A Passion Redeemed (33 page)

She licked her lips. But face them she would. For the first time in almost two years for her father. The thought churned in her stomach like a spell of seasickness bubbling in her throat. She put her hand to her mouth to stem the nausea.

They hated her. They had to. After what she'd done to Faith, how could they not? She swallowed, the bitter taste of bile souring her tongue. Soon it would be the same old nightmare all over again. Everyone crazy about Faith.

At least, everyone that mattered. Collin. Father. Mitch.

She thought of her mother, and the tension eased in her stomach. Mother loved her, she knew it. Always worrying about her, defending her, showing she cared. And Charity loved her back, fiercely, missing her so much at times it produced a physical ache. In Ireland, they'd been especially close, bonding all the more at the false report of her father's death on the battlefield. In one awful beat of their hearts, they'd exchanged places-Marcy becoming the lost child and Charity the mother with the strong shoulders and tender heart. She'd taken control, becoming the rock everyone leaned on, never allowing her own grief to show. She'd grown up considerably that day, in a way that had birthed a new respect from her mother, grandmother, and Mima.

Charity sighed and stretched out her bad leg. Her mother's welcoming arms were the only beacon in an otherwise dark journey. She hesitated, thinking of Sean, Beth, Steven, and Katie. Well, maybe not the only one. A pang of homesickness took her by surprise as wetness sprang to her eyes. Goodness, she probably wouldn't even recognize Katie. "Eight, going on thirty," her mother would always write. Charity smiled. At least it would be good to see them.

She rolled on her back and peered up in the dark. All at once, her father's face invaded her thoughts, robbing her hope. She swallowed hard. When would it stop? The sick feeling inside? She didn't want to be "Daddy's Girl" anymore. She wanted to be free from it, immune to the fact that her sister was the apple of their father's eye. A warm stream of wetness slid down the side of her face and into her neck, chilling her on impact. All she had ever wanted was his approval. But, no, that had been reserved for Faith. Every crippled step, every measure of progress, had brought a sheen of pride to her father's eyes.

And a tear to her own.

A gentle knock sounded, startling her. The door opened, and a shaft of light spilled across the bed. She propped herself up with her good arm, blinking in the glow of the corridor lamp.

"Are you awake?" he asked, his silhouette looming large in the door.

"Yes."

"Did you sleep?"

Her eyes adjusted to the light, making out the lean curve of his jaw, the firm press of his mouth. "On and off. Mostly off. Dreams."

"Good ones, I hope."

"Some."

"Are you hungry?"

Was she hungry? It shocked her that she hadn't even thought of it. Breakfast had been a lifetime ago. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling it rumble. "I think so."

He shifted in the doorway. To you want to eat in your cabin or go to the dining room? Bridget sent food."

She swung her leg carefully over the edge of the bed. "I'm not ready for the dining room." She looked up. "Do you ... could we ... eat here?"

A gleam of teeth flashed in the dark. He leaned against the doorframe. "I was hoping you'd say that. The dining room has been crawling with people ever since we set sail."

"We've set sail?" she said weakly.

He straightened. "Hours ago."

A chill shivered through her. She dropped her head in her hand, and a sob wrenched from her throat.

Silently he moved toward the bed, letting the door thud behind him. The bedsprings squeaked as he sat beside her in the dark and bundled her in his arms. She laid her head on his chest and wept, her sobs purging the pain from her soul. He rested his head against hers and rubbed her back, holding her close.

When she'd spent her grief, she stilled in his embrace, calmed by the heat of his body and the rise and fall of his chest. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent.

He lifted her chin with his finger. "Are you all done? Can we eat now?"

The corners of her lips tilted in the dark. "What if I'm not?"

She could almost feel the curve of his smile. "Then can we eat first and cry later?"

She sniffed. "I suppose, but can you light the lamp, please? I feel like a mole."

He rose and fumbled in the dark to light a sconce over the table, then struck a match to the wick. A soft glow filled the room.

A gasp parted from her lips. She hadn't noticed before. The dark hole transformed into a cozy little parlor-boudoir, complete with seascape pictures on the walls, an intricate Persianstyle rug, and two delicate Queen Anne-style chairs. "Oh, it's beautiful," she breathed.

He grinned. "It's a cracker-box stateroom, Charity, not the Taj Mahal."

"But it's all mine. You forget I had to share a room with Faith in Boston, with my entire family on the boat over, and with Faith and Emma in Ireland. I didn't expect this."

He glanced around. "Well, it cost enough, even if it isn't much to look at." He squinted at her. "Did you really think I'd book us in steerage?"

With a grunt, she shimmied to the edge of the bed. "I don't know what to think when it comes to you. One minute you infuriate me, the next, you surprise me."

"Does that mean you don't despise me anymore?" He picked up her smaller bag and tossed it on the bed.

She opened the satchel and pulled out the lunch basket Bridget had packed, then looked up in sober consideration. "Maybe."

"Enough to feed me?" He pulled one of the Queen Anne chairs alongside her bed.

With a bare hint of a smile, she placed the basket in her lap and unlatched the lid. She dug in to dole out a slab of cold corned beef and fresh-baked soda bread. She tossed the bread in his lap. He tore off a piece and put it to his lips-

"Wait," she cried, "we've nothing to drink."

He groaned and popped it in his mouth, then laid the rest on the nightstand. He jumped up and headed for the water pitcher.

"Do you think I could have a glass of wine?"

He turned around. "What?"

"You heard me."

A scowl creased his face. "No wine. How 'bout ginger ale?"

"But I don't want ginger ale. Can't I have wine instead? Please?"

His mouth snapped closed. He snatched the pitcher and poured two glasses of water. "You'll drink water or nothing at all." He set the glasses on the nightstand and sat back down.

She squared her shoulders and cradled the basket in her lap. "Fine. No wine, no food."

His jaw shifted back and forth the tiniest bit, a mulish habit she was quickly becoming familiar with. "No wine," he enunciated.

She turned away and closed the basket. "Enjoy the dining hall, then." She felt the heat of his stare and released a deep breath when he finally stormed out. The door slammed behind him.

Minutes later he returned, a scowl on his lips and a bottle in hand. He poured her wine, then set the bottle on the table and handed her the glass. "One per night. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it, thank you."

He plopped in the chair and reached for his bread once again. He shoved a hunk in his mouth and stared straight ahead, chomping hard.

She smiled. Now isn't this nice?"

That earned her a half-lidded glare as he continued to chew.

She took a sip of wine, then nibbled on some bread in companiable silence, humming under her breath. She was quiet for a long while, not saying a word until she handed him her glass. "Would you mind setting this on the table please?"

He muttered under his breath and got up to lift the tablewater pitcher, wine bottle, and all-to the side of her bed. He snatched several pieces of meat and sat back down.

"Perfect. Thank you so much."

He watched as she picked at the meat in the basket. She foraged through the pieces, fiercely intent on selecting just the right one. When she found it, she looked up at him with a triumphant smile.

He stopped chewing and swallowed hard. "Are you always this much trouble?"

She took a nibble of the beef. "Not always. But usually. I just know what I want."

"So I've learned. The hard way."

She stuck her nose in the air and reached for her wine. "Don't be so cocky. You're officially off my 'want' list. For all I care, Kathleen can spend the rest of her days with your browbeating." She took a drink and smiled, staring at him dead-on. "Besides, you're too old."

He choked on a piece of beef.

She handed him a napkin.

His eyes were watering as he coughed into it and wiped his mouth. "Too old?"

"What are you, thirty-eight, thirty-nine?"

His teeth began to grind. "Just turned thirty-six. And in my prime."

"Almost late thirties is the way I see it, pushing forty." Her eyes widened and she grinned, feeling wicked. "Goodness, you could be my father."

He rose in the chair. "You can thank God I'm not, because if I were, I would have-"

She thrust her chin out. "What? You would have what?"

He settled back, a stubborn bent to his mouth. "I would have swatted some sense into you a long time ago. Saved you from being so spoiled."

Another sip of wine and she felt the warmth beginning to seep into her toes. She put it down and picked up some bread. "Spoiled? I'm afraid you've got the wrong sister. That privilege belonged to Faith."

He leaned forward. "Spoiled? Faith? She was the most lov ing, selfless human being I ever met, more mature than you and I could ever hope to be. There's no woman like her."

His words cut her to the quick. She dropped the bread back into the basket and set it aside, avoiding his eyes. Her hands trembled as she reached for the bottle to refill her glass.

"Charity ... I'm sorry ... I shouldn't have said that. It was unkind."

She forced a smile. "Why? It's the truth, isn't it? Everybody knows it. And nobody more than me." She took a large gulp.

His voice gentled. "Take it easy with that, will ya?"

Tears glazed her eyes. "Why? Right now it seems to be the only friend I have."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? I'm forced away from people who love me, and for what? To live in the shadow of a sister I betrayed, her husband I once loved, and the disappointed father I could never please. And you? Well, you don't even want to be my friend."

"You know why."

She laughed. "Oh, yes, I know why. Because although you may be attracted to me, you're still in love with her. Just like everyone else in Boston." She raised the glass in mock salute and drained it, tilting straight up to catch the last drop. She strained for the bottle, managing to pour more before he could snatch it away.

"You've had enough." He picked up the table and moved it back against the wall, then turned. "And I'm not in love with your sister."

She nodded her head in exaggerated fashion, swaying with the motion. She upended the last of the wine in her glass. "Oh, yes you are. You think you're not, but you are. And both of us-me ... ," she poked her chest hard several times, then waved a shaky finger in his direction, "... and you-are going to see just how very painful Boston can be."

Mitch swore under his breath. Great. Bridget would be delighted to know he'd gotten her granddaughter drunk their first night at sea. He should be horsewhipped for allowing her anywhere near alcohol on a near-empty stomach, or otherwise. He took the basket from the bed and set it on the table. He glanced at his watch. "Okay, let's get you to the loo and then to bed."

She fell back, a giggle bubbling from her throat. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine." He retrieved her suitcase by the door and set it next to her.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Mitch, did you know the room is spinning?"

He pulled her up by her good arm to steady her upright. "Open your eyes; it'll stop."

Her eyes popped open and she giggled again. "Oh, you're right. Much better."

He gave her a glass of water. "Here, drink this."

She took it and sniffed, scrunching her nose. "Why?"

"Because you're drunk, and it will help dilute the alcohol in your system."

"I'm not drunk. I'm tipsy."

"Drink it."

She complied and chugged the entire glass. She handed it back with a hiccup, and a hand flew to her mouth. "Ooops ... sorry."

"Is there anything you need to take to the bathroom?" He opened her suitcase.

Lifting her chin, she peeked over and yanked out a nightgown.

He eyed it and frowned, uncomfortable with the tiny buttons trailing down the front. "Bridget said she made you a gown you could fasten with one hand. Is this it?"

Her head veered slowly, side to side. "It's at home. I wore it last night." She thumped back on the bed with a silly smile on her face.

He groaned and set her back up. "Well, let's get you to the bathroom first, then we'll worry about undressing you. Do you have a toothbrush? And a washcloth?"

With an exaggerated nod, she tunneled through a pile of unmentionables to pull both out. She waggled them in the air with a smile. "See? Prepared for anything ..." Her eyes suddenly expanded and her mouth formed a soft oh. Color burnished her cheeks with a telling shade of pink. "D-d-did you say ... 'undressing' me?"

He stared. At times, she had this endearing quality of innocence that totally disarmed him. A little girl at heart, badly bruised along the way. She blinked at him now, blue eyes wide and soft, and golden hair tumbling in beautiful disarray. He grinned. "Consider it a threat ... if you don't do what I say."

In the time it took for his heart to pound, she shifted like a chameleon. She gazed up beneath thick lashes. A smile teased on her lips. "What if I don't ... consider it a threat?"

He shook his head and picked her up. "Always the vamp. When are you going to realize that will only buy you heartbreak?"

Her head dropped back with a giggle. "I don't know." The smile suddenly dissolved on her face. "It certainly brought me heartbreak with you."

He shifted to open the door and then headed to the bathroom. Her satin blouse strained over her breasts, leaving little to the imagination. He swallowed and quickened his pace down the hall. "Well, at least that's over now. I'm off your want list, remember?"