“Me too,” she whispered, and she smiled when Tillie bounced on his shoulders in time to a Christmas carol she decided to sing.
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you what, Marceline, you are one in a million, and so help me, if I ever catch Sam making advances to another woman again—”
“Hey, Patrick,” Tillie shouted, the snowscape muffling the shriek of her voice, “we’re almost there!” Her skinny arms wound around his head as she held on for dear life, fingers buried deep in his dark curls. “Can you give me a fast horsey ride before I’m home, please, please?”
“You bet, darlin’.” He gave Marcy a wink. “Don’t go anywhere, Miss Murphy,” he said, nudging Tillie’s hands up from his eyes so he could see, “I’ll be right back.”
“Bye, Miss Murphy …” Tillie’s goodbye floated in the air as they took off, Patrick’s husky laughter merging with the little girl’s squeals while the two sprinted to Tillie’s building a quarter block away. It was a sight to bring a smile to anyone’s face.
Except hers ...
“So help me, if I ever catch Sam making advances to another woman again …”
Her legs felt like lead as they lagged to a dead stop, parted lips wheezing shallow air while Patrick delivered Tillie to her door. She stood paralyzed in the same spot, her heart as jagged and frozen as the icicles hanging from the eaves of Tillie’s flat. “Advances?” she whispered.
“He fancies himself in love with you, Marceline, and something in my gut tells me if Patrick were to get angry enough—or desperate enough—he just might … 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.”
Something stabbed within, as if one of those icy shards had gouged her very soul, and when Patrick finally jogged back, his smile faded into concern. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head, staring at him as if he were a stranger, her body going cold when she realized who he was—the same man who toyed with Emily Fischer over and over again, and heaven knows how many others, all the while pursuing his quest to steal Marcy’s heart, no matter what it took.
“I will never give up, Marceline …”
Nausea curdled in her stomach as she took a step back. “Sam wasn’t making advances,” she said, her whisper harsh in the night. “He was just talking to her.”
Patrick’s body stilled, brows arched in disbelief. “That’s what he told you? That he was just talking to her?” He shook his head again and started to turn away, jaw sculpted tight.
She grabbed his arm to stop him, blood pounding in her brain. “How dare you imply it was more!”
“Imply?” He scrubbed his face with his hands, exhaling loudly before he finally looked up. “Fine. I can see you’re only interested in his version of the truth, Marcy, so let’s just drop it, shall we?” He continued walking.
She hurried to catch up. “He told me it was nothing more than an innocent flirtation, and I believe him.”
He grunted again. “Good. You’re going to need a lot of faith in him, darlin’, because he’s been known to stretch the truth with women.”
“Oh, and I suppose Emily Fischer knows nothing about that.”
He whirled on her so fast, she staggered back. “He’s-not-a-marrying-man, Marceline,” he hissed, a nerve pulsing in his cheek, “and you need to know that.”
Her eyes blazed right back. “You’re wrong! Sam proposed the night the money was stolen, and we’ve already been shopping for rings, so his ‘version of the truth’ as you call it, carries far more weight than that of a man who’s lied repeatedly to Emily Fischer and heaven knows how many others.”
He gripped her wrist, his eyes singeing as much as his hand. “So he finally proposed, did he? If I were Sam, you would have had a ring months ago.”
She jerked free, her mouth ajar. “So, he was right, then,” she whispered, hardly able to believe she’d allowed this rogue to pull the wool over her eyes. Fingers quivering, she pushed a loose hair from her cheek. “A competition with Sam to win me?” She backed away, shaking her head while shock trembled her tone. “He warned you might try something like this, but I didn’t believe you’d stoop so low as to sabotage my relationship with a man who’s like a brother.”
Her body jolted when he clutched her arms and gave her a sound shake. “No, it’s not like that,” he shouted. Then just as abruptly, he dropped his hold and spun away, as if suddenly aware how threatening he appeared. A swear word hissed in the air as he mauled the back of his neck.
“Isn’t it?” Marcy leaned in, fists clenched at her sides. “Then what do you call a toss of a coin if not gambling with a girl’s heart, desperate to add a notch to your post? Sam said you couldn’t stand it when a woman turns you away, and now I see it’s true. The high and mighty Patrick O’Connor and his almighty ego, so powerful you’d even resort to lying to jeopardize my relationship with your best friend.”
“Lying?” he whispered, his face a mask of pale shock. His tone hardened to granite, along with the tight line of his jaw. “I don’t lie to people I love, Marceline,” he spat out, “unlike my ‘best friend.’”
“Lies,” she whispered, sick inside that Patrick O’Connor was every bit as unfaithful to his best friend as he’d been to the countless women he’d wooed. She shook her head, stepping away while water welled in her eyes. “My heart breaks for you, Patrick, truly, because if you keep on as you are, you will drive everyone away with no one to love.” She clutched her arms to her waist and lifted her chin, the icy sting of the wind all but freezing the saltwater streaming her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I don’t trust you,” she whispered, her voice dead like her so-called friendship with the Southie’s number one rogue, “so I’m asking you to leave me alone, please, and to stay far away from me and my relationship with Sam.”
“Marcy, wait—”
But she couldn’t. Ignoring the plea in his tone, she spun on her heel and started to run, tears blinding her eyes to a vile indictment she refused to believe. It was Patrick O’Connor’s unscrupulous reputation she’d feared in the beginning, and it was that same reputation rearing its ugly head once again. Only this time, it stabbed through her heart because she had actually started to trust the man. A man who would turn on her as quickly as he had on his best friend, apparently, and all for the sake of his all-powerful pride.
And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.
Hand to her mouth, she sobbed as she ran, wondering why the truth hurt so very much. She heaved to a stop at her gate, a sharp pain in her heart that matched the one spearing her side. With a resolve born of betrayal, she forced Patrick from her thoughts to dwell on Sam, clinging to the one man who was willing to lay down his past to secure a future—with her. For all his lukewarm faith and flirtatious ways, Sam O’Rourke had been her champion since she was a little girl, the rogue who had actually treated her with respect and vowed to tame his passion to win her hand. The favorite son of a family she loved.
Chest heaving, she sagged over her gate. Wet prayers salted her lips while bitter tears slipped from her eyes, a woman desperate to escape the lies of a man she could no longer trust.
And clinging fast to a man she hoped that she could.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hands poised on the pull cord for the house curtain, Patrick watched from the wings while the cast took their bows for the first performance of the week, applause thundering through the auditorium. The moment was painfully bittersweet, a sense of pride and relief that Marcy had pulled off one of the most daunting and successful fundraisers in St. Mary’s history. The glow of success could be seen, heard, and felt everywhere—in the cheers and whistles of the crowd, in the flush of children’s cheeks, and in the twinkle of pride in the eyes of the adults. It was a shimmering radiance that sparkled and shone more than the tinsel that glittered on the Christmas tree at the back of the stage, and Patrick almost regretted it was over.
Almost.
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Sister Francine called Marcy and Julie to the front of the stage while cast and audience stomped and whooped so loud, Patrick’s ears ached. But not as much as his heart. Gaze fused to the back of her bell-shaped gown, his eyes trailed from that crown of corn-silk curls atop her head, past pale-blonde wisps that feathered her neck, down the gentle curve of her red chiffon dress, his heart bleeding that she would never be his. Hands clasped with Julie’s, the two of them bowed to more tumultuous ovation, the flush of Marcy’s fair neck evidence of her discomfort with all the praise. Patrick was certain she was as relieved as he when Sister Francine nodded his way to bring the curtain down, and easing the rope through his calloused hands, he slowly lowered the drape.
His heart stalled when Marcy flashed a smile his way, only to sink when Sam stepped up behind him with a small bouquet of holly berries. “I’d say Marcy has a rousing success on her hands,” he said quietly, his sorry attempt at restoring communication only straining Patrick’s nerves tighter than the pulley rope in his palm.
Lips clamped tight, he turned and ignored Sam altogether, striding past flighty angels buzzing around and buoyant cast milling about to snatch his coat from a hook by the back stage entrance.
“Patrick …” The plea in Sam’s tone followed him down the steps, but he was too afraid to respond, unwilling to spoil everyone’s night with the bitter words that tainted his tongue. No, his words—and his fist—would have to wait because the last thing Patrick wanted to do was ruin Marcy’s evening and everyone else’s. No, not tonight. Not with his so-called best friend. Not after what Sam had done.
“We need to talk,” Sam called, the strain in his voice ricocheting down the dark and deserted corridor that led to the exit in the back of the building.
Patrick hurled a heavy door open with a hard slam, eyes burning in his sockets while fury burned in his gut at finding Sam at Brannigan’s last night with yet another girl. A habit he’d picked up again, according to Lucas, on the nights he thought Patrick was working. He shouldn’t care now that Marcy had turned on him so, but he did. The door closed with a thundering bang as he stalked through the courtyard like a madman, his path little more than gashes in the new-fallen snow. He ground his jaw. Gashes that he’d like to put in Sam O’Rourke’s face with his fists if he could, and the very thought made him sick to his stomach.
“A sickness I can’t seem to fix.”
Sam’s words that night at Brannigan’s whirled in his brain like a bout with the flu, making him nauseous and queasy and not sure what to do … or when. Bile rose in his throat at the damage he’d cause—to Marcy, to Sam, and to the friendship he and Sam shared. Regret lanced his heart, and Patrick halted midway in the snowy courtyard to put a hand to his eyes. No, not just friendship—kinship—as if they shared a tie well beyond the press of bloody wrists at the age of eleven. A blood tie that meant blood would be spilled when Patrick betrayed Sam like Sam had betrayed Marcy. He sucked in a harsh breath of frigid air and continued to walk, his guilt like shards of ice needling his mind over what he had to do. Because Marcy needed to know that when it came to broken vows, the only thing faithful about the man she loved … was that he’d be faithful to betray her again.
“O’Connor—stop!” Sam’s voice rang across the courtyard, the bitter angst of his tone matching that of Patrick’s gut, but he kept on walking, head down and jaw tight.
“Why don’t you handle this like a man instead of slinking away?”
Blood gorged Patrick’s temper as he spun around, fury seething in his chest like a bellows. “What the devil would you know about being a ‘man,’ O’Rourke?” he raged, fists itching for revenge.
Sam’s long legs ate up the distance between them, his black eyes burning coals in a pallid face when he stopped two feet away. “I know a man doesn’t let a woman come between him and a near brother.”
Patrick spat in the snow, fury rising like bile that needed somewhere to go. “It’s you who’s come between us, O’Rourke, you and your lies to a woman who deserves better.”
Sam cocked a brow, his manner insolent. “They all deserve better, Patrick, but neither of us have ever given it, have we? So I wouldn’t be throwing stones if I were you.” He latched his thumbs to the pockets of his woolen coat and exhaled loudly, his face taut as he studied Patrick through wary eyes. “I made another mistake,” he said quietly, “drank too much brew, it’s true, but I have no intention of doing it again. You’re my best friend—can’t you just let it go?”
Patrick’s laugh was brutal. “Sure, O’Rourke, I’ll let it go. You just end it with Marcy tonight, and you and I’ll be bosom-friends once again, no questions asked.”
Sam’s jaw calcified, along with his tone. “You just can’t stand it that Marcy chose me, can you? The Southie’s number one rogue, bested by number two.”
Patrick stepped forward, blood throbbing in his veins as his voice rose along with his temper. “I’ll tell you what I can’t stand. A lecher of a man who would throw away the best thing that ever happened to him.” He bludgeoned a finger toward Sam’s face, eyes on fire and his voice a loud rant. “You best tell her, Sam, or I will.”
“Tell me what?” Marcy stood with Julie and Evan at the back door, a shawl draped over her shoulders that she clutched at her waist. Her red chiffon dress fluttered in the icy breeze as if she were a ghost of Christmas past.
Sam jerked around. His breath billowed into a thundercloud that hovered like a portent of gloom. “Nothing, Marcy—he’s just at it again, spinning tales to try and steal you away.”
Like a torch to his temper, Sam’s words detonated months of frustration and fury, and with a hiss of a curse, Patrick tackled him from behind, landing them both in the snow in a scramble of fists.
“Patrick—stop!” Marcy flew across the snowy courtyard, her screams no more than a distant voice as Patrick delivered a hard clip to Sam’s jaw, hurling him into the yard with a split lip that splattered the snow.
“Sam, please—no!” Marcy pleaded, but Sam ignored her, rebounding with hands knotted, stunning Patrick with a sharp blow to his cheek.
The metallic taste of blood unleashed Patrick’s rage, and with a curse that defiled the night, he lunged, ramming Sam into the snow once again to hammer him without mercy.
Evan tried to intervene while Julie shouted for them to stop, but Sam rallied with a lightning thrust to Patrick’s gut that sent him flying, leveling him in the snow before diving on top.
“Sam, please—stop!” Marcy begged, but to no avail. Wheezing hard, he continued to pummel.
Patrick dislodged him with a violent heave and rolled to his side, surprising Sam with a blunt kick that slammed him flat on his back.
Blood in his eyes as well as his mouth, Patrick lumbered to his feet, attempting to charge until Evan braced him from behind. “Enough, Patrick—it’s over!”
Patrick slumped to the ground, chest heaving as he wiped the blood from his nose.
“Sam!” Marcy dropped to her knees, red chiffon splayed across the snow like the blood on Sam’s pale face. “Are you all right?”
He nudged her away, rubbing the side of his lip with the sleeve of his coat. “I’m fine, Marcy, go back inside.”
She whirled around to sear Patrick with a look, wildfire in her eyes that cauterized him to the spot. “How dare you ruin this night,” she whispered, all gentleness charred in the blaze of her anger. “You are hateful, Patrick O’Connor, and I want you to leave!”
Patrick stared, the tears streaming her cheeks wrenching his heart far more than her words … yet far less than if she didn’t know the truth. Stumbling to his feet, he slowly rose to his full height, shoulders square and jaw taut, ignoring Marcy to focus on Sam. “Tell her, Sam,” he rasped, chest heaving, “or I will.”
Marcy jumped to her feet, fists clenched and anger shimmering off of her in waves. “Get out!” she screamed. “I won’t listen to your lies.”
Inwardly he winced, but his gaze remained steady. “No, you’d r
ather listen to his.” His eyes flicked to Sam. “Tell her the truth, Sam—or I will—now!”
Sam stood to his feet, his eyes cold slits of rage. “I’ll tell her the truth, Patrick, but it won’t be what you want to hear. The truth is you’re so besotted with a woman who won’t have you that you’ll stop at nothing to break us up.”
Patrick took a step forward, fists knuckled into rocks by his side. “No, O’Rourke, the truth is, you’re so besotted with other—”
With a loud roar, Sam bulldozed Patrick to the ground, stealing the wind from him for several seconds while he battered with his fists.
“Sam—stop!” Marcy and Julie screamed in unison before Evan jerked him back, restraining him while raspy breaths pumped in Sam’s chest.
“I … don’t … want to … fight … with you,” Sam hissed, gasping for air while his eyes pleaded with Patrick. “Please … why don’t you … go home … and leave … us alone?”
Head pounding from the slam to the ground, Patrick clambered to his feet, as winded as Sam. He wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll go,” he said with battered breathing, “as soon as you tell her the truth—”
Marcy spun around, eyes glinting with wet fury. “You want the truth, Patrick? The truth is I don’t believe you no matter what you say. From everything I know about you, everything I’ve heard, you’re the one notorious for breaking women’s hearts, for betraying them with other women and using them.” A heave shuddered her chest and her eyes glittered like shards of shattered blue glass. “I want you to leave—now.”
His heart writhed as if those very shards had impaled his chest. “Marcy—”
“No!” Her voice was a hoarse command, eyes flickering while she cut him short with a hand in the air. The muscles of her throat spasmed as she chilled him with a gaze as frigid as the snow beneath her feet. “You say you have feelings for me,” she whispered, tone harsh, “but if you really cared about me, you would cease this vile charade and leave-us-alone!”