almost wishing the movement would wake Julie up. She didn’t want to risk going downstairs alone if Sam wasn’t home yet, but what choice did she have? Snatching Julie’s quilted robe from the closet, Marcy quickly buttoned it and moved to the door, jerking the sash tight. She held her breath as she peeked out a crack, then slowly opened it wide, well aware that Sam’s door was the only one still open. With all the stealth and care of a thief on the prowl, she stole down the steps, stopping after each to chance a fractured breath, hoping against hope to still any creaks that may whine. Easing down the main hall, she was relieved to find the kitchen dark as night, lit only by the moonlight that streamed through the windows. The faint whiff of apple pie from Mrs. O’Rourke’s dinner taunted her stomach, but a cookie would be much easier—and faster—to snatch on her way back up to Julie’s room. Barely daring to breathe, Marcy carefully retrieved the milk from the icebox, then rifled around in the dark for something in which to heat it. She winced when the pots clattered after she pulled a saucepan out, but forged on, determined she
would
sleep tonight. The flames of the gas stove sizzled and licked against the steel pot until the steam from the milk rose to her nostrils. Her heart hammered as she fished a mug from the cabinet.
Almost there …

A shadow at the back door nearly wrenched a cry from her throat, until she heard the key in the door. And then her body flashed with heat as hot as the milk boiling in the pan.
No!

The door slowly opened and a tall silhouette froze, infusing the kitchen with that deadly
lemon scent that thundered her pulse. It paused, moonlight revealing a shirt haphazardly open at the collar and a grizzled jaw. “Marcy?”

She quickly doused the flame and poured the milk in a cup, hands shaking so much, liquid spilled onto the counter. “Oh, fiddle,” she hissed, stomach lurching when she heard the deadly click of the lock. Plucking the dishrag from the sink, she mopped up the mess, hands quivering as much as her stomach, then chanced a timid peek over her shoulder. “Hi, Sam,” she whispered. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Apparently.” He hung his jacket on the coat rack by the door and strolled in, brushing her arm as he reached for a glass from the cabinet above her. His touch singed, and she jerked back, prompting a low chuckle from his lips. “Not sure that warm milk will do it—you appear pretty jumpy. But I’ll wager a touch of honey and whiskey would do the trick, if you want.”

“N-no!” She cinched the robe to her neck, cheeks burning when she realized the top button was unfastened. With shallow breaths, she fumbled with the catch to no avail, palms sweating and fingers as clumsy as sausages … and just as slick.

“Let me,” he whispered, paralyzing her when he slowly looped the catch around the quilted button, fingers lingering several seconds too long.

“T-thank you …” she stuttered, stumbling back a step. “Good night—”

He stayed her with a hand to her wrist. “I’m hungry,” he whispered, thumb circling her skin while fireflies circled her stomach. “Mom said she’d save me some pie—want some?”

She shook her head vehemently, the long curls that trailed the front of her robe shivering with the motion. “I’m not hungry,” she lied, terrified he could feel the throb of her pulse.

“Then keep me company?” He ducked his head, searing her with a pleading gaze. “Please? I hate to eat alone, and if you can’t sleep, maybe a chat will calm you down.”

With you?
A lump shifted in her throat.
Not likely.

He reached behind him for a half-eaten apple pie that waited on the counter. Palming it with one hand, he waved it before her nose, his grin gleaming white in the dark. “Come on, Marceline,” he whispered, “you know you want some, and I’ve had a horrendous night at work. But I have the utmost faith that you are my redemption.”

Faith.
Something Sam needed desperately. She swallowed hard. And she as well, evidently … at least at the moment.
And redemption?
Hope warmed in her chest like the steaming cup in her hands.
Oh, Lord, let it be!
Drawing in a fortifying breath, she slowly released it again, uttering a silent prayer for strength. “All right,” she said with a waver in her voice, “but we best turn on the light.”

He reached for the brass lamp over the sink and switched the tap to turn the gas on before carrying the pie to the table, a soft glow filling the room to give it a cozy feel.

Too cozy
, Marcy thought as she fished a knife and forks from the drawer and followed with her mug of milk and two plates. She placed the items on the table and attempted to pull out a chair when Sam unnerved her by seating her instead. He pushed the chair in and then claimed his across the table, his laughter warm and low as he cut two pieces of pie. “Not hungry, eh?” he said with a sparkle of black eyes, sliding her pie across the table.

She forced a shaky smile and almost wished they were still in the dark so he couldn’t see how nervous she was. Or
she
couldn’t see hard-corded arms beneath rolled sleeves and dark hair peeking from an open collar where a tie straggled free. A thick shadow of stubble bristled his jaw while one unruly black curl defied all restraint from the Brilliantine he usually wore, dangling over his forehead. Hard-sculpted features and a distinctive Roman nose captured the essence of the pirate he always reminded her of, a presence so dominating, it never occurred he wasn’t particularly handsome. Certainly not in the manner of a Greek god like Patrick, but a dark charisma all his own that never failed to trip Marcy’s pulse.
Like now.
She averted her eyes to her pie, hoping to just gobble and run because if ever a man
looked
dangerous, it was Sam O’Rourke. And if ever a man was? She had no idea, but the very thought clogged the first bite in her throat.

“So … talk to me, Marceline. Why can’t you sleep?”

The next taste stalled in her throat and she started to cough, lunging for her hot milk to wash it free. It burned going down—but not as much as her cheeks.

“You okay?” he asked, a crimp of concern in dark brows.

She nodded, eyes on her pie and breathing sporadic.

“Marcy.”

Her head shot up. “Yes?”

He leaned in, a ghost of a smile on full lips while ridges furrowed above his nose. “Have you always been this nervous around me?”

She blinked, realizing that, yes, it had always been this way around Sam from little on. Skittish nerves, flutters in her stomach, appetite as weak as her knees. Her throat dipped and she looked up, warming at the affection in his eyes. Nibbling on the edge of her lip, she felt the tug of a smile. “I think so.”

He grinned. “Then take a deep breath and blow it back out again, Marceline. Because I assure you, the only thing I’m going to gobble up tonight is this pie, agreed?”

Her chest expanded and contracted in compliance, sucking in a wellspring of air that eased her anxiety before she expelled it again.

“Better?” he asked, opting for a second piece of pie.

Her grin broke free. “Actually, yes—thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He nodded to her barely eaten dessert. “I’d offer another piece, but you seem to be having trouble with that one.” He attacked his second helping. “So, you didn’t tell me—why can’t you sleep?”

Thoughts of helping Mother tomorrow came to mind and Marcy pounced on it. She explained how she’d worked at the center all day because several volunteers were sick, leaving little time for preparation of desserts she’d promised to make for her mother’s sewing circle. Consequently, she needed to rise early to bake as well as help clean. “So I’ve been tossing and turning for hours now, knowing I need a good night’s sleep,” she said, “but that only makes it worse.”

“I have just the thing.” Sam jumped up and headed to the pantry, pulling a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf, along with a crock of honey and cinnamon sticks.

“Oh, no, not whiskey—”

He crooked a brow. “Not much, just enough to take the edge off and help you sleep. It’s Pop’s own personal hot toddy, I promise.”

She watched him while he reheated her milk, biting the edge of her lip when he added too much whiskey to suit, but she finally blew out a sigh, desperate enough to try anything. Sam entertained her with stories about Patrick and him on the docks and within minutes, he handed her a steaming cup of milk with a cinnamon stick. “Drink up, Marceline,” he said, reclaiming his seat with a grin. “Your sheep await.”

Shaking her head, she closed her eyes to sip the brew, soaking in its warmth and wonderful smell. “Thank you,” she whispered, suddenly shy.

“You’re welcome.” He leaned back in his chair with arms folded, eyes a twinkle while he regaled her with stories that made her giggle and relax. He talked about the play, the center, and work at the
Herald
. She felt literally aglow, laughing over his tales of the antics of his sisters and brother in the warmth of his kitchen, as if she were an O’Rourke herself. And, oh, how she’d wished over the years that she were, her heart swelling when he mentioned church with his family and how much it seemed to mean to him the older he got. By the time she reached the end of her cup, her body felt warm and languid, as if sweet dreams were only moments away.

 
Disappointment set in when he stood to his feet, carting the pie and plates to the sink. She followed suit and commenced to washing dishes while Sam dried, stowing them away once again before he doused the light. “Goodness, I believe I could sleep for days after that toddy,” she said, her eyelids suddenly as heavy as her body. She moved toward the door, hazily aware that he followed. “I don’t know how to thank you, Sam.”

His low chuckle warmed her belly as much as the toddy when his fingers slid over hers. She turned, a gasp catching in her throat as he slowly tugged her back. “Well, I do,” he whispered, gently nudging her to the wall. “Accompany me on a picnic, Marceline,” he said, intensity fairly shimmering in his gaze.