Sam rubbed the side of his jaw with a sheepish grin. “It won’t. And I deserve more than your fist, Patrick, so thanks for knocking some sense into me.”
“Yeah, you do, you clown, and don’t think I won’t do it again.” Patrick exhaled loudly, all energy sapped. “Do me a favor, O’Rourke …” A sick feeling settled in Patrick’s gut as he peered up at his friend, jaw tight. “Before you lay a hand on Marcy, clean yourself up. She deserves far more than the touch and scent of another woman.”
Sam nodded, the rise and fall of his chest sagging into a slump of shoulders.
Without another word, Patrick left through the back door, a gloom invading his mood as dark as the shadowed alley behind the pub. A woman like Marceline Murphy deserved so much more. His stomach cramped. Not the least of which was a man she could trust.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Despite the bitter cold, Sam had never felt warmer, happier—cleaner—than he did now, with Marcy tucked beneath his coat as he shielded her from the swirling snow on the walk to her house. He ducked his head close to hers, the scent of lilac water and lavender from her hair stirring his heart as effectively as the woman in his arms. Somehow she brought out a fierce protectiveness in him, something a woman had never done before other than his sisters.
Along with a fierce possessiveness.
The sudden memory of Patrick’s deep-rooted affection for Marcy—Sam refused to call it love—made him grip her closer. He knew full well that if she ever found out about his indiscretions—either tonight’s or those in the future should he slip despite his intent to remain faithful—she would end it. And there was no doubt in his mind whatsoever that if Sam were out of the picture, even for a brief time, Patrick would swoop in faster than a seagull over Massachusetts Bay, robbing Sam of the woman of his dreams—and Patrick’s. He ground his jaw hard, in total contrast to the feather-light snowflakes that fluttered from the sky, delicate, pure, and light. Like Marcy—the only woman who had ever made him feel decent and whole for the first time in his life.
Thoughts of Patrick’s obvious infatuation suddenly soured his mood. He loved Patrick O’Connor as if the same blood traveled their veins, and it pained him to know he deprived his best friend of the one woman he wanted. Guilt niggled. Almost as much as it exhilarated him to finally best the one man he all but idolized. His lips went flat. Along with everyone else, apparently. Except for Marcy, that is, and the thought warmed Sam more than the heat from her body, snuggling close to his.
Truth be told, Patrick was the only reason Sam was with Marcy in the first place, and he owed the man a debt of thanks. Yes, Marcy was beautiful and smart and kind and more of a lady than he’d ever encountered before. But it was Patrick’s obsession with her that had truly turned his head, opening his eyes to a rare chance to succeed where Patrick could not. From the first toss of that coin, Sam knew Julie’s friendship with Marcy gave him an edge in this battle of charm, allowing him to forge a closeness with Marcy that Patrick never could. From little on, Julie had made it clear Marcy had a crush on Sam, the one boy who turned her head and her heart, and he had thrived in that secret devotion.
Unlatching the snow-encrusted front gate, Sam ushered her up the flagstone walk to her front porch, hoping the late hour of eleven meant her parents and grandmother were already abed. He was in dire need of time alone with her for a few moments in the parlour, and he sensed she needed him as well. He pressed a kiss to her hair and twisted the knob of her front door, pushing it open. A groan lodged in his throat when a blaze of parlour light shafted onto the snowy porch to sparkle the dusting of ice crystals like a thick layer of salt.
“Marcy?” Her mother’s concern was obvious from the high pitch of her tone as she hurried into the foyer. “Where on earth have you been?” Her eyes flicked from her daughter’s face to Sam’s and back, and his body tensed as always at the muted disapproval in Bridget Murphy’s eyes.
“Oh, Mother!” Marcy shot into her mother’s embrace with another agonizing sob, breaking Sam’s heart as she shuddered in Mrs. Murphy’s arms.
“Bridget?” Within several of Marcy’s painful heaves, her father strode from the parlour, newspaper dangling from his hand and Marcy’s grandmother on his heels. “Good grief, Marceline,” he said in a tight tone that conveyed his angst, “are you all right?”
She nodded and pulled away from her mother’s hold, voice nasal from weeping as she stepped back, a bare inch in front of Sam. “Y-yes, Papa, I’m fine, but I’m afraid the fundraiser for St. Mary’s is not ...”
She lapsed into another round of tears, and Sam couldn’t stop himself—he gently turned her into a tender hug while stroking her hair, offering her family a somber gaze over Marcy’s shoulder. “My apologies for the late hour, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, but the fundraiser money—some $500 or so—was stolen from the safe tonight at the center, and Marcy was detained at the rectory to file a police report.”
Her mother’s gasp rent the air. “Oh, heavens, no!”
“Thank you, Sam, for bringing her home,” Marcy’s father said with a grim smile. He extended his hand to the parlour. “Shall we discuss this sitting down?”
Sam nodded and led Marcy to a blue French-style sofa with graceful mahogany trim, opting to sit beside her on one side while her mother hovered close on the other. He helped Marcy off with her coat, then did the same with his own as her mother looped an arm to her daughter’s waist. Perched on the edge of a floral wing chair, Marcy’s grandmother watched with folded hands and keen blue eyes that always made Sam nervous, as if she were studying him under a microscope.
“How did this happen and when?” her father asked, his gentle tone edged with worry for a daughter Sam knew was the apple of his eye. Like Mima, he hunched on the edge of his leather gentleman’s chair, arms stiff on parted knees and hands clasped while he searched his daughter’s face. His salt-and-pepper hair was carefully slicked back and dark moustache neatly trimmed, the consummate image of the railroad vice president he used to be. His blue eyes crinkled at the edges with a fan of fine lines on a distinguished face that was clearly aging well.
Marcy sniffed and proceeded to relate the weepy details of a nightmare that had robbed her of her usual peaceful countenance as much as it had robbed the center. Her hoarse and heavy tone tore at his gut, and Sam fought the urge to slip an arm to her shoulder and cuddle her close. But Marcy’s family already had misgivings about his reputation; he certainly didn’t need to add fuel to the fire. He released a silent sigh, well aware he had a lot to prove, not only to Marcy and her family, but to himself.
Can I be all she needs me to be? A thought occurred that he should pray about it, like Marcy always prodded him to do, but just as quickly, the notion fled. Prayer was something for women, priests, and weak-minded people, his father was fond of saying, his stock rebuttal whenever his mother badgered him to go to novenas. As stubborn as his mother was religious, his father was of the opinion that able-bodied men didn’t need to bother the Almighty with every little thing, a leaning he quickly passed on to Sam. Along with his long-held belief that men—especially his son—needed to sow wild oats before they settled down, a point of view not shared by his mother.
“Well, Marceline,” her father said when Marcy was through with her account of the robbery, “I don’t know how, but I do know that God will intervene on your behalf, you mark my words.” He nodded at his wife and mother-in-law, the barest of smiles edging his lips. “If I’ve learned anything from these two stubborn ladies here, it’s that God always has the last say when it comes to His own, especially when we pray.” He leaned to squeeze his daughter’s hand, paralyzing Sam to the sofa when this imposing man of dignity closed his eyes to deliver a prayer while the others followed suit. Feeling awkward, Sam promptly did the same, head bowed and heart thudding. At the close of Mr. Murphy’s prayer, Marcy threw herself into her father’s arms, more tears welling when he bundled her on his lap to rock her in his arms. “Aw, darlin’, you’ll see—God will turn this a
round. And how about we begin right now?”
With a firm pat of Marcy’s back, her father pulled a checkbook and ink pen from his vest pocket and commenced to writing a check while Marcy watched, eyes wide as saucers. “A hundred dollars? Papa, no,” she cried, staring at the check he’d just written. “This is too much, and we can’t afford this right now.”
He chuckled and prodded her off his lap, rising to his feet to press a kiss to her cheek. “I had an excellent interview today that has given me hope, darlin’, so let’s consider it our contribution to the fundraiser—your mother’s, Mima’s, and mine. Or if it makes you feel any better, you can always pay part of it back when the money is found.” He caressed her face with the palm of his hand. “And if not you, then God will, so take the money, daughter, and let’s all of us get these tired, old bones to bed.”
“Speak for yourself, Kiernan Murphy,” Mima said with a clipped brogue that held a hint of humor. “My bones are strong and spry, I’ll have you know.”
He grinned. “Aye, and with a hard head to match.” He arched a brow at his wife before he sent her a wink. “It’s best we head up, woman, if I’m to have the strength to spar with your mother.”
Marcy lifted on tiptoe to deposit a kiss to her father’s cheek. “Good night, Papa,” she said with the first smile Sam had seen since he’d picked her up at the rectory. She gave him a fierce hug. “I love you so much.”
He patted her back and nodded at Sam. “I appreciate your support of Marcy tonight and for bringing her home.”
Sam rose. “I care about Marcy a great deal, Mr. Murphy, so it was no hardship, I assure you.” His gaze darted to Marcy and back while he fiddled with the coat in his hand. “If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d like a few words with your daughter before I head out. I won’t be long, I promise.”
“All right, Sam,” Mr. Murphy said with a cautious air, “but not too long, please. Marcy’s had a trying evening and needs her rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcy’s mother and grandmother each gave her a hug and murmured their good nights before Mr. Murphy shepherded them out the door. Sam didn’t breathe till he heard the squeak of the stairs, and then twining his fingers with hers, he tugged Marcy down to the sofa, tucking her close. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered, slowly buffing her arms. “You’ll see. The police will find the thief.”
She nodded and warmth expanded in his chest when her arms slowly curled around his waist with a sigh. “I know—I felt it the moment Papa prayed.”
“And you still have ticket and concession sales to count on, you know, even if the ad money and presales are never recovered.”
A reedy sigh parted from her lips. “That’s true.”
He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “I ache for you, Marceline, and I’m so sorry.”
His pulse sped up when she turned and burrowed into his hold, as if she couldn’t get close enough. “I know—me too.”
“If I could bring the money back, I would, you know that.” He paused, his throat suddenly dry as he feathered her arm with his thumb. “But there is something I can do, and I hope and pray it will lift your spirits.”
She glanced up, her tender look swelling his pride. “What’s that?”
He shifted to cup her face in his hands, his manner gentler than ever before. “I love you, Marcy, I know that now, and my heart grieves when you grieve. Seeing you suffer tonight has jolted me, made me aware that I want to be there for you always.” He bent in to caress her lips with his own, his kiss almost reverent. “I don’t have the money for a ring just yet, but I will soon, and I’m asking you to marry me. Nothing unofficial this time, my love, but engaged in the open for all to see—soon.”
She clutched his arm, eyes shining. “Oh, Sam, do you mean it? Really and truly?”
He chuckled. “I do,” he said in a husky tone.
Her wispy giggle floated in the air as she blinked up at him. “But why the change of heart?”
He sat back, cuddling her close. “Patrick.”
She jerked up to face him. “Patrick? What do you mean?”
His heart stalled as he averted his gaze to the baby grand piano in the corner of the parlour. Guilt churned in his stomach. “Well, you see—Patrick found me at Brannigan’s tonight, Marcy, because as I told you earlier …” He drew in a fortifying breath as he looked at her again, determined to keep his promise to tell Marcy the truth—however vague it might be. “I thought it was tomorrow night I was supposed to pick you up, not tonight.”
She nodded, his mention of Brannigan’s dimming the luster in her eyes.
Sam cleared his throat, far more comfortable with evading the truth than facing it dead on, but he couldn’t risk her hearing it from Patrick instead of him. “I know you’re not fond of Brannigan’s, but a man needs a place to relax with his friends, have a brew every now and then, especially after a rough shift like I had tonight. But when Patrick found me, he lost his temper and bruised my jaw because I was …” He swallowed hard, absently rubbing the spot where Patrick had knuckled him. “Chatting with a woman I think he might have his eye on, and so he took a shot at me, ranting and raving how he was going to tell you, insisting I was betraying you.”
Those beautiful blue eyes blinked while a sadness welled in their depths that twisted his gut.
He gripped her shoulders, his eyes burning with intent. “What I’m trying to say, Marcy, is that up to now, it’s been second nature for me to flirt and tease with pretty women, and I …” He worked his throat to fight the parched taste in his mouth. “I told myself that as long as we weren’t officially courting, that such … innocent flirtations … were not only commonplace, but …” He quietly gulped. “To be expected.”
More moisture pooled in her eyes and he groaned, swallowing her up in a fierce hug. “Oh, Marceline, I swear—I was too stupid and thick and selfish to think that you might construe it as betrayal until Patrick landed that blow, and now I want to make it right.” He pulled away, searching her gaze with his own. “I want to commit to you body and soul, my love, if you’ll have me, and if you’ll forgive me for being the dolt that I am.” Sweat beaded the back of his neck as he awaited her answer, not all that sure she wouldn’t throw him out on his ear.
The air fused hot and thick in his lungs when she turned away, silent for several heart-wrenching seconds before she finally met his eyes with a tentative glance of her own. “Of course I forgive you,” she said quietly, gaze dropping to her lap while she picked at her nails, “but given our commitment, your behavior is a shock, I won’t lie.”
“Marcy—”
“No—hear me out, please.” She looked up then, and he could see the hesitation in eyes misty with hurt. “I care about you a great deal, Sam, and it’s always been a dream of mine to be part of your family …” She averted her gaze while a hint of pink dusted her cheeks. “And lately,” she said softly, her voice trailing off, “the dream has grown to include being your wife …”
“But …?” Sam whispered, not daring to breathe.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she finally looked up, her face gentle except for the wet resolve in her eyes. “But in light of what you’ve just confessed and the way your …” The muscles shifted in her throat. “… passions have escalated when we’re alone, well I … I must admit that it does give me pause …”
A muscle convulsed in his throat. “I can change for you, Marcy, I swear it.”
Her lips curved in a sad smile. “Not for me, Sam,” she whispered, “change for yourself and for God—so your life can be all He wants it to be.”
His facial muscles tightened as he nodded his head. “All right, my love, what do you need me to do?”
She nibbled at the edge of her smile. “Well, for starters, Mr. O’Rourke, you can stop tempting me with kisses that weaken my resolve.” The smile dimmed as her tone sobered. “It’s important to me to keep our relationship chaste and pure until we marry.” She caressed his jaw with the palm of her hand.
“And it’s especially critical you pursue God as much as you pursue me.”
He nodded again, gaze on the floor. “All right, then, consider it done.” He rose to his feet. “Beginning now—see me out?”
She exhaled and walked him to the foyer, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm before she stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek at the door. “Good night, Sam—you’ve definitely lifted my spirits tonight.”
He slipped his coat on and then cupped her face in his hands. “I hope to lift your spirits far more in the future, my love, once I become the husband you need me to be.” Grazing her cheek with his thumb, he slowly bent to brush a kiss to her lips, aching to kiss her with all the passion she provoked inside. But there was no way he would risk losing her again, not with the threads of their relationship so tentative at the moment. He expelled a sigh and gave her a tender embrace, then paused as an unsettling thought marred his mood. Flirtations were one thing, he suddenly realized, but if Patrick ever disclosed Sam’s sexual infidelities in a fit of anger, it could ruin everything. He swallowed hard, opting for a bit of insurance as he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Marcy …”
“Yes, Sam?” She snuggled in to his hold.
“I’m concerned about Patrick.”
She glanced up, a furrow etched in her brow. “Why?”
“Because he fancies himself in love with you and something in my gut tells me if he were to get angry enough—or desperate enough—he just might …” His eyelids weighted closed with regret. “Well, he might bend the truth a wee bit to show me in a bad light, you know? Maybe even imply I made advances in the hopes you would turn me away.”
“I don’t believe that,” she whispered, cheeks braised as if the subject made her uncomfortable. She shook her head, her disbelief evident in the two tiny puckers that creased the bridge of her nose. “You and Patrick are closer than brothers, Sam. I don’t think he would do that.”