A Passion Denied (11 page)

With a yawn that almost hurt, he lumbered down the hall to his room, vaguely aware that he hadn’t even kissed Marcy good night. He crawled into bed like a man dragging himself onto a lifeboat, desperate to collapse and drift away. The warmth of Marcy’s body drew him close, and he sank hard against her side, her familiar scent relaxing him further. He looped an arm around her waist and exhaled, giving himself over to blissful sleep.

Marcy rolled away, and he jolted awake with a grunt. Half numb, he butted in close once more, almost asleep when she did it again. Comprehension suddenly prickled like icy sleet pelting against bare, frigid skin. His eyes popped open in shock, and his breathing quickened. She had barely spoken through dinner and then had fallen asleep by the fire after. God help him, had he forgotten her birthday? Their anniversary? He pinched his brow and tried to think. No, nothing like that. Could she be angry because he’d forgotten to kiss her good night?

He released a weary breath and sidled close to her back, hooking a firm arm to her waist. She tried to wriggle free, but he held her securely, his mouth against her ear. “And what have I done now, darlin’, to incur your wrath?”

“Let me go,” she hissed, and he clutched her more tightly. When she couldn’t break loose, she tried kicking his leg. Pain seared through his shin, and he groaned. All exhaustion washed away in a rush of angry adrenaline. His breathing was heavy as he arched over her. “Marcy, what in blue blazes have I done now?”

He half expected to see sparks in the dark, shooting from her eyes. She squirmed beneath his grip. “Don’t you dare act like you don’t know.”

He groaned. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be doing it, now would I? Forgive me, but I’m rather partial to my sleep.”

She jerked free and shoved him away. “Well, sleep all you want—on your own side of the bed, but don’t expect to cozy up against me. You want cozy, Patrick O’Connor? Why don’t you throw your sore leg over a stack of the
Boston Herald
?” She shot over to the far side of the bed, teetering on the edge. The bed quivered with her silent weeping.

Patrick hung his head. “Marcy, listen to me, please. We’re two editors down right now, what with Logan in the hospital and Schyer out of town, and we can barely keep up. Even Mitch has been pulling extra hours.”

She spun around, her face wet with fury. “Not like you! Three and four times a week you’re late for dinner, working on Saturdays and always bringing work home. For pity’s sake, Patrick, you’re the editor, the one in charge. You can do what you want.”

He reached for her hand. She jerked it away. “I don’t want to work all these hours, darlin’,” he whispered, “but somebody has to.”

“No, they don’t! Ben never worked these hours when he was editor, and as his assistant, neither did you. Sometimes I think you’re married to the
Herald
instead of to me.”

“Marcy, darlin’—”

“Don’t you ‘darlin’’ me. Something’s got to change, Patrick, or the sleep you’re so ‘partial’ to will be taking place in a very cold bed, indeed.”

His chin hardened. “Don’t threaten me, Marcy. I don’t like it.”

“No? Well, I don’t like having a husband who’s never home, nor one who only uses a bed for one thing—his precious sleep!”

Heat stung his neck. He lowered his head, ashamed at the truth of her statement. He couldn’t remember the last time he had really held her in his arms, kissed her like he meant it, wanted her like he used to . . .

With grief in his heart, he reached out and gently pulled her to him, and this time she didn’t fight. “Marcy, forgive me. I, well . . . work has been so demanding, I lose track . . . of everything.” He cupped her face with his hands and kissed her gently, slowly, taking his time to enjoy her. “I love you, Marcy, more than I can express, and I’ll work on it, I promise. You’re my world, darlin’, I don’t want it to grow cold.”

He felt her arms succumb and twine around his back. With a low groan, he kissed her again, deepening it until her passion matched his own.

She kissed him back with a vengeance and then pulled away. “Patrick, I’m not over this yet,” she whispered, “not completely. But I do love you . . . so much it hurts.”

He sighed and held her close, tucking his head into the curve of her neck. “I know, darlin’. God knows I don’t always deserve it. But I do know.”

5

Brady shifted on the sofa and then flipped to stare at the ceiling for the umpteenth time. He glanced at his watch in the moonlight and groaned—4:40 a.m. He tried closing his eyes once again. The scene with Beth on the swing reeled in his brain like a silent movie. His eyes blinked open, dazed and staring, just like they’d been all night, always accompanied by a throb of heat, and always with a siege of guilt.

He sat up on the couch and shifted his bare feet to the floor, dropping his head in his hands. His heart was racing and his hands were sweating, and his body buzzed with a desire he thought he’d long since conquered. God knows he hadn’t asked for this. Had, in fact, done everything in his power to avoid it. But the beast had been unleashed the moment Beth’s mouth had singed his. He licked his dry lips, and the taste of fear pasted his throat.
God help me
, he prayed, all the while craving the touch of her body against his. Shame burned along with the heat of desire, and he shivered involuntarily, fingers trembling as they sifted through his hair.
God forgive me
.

He jumped up and began pacing the room. He was desperate to block the thoughts from his mind: the touch of her skin, the taste of her mouth.

All at once, he sagged to his knees with a painful groan and buried his head in his hands. “Strengthen me, Lord, I beg you. Infuse me with your grace to do your will and not my own. You said the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Oh, God, you know me so well—I need your strength,
please
, for I am so weak.”

God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye
are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that
ye may be able to bear it.

The air stilled in his lungs. God’s Word, so warm and familiar, drifted in his mind like a soft, calming breeze that gentled his soul. His breathing slowed and his runaway pulse returned to a normal rhythm. He drew in a deep breath and sat back on his heels, eyes still closed. “Thank you, Lord, for your peace, your strength. You have never failed me, not once. Please help me to never fail you.”

Something wet and akin to sandpaper slurped across his cheek, and Brady opened his eyes. A sleepy Miss Hercules, still damp from her bath, delivered another soggy kiss. The smell of wet dog rose to his nostrils, a timely reminder of God’s intervention in his life. He lassoed the sheepdog around the neck and smiled, planting a kiss of his own on the tip of her cold, wet nose. “You smell to high heaven, you know that, girl? But since it’s ‘high heaven’ that sent Cluny and you, I guess I won’t complain.”

Miss Hercules grunted and plopped on the floor with a loud thump, finally slumping against the sofa to sleep. Brady carefully stepped over the bulk of her body and crawled onto the sofa with a tired groan, having little choice but to follow her lead.

The obnoxious thumping in his brain reminded him of hangovers from rowdier days.
Bam, bam, bam
—like someone pounding his skull with a padded two-by-four. Brady tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too great. It was all he could do to lift himself from the makeshift pillow beneath his throbbing head.

Bam, bam, bam
.
Woof, woof, woof.
Brady moaned and flailed a hand over the side of the couch in an effort to calm Miss Hercules, who staggered up, as sleep-drugged as he. “Lie down, girl, and go back to sleep. I can’t move yet.” With a sleepy growl, Miss Hercules plunked against the couch, jarring Brady’s senses.

Brady massaged his eyelids, crusty with sleep, until he was able to peel them open. He blinked several times before he realized the noisy pounding had come from his front door rather than his head. With a painful grunt, he tried to rise from the couch, only to stumble over Miss Hercules, who had wasted no time rejoining the ranks of the dead.

Boom, boom, boom!
The knocks were more insistent now, and Brady stubbed his toe as he scrambled for the door. A swear word he hadn’t uttered in years leapt from his lips, causing heat to shoot up the back of his neck. Breathing hard, he unflipped the lock and hurled the door wide, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Sweet mother of Job, is this what you look like every morning?”

Brady blinked. The motion produced a nagging ache between his eyes. “Charity. What the devil are you doing here?”

“Well, nice to see you too.” She maneuvered her stomach to saunter into his flat, then took off her coat and tossed it on a hook by the door. She flashed a smile so bright, it hurt his eyes.

He massaged his temple with his fingers. “Sorry, I have the most awful headache.”

“Mmmm . . . restless night?”

He eyed her through narrowed lids and flipped the door closed. “Very.”

Miss Hercules chose that moment to rise from the dead and amble over. She sniffed the calf-length hem of Charity’s blue cotton shift. Charity spun around with a startled squeak, lurching a protective hand over her stomach.

“Dear Lord, it’s a horse!” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Oh my, and it smells like one too.”

Brady’s laugh was followed by a moan. He kneaded the bridge of his nose as he shuffled back to the sofa. “Her name is Miss Hercules, and she belongs to a friend of mine.” He sat on the edge of the seat. “What are you doing here?”

She patted Miss Hercules on the head, then smelled her hand and scowled. “Oooo . . . mind if I wash my hands?”

He nodded toward the bathroom down the hall, then sank back with a yawn.

She returned a few moments later and settled on the other end of the couch. “Goodness, I must have slept through that tornado last night . . . or did it just touch down in your bathroom?”

“Don’t make me smile, it hurts.”

“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never seen you—or your things— in such disarray.” She hesitated. “You’re not hung over, are you?”

That got his attention. He opened one eye to glare, and it was well worth the pain. “You know better than that. I haven’t touched the stuff since I was seventeen.”

“Sorry, but it was a natural assumption, you know, with the headache and all.” She leaned in. “Shouldn’t you take some aspirin or at least eat something? Want me to make you some coffee? Mine has got to be better than the sludge you make at the shop.”

He managed a smile. “Collin railroaded me into buying a newfangled dripolator at the shop, I’ll have you know. But, no thanks, all I really need is a few hours of decent sleep.”

“But it’s almost nine! Aren’t you going to church?”

Brady groaned and glanced out the window. “No, it can’t be that late. My head’s barely hit the pillow.”

Charity gave him a ghost of a smile. “So . . . what exactly kept you tossing and turning all night, Mr. Brady? Miss Hercules? A nasty tornado? Or my sister?”

Brady scowled. “Knock it off, Charity. I’m not in the mood.”

She grinned and jumped up. “Tell me where the aspirin is, my friend. Your disposition needs it something awful.”

“Second shelf, next to the stove.”

She bustled into the kitchen, humming under her breath. He heard the cabinet open and close, followed by running tap water. Her smile was positively annoying as she handed him the glass. He grabbed it and palmed the aspirin, giving her a hard stare while he swallowed.

“There, that’s better, isn’t it? Now, how ’bout some coffee?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Charity.”

She hurried back to the kitchen. “No, but I do. And so does Lizzie. You can’t keep avoiding it, Brady. My sister’s in love with you.”

He exhaled his defeat. “So I’ve been told.”

She clattered around in the kitchen for a while, making a racket he was sure would wake Cluny. Before long, the aroma of coffee reminded him he was not only tired but hungry as well. She reappeared and handed him a glass of juice and a plate of buttered toast. “Here, eat. You look like the devil, and you’re acting like it too.”

Resigned to his fate, he took the glass from her hand and gulped it. He set it down and snatched a piece of toast, then began to munch. He stared straight ahead.

She put the plate on the sofa table and sat, searing his profile. “So . . . what are you going to do about it?”

He swiped another piece of toast and chomped hard. “None of your business.”

“It is too. I love you, and I love Lizzie. And God knows when it comes to making a move, John Brady, even Sam Adams’ statue on Washington Street moves faster than you.”

He sighed and wiped the crumbs from his mouth. “There are no moves to make. Lizzie is like a sister to me.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“What?”

“I heard you kissed her. And pretty intensely, from the sound of it.”

Blood shot to his face. “She told you that?”

“Yes, Brady, she did. Right after she cried herself silly. So, I repeat, at the risk of becoming a nag—what are you going do about it?”