A shudder forced its way down his spine. Why? Because soon he would face her again, those emerald eyes and red-gold hair. Her pure heart and her will of iron. He jerked to his side, like an animal trapped in a cage. What he wouldn't give to send Charity home in a taxi. To avoid Faith altogether. To get back on that ship and sail away, never to face the demons of his past. But that wasn't an option. Marcy and Patrick would expect him to come and beg him to stay. God help him, he had no will for the struggle, no desire to pretend all was well. He was trapped, held captive by two sisters. In love with one and impassioned by the other.
Three days. That's all he had. Three days until he saw her again, in the embrace of another man. A man he had willingly stepped aside for. Had, in fact, given her to. Without so much as a fight. He rolled on his back and blinked in the dark, sick with regret. It was a hard, cold fact. It was over. The woman he loved would never be his. And there was nothing he could do but tough it out. And leave. As quickly as possible.
Mitch closed his eyes. Not much of a plan. But it was all he had.
Charity snuggled into the warmth of the bed. She felt so safe. A feeling she hadn't had in a very long time. At least, not since she'd been small, when her father would rock her to sleep in his arms. She glanced at the door to Mitch's cabin. A shaft of moonlight cut through the crack, beaming across the floor like a light from heaven. He was there, just a few feet away, the man who calmed her soul and stirred her blood.
She sighed. The friendship was backfiring. She wanted more.
She turned on her side and closed her eyes, tucking her hands beneath her head on the pillow. Was it prayer or the man that gave her such peace? Mostly the man, she suspected. Although prayer had certainly elevated in her mind. Mitch had planted the seeds that night in the car, compelling her to speak to God on her own. And from the moment she'd agreed to become Rigan's wife, that communication with the Almighty had burgeoned into a daily occurrence. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, God had intervened on her behalf, despite her reckless actions. He'd sent an angel in the form of a bobby that night in the park, sparing her from Rigan's lustful intent. She may have broken bones and bruises, but even that had worked out for her good, just as she and Emma had prayed. She smiled in the dark. Very good, as a matter of fact. The man she loved was in the next room, and for three more days, he was all hers.
She closed her eyes and thought of Mitch, then released a gentle sigh. Her eyelids suddenly flipped open. Three days. A mere seventy-two hours until they arrived in Boston. And the euphoria would end. Her stomach constricted. She'd have to face them all: Faith, Father, Collin.
She jolted up in bed and pinched her hand to her chest. Mitch would be there, but how long would he stay? She thought of Kathleen, and her stomach began to cramp. Her breathing became irregular. She glanced at Mitch's door. Surely the last few days meant as much to him as they did to her? He had to be falling in love too, didn't he? Confused, just like her, happy victims of a beautiful friendship? She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, Lord, let it be so!
But what if it wasn't? What if he planned on taking her home and then sailing away? Returning to Ireland to marry Kathleen? The sick feeling rose from her stomach to her throat, causing her to heave. No! She couldn't risk it. She needed him. He needed her.
Didn't he?
She felt dizzy. Her breathing accelerated and she reached for Mitch's handkerchief. She pressed it to her mouth, feeling the nausea rise. What could she do? How could she make him stay? The fear of losing him, never seeing him again nearly suffocated her. With a violent thrust, she retched into his handkerchief, filling it with the taste of worry that poisoned her tongue.
With shaking fingers, she wadded the cloth and dropped it on the nightstand. The smell of her fear was strong in the room. She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes. She couldn't do this. Allow herself to worry like this. She would simply ask him. Find out tomorrow what his intentions were. Maybe, just maybe, they were one with hers.
The thought calmed her. She drew in a deep breath, desperate to steady her pulse and regain control. She needed sleep, escape from the what-ifs that clawed at her mind.
And she needed to pray. The thought surprised her somewhat, and she turned on her side to blink in the dark. A heavy sigh escaped her lips and she closed her eyes, ready to entreat the Almighty. Dear God, please ... can you let me just drift away ...
A sense of peace pervaded her soul and she finally slept, a prayer answered before barely uttered.
He stood over her, watching her sleep, her face more pale than usual. He sniffed the air. The scent of lilacs was conspicuously absent, replaced by the sour smell of vomit. He glanced at his handkerchief on the nightstand and wrinkled his nose. Definitely unsalvageable. He pulled a clean one from his pocket and wrapped it around the mess, causing his stomach to heave. He tossed both in the trashcan, then went to his room to retrieve a hand towel. He dampened it with water from the pitcher and returned to her bed. He gently touched her shoulder.
She opened her eyes, blinking at the early-morning light.
He stroked her cheek with his finger. "You were sick last night. Why didn't you call?"
"It didn't last long, and I didn't want to bother you." Her lips curved into a sleepy smile. "Sorry, but you're one handkerchief short."
His own lips twitched with humor. "Two. I used a clean one to toss it in the can. Here's a wet towel. Wipe your face." He rested a hand to her head. "You don't feel too warm. Is your stomach still upset?"
She flushed. "A little, but I think it's just a touch of seasickness. What time is it?"
"Almost eight. I didn't want to wake you, but I need some food in my stomach. Maybe you should stay here, and I'll bring you some dry toast."
She sat up, holding the blanket to her chest. "No, I want to go with you." She yawned with a hand to her mouth, then suddenly focused on him. "You don't look so good yourself. Didn't you sleep well?"
"Not particularly. Maybe we both should blame the weather. The waves were a bit restless last night." He glanced out the porthole, then back at her face. "But this morning is nice, the best weather we've had so far. Cool, but no wind. I think we should try to get you walking with those crutches. After breakfast, I want to take you up on the deck so you can practice."
She nodded, slowly swinging her legs out of the bed. "I'll dress warm. Can you hand me the plaid woolen skirt and the high-necked blouse? Oh, and the gray woolen stockings?"
He snatched the requested items from her suitcase and placed them on the bed. "Yell when you're ready, and we'll hit the loo and then eat."
She was particularly quiet through breakfast, refusing to eat anything but crackers and tea, claiming her stomach felt a touch nauseous. It worried him that she was getting sick. He made sure she was well bundled in her coat and blanket when he finally carried her to the top deck. Several couples strolled on the bow, so he headed to the back of the boat and set her on the last bench in the stern. He tugged the blanket around her and squatted down. "I'll go get the crutches. You feeling okay?"
She nodded. Her face was less pale in the cool morning air and her eyes as blue as the sky. They were soft as they searched his. "Thank you for taking such good care of me."
He smiled. "That's what friends are for."
She looked away, her eyes scanning the deep blue of the ocean as it merged with the sky. He followed her gaze. Streaks of yellow sun glittered over the water. "Yes. Good friends. Forever, I hope," she whispered.
He stood up, a twinge in his gut. "I'll be right back."
He returned quickly, forcing his mind to focus on the next three days and not those that would follow. He leaned the crutches against the wall and held out his hand. "We'll take it one crutch at a time. Can you stand on your good leg?"
She nodded and reached up to grasp his hand. He tugged her up and looped an arm around her waist. All at once she looked up beneath a sweep of heavy lashes and he swallowed, painfully aware of her body close against his. He stepped bac
k and reached for the crutch. "Here, put it under your good arm and lean all your weight on your strong leg."
She took it and wobbled while struggling to wedge it beneath her arm. He stood behind her, steadying her with hands to waist. She gave him a shy smile over her shoulder, and her voice was soft and low. "Thanks."
Heat traveled his body. He yanked his hands away. What in the blazes was wrong with him today? They were friends, nothing more. They'd established that. "You're welcome," he muttered. He took another step back, silently vowing to put an ocean between him and the O'Connor sisters as soon as humanly possible.
In no time she was thumping up and down the deck with a satisfied grin on her lips. She was breathless when she finally halted in front of where he lounged on the bench. "Don't look now, Dennehy, but I think you've been replaced."
He studied her through half -lidded eyes, noting the rose on her cheeks from the cool sea air. "Good, now I can sleep in."
She nudged him over with the crutch and sat down. "Only if I let you. I still need help with the stairs, you know, on the ship and at home."
He stiffened. "Your father and brother will be there to help."
She gave him a sideways glance. "So will you, won't you, at least for a few days?"
He kept his eyes trained on the rolling waves, reluctant to gaze into those deadly eyes. "I don't think so, Charity. I need to get back."
She whirled to face him. Her hand clutched his arm. "You can't stay? Just for a while? It would be so fun to show you the sights of Boston."
His lips twisted in irony. "I've seen the sights of Boston, thank you. I'm still trying to forget them."
She blinked. "You mean Faith? I ... I thought you were over her?"
"I am," he said, lifting a curl away from her eyes. "But I'm not looking forward to stirring any memories. Besides, I need to get back."
"For what? You don't have a job."
He arched a brow. "Thanks for your vote of confidence. We don't know that. Michael seems to think Old Man Gallagher will let me stay. But even if he doesn't, I need to find work."
"Father will hire you. He's always looking for good editors."
That one made him laugh. Perfect. A job at the Herald with the ex-fiancee who'd haunted his dreams. "I don't think so."
Charity plopped back against the wall and crossed her arms, a pout surfacing. "Give me one good reason why you can't stay, at least for a few weeks."
He hated to bring it up, but she would understand. He hoped. After all, they were friends. He glanced at her to gauge her reaction. "Kathleen."
The friendship died in her eyes, replaced by steely anger. "She can't spare you for a few measly weeks?"
He exhaled and scratched his brow with the blunt side of his thumb. "She already has, Charity. She's been very patient. More than anybody I know."
"So you're going through with it then? You're going to marry her?"
He gave her a pointed look. "Yes. I am. You know that. We've discussed it over and over again. That's why we're friends and nothing more, remember?"
She reached up and grabbed his chin, jerking his face toward her. "And friends stop friends from making mistakes. You can't marry Kathleen."
"Why not?"
She chewed on her lip, apparently preparing her strategy. "Because deep inside, I don't think you love her ... do you?"
He huffed out a sigh and massaged his temple with the ball of his hand. "In my own way I do."
She was back in his face again, the blue eyes fairly sizzling with sarcasm. "A heartfelt declaration of love if I ever heard one. Please stop, Mitch, the passion is scalding me."
His jaw tightened. "Knock it off, Charity. There's more to passion than boiling your blood. And just for your information, we had that, too, in the past. We'll have it again."
"But why? You're settling for lukewarm when you can have more."
He leaned against the wall, his head back and eyes closed. His lips quirked into a faint smile. "I'm old, remember? I don't need more. Besides, I owe Kathleen. She was there years ago when I needed her, waiting in the wings. Soft, warm, a kind of ethereal beauty. Everything Anna wasn't. She got me through one of the worst times of my life."
"But that was then. This is now."
He gave her a slitted glance. "She's a good woman, Charity. She loves me and God."
"But you don't love her." Worry glistened in her eyes.
He expelled a heavy breath and reached to tuck her under his arm. "I do love her ... not like I love Faith, but enough. Our love will grow."
He felt her stiffen. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"You said 'like you love Faith.'"
"What?"
She looked up with a challenge in her eyes. "You said 'like you love Faith.' Present tense."
He blinked, then sat back. "For pity's sake. Loved Faith, all right?"
She shifted on the bench to face him. "You're lying. You're still in love with my sister, aren't you?"
He closed his eyes. A scowl tainted his lips. "Of course I love your sister. I'll always love her. For pity's sake, she was going to be my wife. But it's different now. I'm over her."
"Swear it."
He blinked at her as if she'd said she was going for a swim. "What?"
"Swear that you're over my sister. I don't think you can. I think that's the reason you didn't sleep last night. And the reason you're grouchy this morning. And I'm pretty sure it's the reason you won't stay in Boston, either. Even for a few days."
He clamped his lips tight and ground his jaw. "I'm not staying in Boston because I need to get back and find a job. And I'm not grouchy."
"You are too. You're doing that thing with your jaw again. And the real reason you're not staying in Boston is because you're a coward. Why don't you just admit it?"
He glared, incensed all the more at the anger in her eyes. She thinks I'm a coward? "The only thing I'll admit is that both of us got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. And you've got a lot of nerve calling me grouchy. I've seen better moods on a wounded Rottweiler."
She sat up straight, all color gone from her cheeks. "Suddenly I don't feel so well. I'm going back to the cabin." She snatched the crutch and pushed herself to a standing position.
He clamped a hand on her arm and stood. "You're not steady enough on those crutches yet. I'll carry you."
She jerked away. "I don't want you to carry me. I can do it."
He ignored the heat in her eyes and swooped her up in his arms, searing her with heat of his own. "I'm carrying you."
She tried to smack him with the crutch. "I don't need you. I can get along just fine."
He knocked the crutch from her hand. It hit the deck with a noisy clatter, causing several people to glance their way. He left it where it lay and strode toward the door. "So we're back to this, are we?" He kicked the door open and stormed up the stairs.
"You're a yellow-bellied bully and I hate you, Mitch Dennehy!"
"You'll get over it," he said with a grunt. He swung her cabin door open and heaved her on the bed, breathing hard from the effort.
She landed with a bounce. Wet anger glinted in her eyes. "Get out! You're a better coward than friend. I don't want to see you for the rest of the trip. Just bring me my crutches."
"That may work for the bathroom, but you may starve in the process."
Her face suddenly paled and she pressed a hand to her stomach, emitting a tiny burp. She lifted her chin. "I'm sure Mr. Graham Huntington would be glad to oblige."
A nerved popped in his cheek. "Take a nap, will you? Your disposition is downright ugly. I'll be the only one carting your sassy mouth around, not some smooth-talking dandy."
"What do you care? You're nothing but a pathetic coward, running home to Kathleen. Too afraid to face your past and put it behind."
He stared at her, seeing the hurt in her eyes for the first time. He sighed. "Get some rest, Charity. I'm worried about you. You look pale."
"Mitch .. .
He stopped, ha
nd on the knob. "What?"
"I ... don't feel so good."
He turned. "Your stomach again?"
"I think so."
"Are you going to throw up?"
Her mouth opened and he lunged for the waste can. He shoved it in her hands. She heaved and buried her head, retching her little heart out. Mitch sat beside her and held her hair away from her face. When she finally came up for air, her lips were white and her face pinched. His heart twisted. "Are you okay? All done?"
She nodded.
He frowned and reached for the damp towel on the nightstand. He wiped her face. "You've been sick an awful lot, young lady. No appetite, upset stomach all the time."
She shivered. "I know. I don't know what's going on, but I feel like I can't breathe." She grappled for the high collar of her blouse and fumbled to open the first two buttons. She drew in some air and groaned. "I must be eating something, though, because my clothes feel so tight. This skirt feels like it's cutting me in two."
He pushed hair away from her eyes. "Maybe sailing doesn't agree with you. Something's not right. All those endless trips to the bathroom, up-and-down moods. . . " He kissed the top of her head, inflecting tease in his tone. "Nasty temper."
She didn't laugh and he pulled away, studying the haggard look on her face. His lips parted to speak, but in one wild beat of his heart, the air trapped in his throat.
No. It couldn't be.
She looked up, a hand to her mouth, barely concealing another belch. "Mitch, could you hand me that last cracker in the drawer? This nausea seems to be getting worse."