A Passion Redeemed (35 page)

"I'm ready," she called, and he was there in a heartbeat, his demeanor considerably improved. He held her at the sink so she could wash her hands, his eyes studying her face in the mirror. She smiled. "How many times did we do this last night?"

His mouth quirked up. "Four. Not counting now."

"I'm sorry. I usually don't get up in the middle of the night. It must have been the wine."

He gave her a half -lidded look. "Must have been."

"I ... I got sick, I know. Did you. . . "

His lips twitched. "I did. Wasn't too much of a mess, though. Fortunately, we managed to get to the toilet in time. A cool, wet washcloth, and good as new."

She bit her lip and pressed a hand to her head. "Not exactly. My head is killing me."

He shifted her in his arms and opened the door. "Nothing a few hours of sleep and two aspirin won't cure." He fumbled with the latch of her door, finally swinging it open. He laid her on the bed. "I'll get that aspirin." He returned with a glass of water and pills in hand.

With one, long gulp, she drained the water.

His brow shot up. "Thanks. That's another trip to the bathroom."

She giggled and handed him the glass, then snuggled down into the bed until the covers rested at her chin. She sobered. "Mitch ... about last night, I don't know what went wrong. That's never happened before."

He set the glass down and tucked the covers in on both sides of her bed, giving her a wry smile. "Well, you're not used to drinking all that much, especially on an empty stomach. Add to that some pretty rough whitecaps, and it was bound to happen. It's my fault for getting the wine in the first place. Bridget would string me up."

She grinned. "Yes, she would. Don't let me bamboozle you again."

He stood and propped his hands loosely on his hips, a smile fidgeting on his lips. "I won't. Now get some sleep." He moved toward the door.

"Mitch?"

He turned.

"Can we call a truce? If we're going to be on this boat for six more days, I'd like to get along." She looked down, a lump forming in her throat. "Besides, I could really use a friend."

He didn't respond, and she glanced up to see the muscles working in his throat, his eyes unreadable in the dim morning light. "I'd like that, Charity."

"Real friends, this time. No games. I know you intend to marry Kathleen."

He nodded, lowering his gaze to the floor. "Sounds good. Now get some sleep."

"You mean let you get some sleep."

He looked up, and a slow grin spread across his lips. "Exactly."

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

Collin groaned and hurled his last card on the pile. "I can't believe it-you did it again. We went set. Where's your head tonight, Faith?"

Faith blinked, her hands still on top of the few tricks she'd managed to take. She swallowed, aware of everyone's stares. "It's just a card game, Collin. I'm having an off night, that's all."

He shoved his chair back from the table and jumped up, storming toward the kitchen. "Yeah? Well, Pinochle's not all that difficult, you know. I need some milk." He huffed out of the dining room. His muscled arm rammed the swinging kitchen door so hard it swayed and squeaked for a solid fifteen seconds. Faith blew out a noisy breath and stood, her shoulders squared for battle. "Mother, Father, I apologize for Collin. He's not been himself the last few days." Her chin jutted up. "But that's about to change."

Her parents exchanged a look.

She pushed her chair back in and rounded the table to kiss them good night.

Marcy reached up andpatted her cheek. "He's just nervous, Faith. Keep your tongue in check. Men have a tendency to get a bit testy when they're about to lose their independence."

Patrick chuckled. "Your mother's right, darlin'. I wasn't too bad, I don't think, but Collin's a pretty stubborn man-"

"Hah! Don't go putting on airs, Patrick O'Connor, you were one of the worst. Snapping at me at every turn for weeks before the wedding. You and that boy are cut from the same stubborn cloth-prime Longhorn cow leather."

Patrick's brows sloped up. "How can you say that? I'm hurt."

She rose, her lips skewed into a wry smile. "Because it's true, my love. You were every bit as nasty as Collin, right up until the wedding, and don't you deny it."

He pushed away from the table and stretched, a sudden twinkle lighting his eye. "But that all changed on the honeymoon, now didn't it, Marceline?"

She blushed. "Patrick! I can't believe you're saying that in front of your own daughter."

"Really, Mother, the way you two moon over each other, do you think it's a surprise to any of us?"

"Faith!" Marcy's cheeks fused scarlet.

Patrick's laughter rang out as he stood and put an arm around his wife. "Marcy, Faith is a woman about to be married. This will all be common knowledge for her in a few weeks. Come on, woman, I'm tired. Take these old bones of mine to bed."

Marcy wriggled out of his grasp and gave her daughter a kiss. "Don't be too hard on him, Faith. He's a wonderful man, you know. Just a bit scared. Tell him good night for us, will you?"

Faith nodded and stacked the cards in a pile. She glared at the kitchen door, forcing herself to be calm. Taking a deep breath, she approached and pushed it open.

Collin sat at the table, a half-eaten ham sandwich on the plate before him. His eyes bore through her as he stuffed the rest in his bulging cheeks and chewed hard. Faith ambled over to the icebox to pour herself a glass of milk. She strolled over, plunked it on the table, and sat. Locking gazes with him over the rim of her glass, she took a sip. She licked her lips and set the glass back down. "So, are you going to tell me what's really bothering you? Or are you going to sit there and stuff your face like a pig-headed mule?"

He glared and swallowed hard, his gray eyes narrowing to black. "That's the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it. What makes you think something's wrong?"

She placed her arms on the table, fingers tightly laced. "Oh, I don't know, maybe it's all the sulking and nasty temper you've been giving me all week. If you don't want to marry me, Collin, just come out and say it."

He shoved the plate away and reached for his milk, upending it until it was all gone. He slammed the glass back down. "Don't tempt me, Faith."

She shot up from the chair with heat scorching her cheeks. She thumped a fist on the table. "Just what exactly is your problem?"

He slanted forward. "You're my problem. My oh-so-honest fiancee, the one who hides things from me."

"What are you talking about?"

He stood up and leaned hard on the table, the thick tendons of his arm protruding below his rolled-up shirtsleeve. "I'm talking about Charity."

"I told you she set sail two days ago. What more is there to know?"

He straightened, slow and deliberate, his gaze unflinching as it pierced her own. "Oh, I don't know, maybe that your exfiance is bringing her?" The word sounded like a curse.

The blood drained from her cheeks. She took a shallow breath. "Collin, I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to upset you. You've been on edge these last few weeks."

"So I have to hear it from your mother? Who, by the way, is just thrilled to see 'dear old Mitch' again." He fairly spit the name in her face. "Not unlike her daughter, I'm sure."

Faith skirted the table to stand before him, her eyes contrite as she stared up. "Collin, look at you. This is why I didn't say anything. You have nothing to worry about."

"You're right I don't because you won't be talking to him."

She stepped back. Her eyes expanded as she put a hand to her chest. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Other than hello and goodbye, I forbid you to talk to him."

"You can't do that."

"Yes, I can. A wife has to submit to her husband. It's in the Bible."

Faith planted her hands on her hips and leaned in, the heat in her eyes matching his own. "One minor problem. I'm not your wife-yet. And if this keeps up, it doesn't look promising."

Collin groaned and jerked her into his arms, crushing her to his chest. "What are we doing here, Faith? I love you. I don't want to fight."

She relaxed in his arms. "Me, either, Collin. But you can't bully me into not talking to Mitch."

He picked her up and sat down in the chair, placing her on his lap. He had a dangerous gleam in his eye. "No, but I can make sure you're too breathless to do it ..."

"Collin, what are you-"

He dipped her back and cradled her neck while his mouth searched hers with a vengeance. Her insides grew weak as the heat began to build, and she moaned when his mouth strayed to the lobe of her ear. Dear Lord, she loved this man! His hands roamed her back. They edged lower to pull her close.

She twisted away, her breathing accelerating. "Collin, stop it ... now!"

With an evil grin, he pulled her back up and steeled his arms around her, eyes half -lidded as if he'd just fallen out of bed. His gaze settled on her lips. "You won't be able to stop me in a few weeks," he whispered in a husky tone.

Her breathing quickened. "I know. Whatever will I do?"

He tugged at the corner of her lower lip with his teeth, then slid his mouth across hers. "Give in, of course." His words were warm and low against her mouth. "First this, then whatever I want."

She lurched in his arms, ready to pop him. He laughed, and his deep, throaty chuckle filled the kitchen. "I'm crazy about you, Faith O'Connor, you know that? But I have a feeling you and God will have words about a particular subject."

"And what might that be, you mule-headed Irishman?"

He tapped her nose with his finger, his grin positively annoying. "Submission. Ephesians 5:22. I suggest you read up on it before the wedding."

She slapped his hand away and tried to wriggle free. "And I suggest you read what follows, Mr. McGuire-'husbands, love your wives'-that is, if you want a willing wife in your bed."

He laughed again, hauling her close despite her objections. He dug his lips into the crook of her neck, causing her to giggle and moan at the same time. "Oh, I'll have that, all right, Mrs. McGuire," he whispered in her ear, "and you can empty your purse on that."

Mitch blinked. Oh. What a surprise. She was stunning.

He worked hard to mask his approval, but it wasn't easy. She sat on the bed, sheer layers of pale blue surrounding her like a cloud. Sweet saints in heaven, he was staring at a blessed angel. His eyes scanned up to the V-neck bodice where a gauzy overlay did little to obscure what lay beneath. He swallowed. Nope, definitely not the pearly gates.

She bit her lip as a hint of color washed into her cheeks. "You ... said to dress up, and this is all I have. I'm sorry."

He forced his gaze up to her face and smiled. "Don't be. You look beautiful. But I think you're going to have to wear Bridget's ring to fend the men off."

"Are you still wearing yours?"

He looked down at his hand, a faint smile on his lips. "Yeah."

"Then I'll wear mine. Can you get it for me?"

He nodded and left, returning a few moments later with the ring. She held out her hand. "Will you put it on?"

He slipped it on her finger, suddenly realizing he was holding his breath. He released it slowly. "Ready?" He picked her up in his arms. "Our dinner reservations are for seven. We don't want to be late." He stopped. "Don't you need the sling for your arm?"

"I don't think so. I want to feel pretty tonight. And my arm's much better. Really."

She seemed different as he carried her down the corridor, quiet, content, as if she had no need to talk. He was grateful. Seeing her dressed up for him, putting the ring on her finger, had left him undone, confused, moody. Heads turned as they stood at the entrance to the dining room, the sight of a man carrying a woman unusual in itself, but Mitch knew the stares would have been the same had she walked by his side. He saw men gawking at her, and his lips pressed tight. Blasted leches. For pity's sake, she wasn't the only woman in the room.

She was for him.

"Your name, sir?" the maitre d' asked.

"Dennehy," he snapped, aware of Charity's gaze.

"Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Dennehy, your table is ready. Follow me, please."