A Passion Redeemed (34 page)

She waved her good arm, then let it drop, completely limp. "Oh ... that's right."

He knocked on the door. No answer. He carried her in and positioned her in a stall, then waited outside until she was ready, grinning as she sang off-key. He watched her as she brushed her teeth, eyes closed and face intense, and wondered who the real Charity was. He found himself wishing he could find out.

She spit in the sink, then wiped her mouth with the towel. She gave him a lopsided grin. "All done. Time for nightnight."

He carried her back and set her on the bed, lunging for her good arm when she started to topple. He straightened her back up, his hands hovering to make sure she stayed put. He let go and snatched the nightgown from the bed, then unbuttoned it halfway down. He put it in her lap and stood straight. "Okay, Bridget says you can get undressed by yourself. I've unbuttoned the nightgown to make it easier to pull over your head. I'll be in the next room with the door cracked if you need anything. Okay?"

"Okay." She smiled and fell over.

"Are you all right?"

"Uh-huh." She lay flat on her back, satin blouse strained and eyes closed.

He shifted his feet. "Charity?"

"Mmmm?"

"You need to undress."

"Okay." She began to snore.

He grinned and shook her. "Charity, wake up. You need to undress."

„Why?„

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know. That's what ladies do. It's more comfortable."

"Pretty comfortable now."

He tugged her up and pulled her toward the edge of the bed, eyes closed and chin drooping. Her feet dangled over the side. With an exasperated sigh, he unlatched the few pearl buttons from her blouse. The folds of satin flopped open. Air locked in his throat. He swallowed hard and shook her arm. "Charity, wake up. You need to do the rest."

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked down at her chemise, her full breasts edged with lace. Two bright splotches of pink popped out on her cheeks. In slow motion, she gasped and splayed a hand across deep cleavage, providing a poor mask for the temptation before him. She avoided his eyes. "Go, please! I'll do the rest."

He spun around and strode to her door, flipping the bolt from the inside. Without a backward glance, he unlatched her adjoining door and left it ajar as he entered his room. He stood behind it, head cocked to listen.

"Charity?"

"What?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes, thank you. Good night."

He sighed and began to remove his tie, certain he had never been this tired. One thing was for sure. When his head finally hit the pillow, he was going to sleep forever.

"Mitch?"

He dropped a shoe on the floor and raced to the door, leaning close. "Did you call?"

"I think I'm going to be sick."

He hung his head. If his head ever hit the pillow.

He flopped over in the narrow bed for the twentieth time, his feet ice-cold as they jutted over the edge by a foot. He jerked the blanket down with his big toe, groaning when it dislodged from his shoulders. A chill skittered down his bare chest. He yanked it back up, opting for cold feet over a shivering torso. He sighed and stared at the ceiling. The sound of whitecaps battering the hull of the ship drummed incessantly in his brain.

There were any number of reasons he couldn't sleep tonight: the cold, the rough sea, the small bed, the countless trips to the bathroom. The image of Charity in her chemise.

He drew his legs up a bit, huddling under the blanket. All reasons that had afflicted his body with a vengeance. But only one ravaged his mind. He jabbed the pillow several times and worked his head in, trying to get comfortable.

It was downright unfair. Having to lie here like this for a solid week while the most desirable woman he'd ever known lay in a bed just a few short feet away. Blast Bridget Murphy. And blast her granddaughter. She was the last thing he wanted to think about. He grunted. But one small and lacey chemise had certainly taken care of that.

He shifted and tried to think of something else. Charity bent over the toilet while he held her hair out of her face. Yes, definitely better. Her face white and sunken as he swabbed her with a cool cloth, the full lips drained of all color. His heart stirred with compassion, and he lunged from the bed. No! He didn't want to feel sorry for her. That made him more vulnerable. He couldn't afford that. He buffed his arms with his palms while he padded to the moonlit porthole. He held his wristwatch to the shaft of light streaming in. Almost four o'clock in the morning. He moaned and dropped back into bed. The springs objected with deafening squeaks, paralyzing the muscles in his stomach. Dear God, please don't let her wake up. Again.

He held his breath while he waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Forty. One minute. He slowly released it, his body finally yielding to the curve of the bed. Thank God. She was still asleep.

And he was still awake.

Pray.

The silent directive shivered his skin more than the chill of the room. It had echoed in his brain, but it hadn't come from him. He was dead certain. His lids flipped up, and he stared at the dark ceiling. He forgot the shivers, suddenly aware of a presence that generated warmth and peace to his cold and disrupted soul.

Pray for her.

He nodded. "I will, I will. But what about me? I'm the one in trouble here. I need your strength. I can't stop thinking about her." He shifted on his side and pinched the covers around his shoulders. "Ya gotta help me. I don't want to love her. I want to love Kathleen."

Pray.

His jaw hardened. "That's your solution to everything, isn't it?" He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled. "Sorry. I know what you want, and I'll do it. Every time I think of her, blasted chemise or no, I'll pray. You have my word on that." He glanced up at the ceiling, a scowl on his lips. "Which will pretty much be all the time, if I don't get some serious grace from your end."

He closed his eyes again and sighed. "Help her, please. Get through that thick skull of hers. Open her heart to you. Heal the hurt. Between Faith and her, and their father." He hesitated, not sure if he wanted to utter the next words. "And help her to forgive me for whatever she thinks I did, rejecting her, denying her love ..." A smile tilted his lips in the dark. "Kidnapping her."

He drew in chilled air, releasing it in one long, liberating breath. "Use me, Lord, to reach her. To teach her what Faith taught me. To bring her to you."

He rolled over on his side and sank into the pillow, his prayers thickening on his lips. His lids felt heavy. He succumbed, drifting in his mind to thoughts of Kathleen. She was kneeling, bent over her bed, beseeching their God. He closed his mind's eye and she faded, leaving him with profound peace and one last prayer on his lips. "Don't stop. Please."

Rigan slammed her head against the wall with one casual slap. Her father did nothing. Uncle Paul stood beside him, both indifferent, both smoking their pipes. Charity put her hand to her head, barely able to contain the pain. Her fingers were wet and sticky. She stared at them, the shock of blood dulling the throb in her brain.

"Daddy, "she screamed, but he only turned away. Rigan jerked her up and set her on his lap, whispering familiar words. "It's all right, Charity. Your daddy left, but I'll take care of you. He doesn't love you like I will. You're my beautiful, beautiful girl. "

Charity squirmed to get up, smoke and tears pricking her eyes. "I want my daddy. "

Rigan stroked his hand up her leg. "Shhh ... Your daddy's gone, but I'm still here. . . "

The hand continued to move.

Charity screamed.

"Shhh ... I don't want to have to spank you, but I will ...

He squeezed her shoulder, shaking until she stopped.

"Charity, wake up."

She jolted in the bed and opened her eyes, a horrendous pain in her head. The pounding of her heart began to slow as relief flooded through her.

It was only a dream.

She blinked and gulped a breath of air. A blur of skin loomed over her. Mitch came into full view, bent over and stripped to the waist. His blue eyes were bleary with sleep, and the clean line of his jaw was heavily shadowed with overnight stubble.

"It was just a nightmare. You're okay."

She blinked again and pulled the cover to her chin, the nightmare suddenly forgotten. Blood warmed her cheeks as she stared wide-eyed, taking in his hard, lean muscles and the blond coiled hair matting his chest. She swallowed hard, the warmth in her cheeks apparently contagious-it was spreading through her body like a high-grade fever.

He yawned and dragged his fingers through his short, unruly curls, bicep bulging with the motion. He glanced at his watch. "It's five twenty. You don't plan on getting up, do you?"

She continued to stare, her mouth agape.

He glanced down, then quickly up, a sullen slant to his brows. He jerked his pajama bottoms up a fraction of an inch, then scrubbed a hand across that golden mat of hair. "You dragged me out of bed, what the devil did you expect?"

"I woke you a number of times throughout the night, as Irecall, and you were always dressed. Do you sleep that way?"

He slacked a hip and ran a hand over his face. I put my shirt on every time you called, and yes, I do sleep this way. What business is that of yours?"

"Why didn't you dress this time?"

He groaned, all bleariness gone. "Because I was sleeping! Finally. Until your blood-curdling scream shattered the precious little rest I've been able to get."

"Well, hog-tie me and I'll walk the plank. Serves you right for dragging me on this ship. And stop yelling, I have a splitting headache."

"Good." He glowered and spun on his heel, charging toward his cabin.

"Wait, please!"

He stopped at the door, his back to her and fingers taut on the knob. She massaged her forehead, annoyed at the way his powerful back tapered into a low-swung waist. "I have to go to the bathroom," she whispered.

She watched his broad shoulders sag. The tendons of his thick muscles twitched. He jerked the door open and let it bang against the wall. She groaned and put a hand to her eyes. He disappeared for several minutes, finally returning with his shirt hanging out of his pants.

She peeked up from under her hand, a finger and thumb rubbing each temple. "And could you please not yell? I feel awful."

He grunted and swooped her up from the bed. He started for the door.

"Wait, my robe."

He kept moving, balancing her with his knee to unlock the door. "You didn't wear it last night, you don't have to wear it now."

"But it's daytime."

He flipped open the door and tore down the hall. "It's bloomin' five thirty in the morning, Charity. I guarantee, nobody's up but you."

She glanced at his shadowed jaw, stiff and prickly with whiskers. His mouth was clamped tight, and the lower lip protruded in a mulish manner. She grinned. "And you."

His narrowed gaze swept down over the half-buttoned nightgown before flicking up to her smile. His eyes softened just a tad. "You are the biggest little brat I have ever seen."

She leaned her head against his chest and sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I know. I'm sorry. But you deserve it for kidnapping me."

"So you keep telling me." He stood before the bathroom door and kicked it with his shoe, waiting to see if anybody answered. He pushed the door open and deposited her into a stall. "I'll be outside. Call when you're ready."

"I will. And, Mitch?"

He stopped, hand on the door.

"Thank you for taking care of me last night."

The corners of his mouth shifted. "You're welcome."

The door slammed behind him, and she sighed. He really was a decent sort of fellow. That is, when he wasn't being obnoxious. Which wasn't all that often. She scowled. It was a real shame he was one of the most handsome men she had ever laid eyes on. It made hating him all the more difficult. And she wanted to hate him. The alternative was too frightening. His rejection before had been painful enough. Now that he was bent on marrying Kathleen, if she tried to seduce him, his denial would only destroy her. And she'd already danced that reel one time too many.