He swallowed hard. Crackers. Moods. Nausea. He'd seen it before. Twice with his own mother, before she'd eventually miscarried. Irascible moods, pale face, morning sickness.
And crackers.
He reached in the drawer and handed it to her, his gaze fixed on her face. "Charity, that night that Rigan beat you ... did he ... do anything else?"
Her eyes went wide and she began to cough.
He jumped up to pour a glass of water and handed it to her. "Take a drink."
She guzzled, then drew in a deep breath and handed the glass back with shaky fingers.
"Did he?"
She stared at him in horror, blood flooding her pale cheeks. Her lips quivered as if to speak, but nothing came out.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, panic rising in his chest. "Did he rape you? Is that it? All this nausea, up-and-down moods, trips to the bathroom-could you be pregnant?"
She blinked in shock, ready to tell the truth, but it lodged in her throat at the fury in his eyes. The blood drained from her face as she realized his train of thought. He was worried. Worried that Rigan had done to her what he'd done to Anna. She began to heave, a battle warring in her brain. Tell the truth. Or allow its absence to work in her favor.
He pushed the trash can back into her lap and stood. "I'm going to get more crackers and ginger ale to settle your stomach. But when I get back, we're going to talk."
The door slammed. She sagged on the bed while her pulse pounded in her brain. She shuddered at the awful opportunity that loomed before her. Tell the truth and lose him to Kathleen. Remain silent and let him believe a lie. A lie that could change the course of his heart.
And hers.
Charity stared at the ceiling, and her breathing shallowed as she lay flat on the bed. Her stomach persisted in a dull ache, but it was nothing compared to her heart. Fear of losing him sliced through her like the thin razor of deceit she now considered in her mind. But Lord, I love him!
Enough to let go?
For the first time in her life, the weight of that pure emotion slammed headlong into her desire to have him, roiling in her stomach like the foam on the sea.
Did she? Love him enough to let go? To put his wants before her own? She shuddered. To relinquish and bend to the will of God? She turned on her side and blinked, gentle revelation catching her unaware. When had the will of God become a factor? When had her vendetta against him softened and waned? Somewhere along the way, she supposed, between the pain of Rigan's beating and the utterance of prayer. Prayers she'd begun whispering in the dark of night, flooding her with something she'd never experienced before. His peace.
But where was his peace now? She jolted up, clutching at her throat. The thought of losing Mitch forced a groan from her lips. "Oh, God, I need him! And this is my chance. Just one small silence, that's all. Not even a lie uttered from my lips, only tears to bear the blame."
She pushed shaky fingers through her hair as she scanned the ceiling, hoping for some sense of divine approval. All she saw was Mitch's face in her mind, and her resolve hardened like the sin in her heart. Conviction pierced, but she shook it off, steeling her nerve. -1 love him, Lord. You know that. And he loves me. Please. One small white lie. I can't afford to lose him."
Breathing hard, she reached for the half-eaten cracker and broke off a tiny piece. She glanced at the door, then quickly ground it with her thumb and placed a single crumb in her eye. Guilt shivered through her. She flinched a number of times. Her eye began to water. She repeated with the second, blinking until both felt red and scratchy. She reached for the water and dipped her fingers in. Patting her cheeks, she rubbed hard to produce a blotchy effect, then dampened her pillow. She felt faint and sucked in a gulp of air, undoing another button. Her fingers stilled as she stared down at her blouse.
No.
She chewed on her lip, wrestling with her conscience. Her fingers twitched in her lap, and her gaze darted to the door. She moistened her lips. With heart thumping wildly, she unlatched another button, allowing the blouse to flap open and hint at the soft swell of her breasts. She swallowed hard and made the sign of the cross before lying prostrate on the bed. Burying her head in the pillow, she squeezed her eyes shut to wait.
The doorknob turned, and fear heaved in her stomach.
"Charity?"
She glanced up through swollen eyes and choked back a sob. He loomed large in the cabin, ginger ale in hand and worry on his face. Pain squeezed in her heart. Oh, Lord, I need him!
He closed the door and moved toward the bed. He put her drink on the nightstand and squatted beside her, searching her eyes. "You've been crying."
She turned on her side and pressed a hand to her stomach.
He stood up and stared, his gaze fixed on her open blouse. She blushed and closed the gaping material with her hands. "Sorry, I felt like I was suffocating."
He dragged a chair over to sit, his lips pressed tight. "I suggest you latch the lowest button, if you don't mind."
She nodded and looped it closed.
He fished a napkin from his pocket and unfolded it to reveal the crackers. "Here."
She took one, barely nibbling on the edge.
He touched her hand. "Tell me the truth. Did Rigan rape you?"
The truth.
Guilt twisted in her chest. She began to cry uncontrollably, cracker tears spilling like rain. God, please, I can see it in his eyes. He loves me.
"Charity, answer me."
She wept harder, unwilling to lie ... unwilling to tell the truth.
He pulled back and lifted her chin with his hand. "Are you late?"
She felt the blush to the roots of her hair.
"You are, aren't you?"
She was, by several days. She bit her lip and nodded, followed by a rush of pitiful heaves.
He wrenched her to his chest. "So help me, I'll kill him."
He rocked her and stroked her hair, guilt robbing her of the comfort of his arms. Her sobs had never come so easily.
He stood and lifted her up, then dragged the bedspread down. With gentle hands, he placed her on the far side and tucked the covers around her, leaving his side of the bed bare. Without a word, he sat down beside her and pulled her to him, resting her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. "You need to sleep, little girl. You look exhausted. And when you wake up, I'll be right here. It's going to be okay. Trust me."
"I do, Mitch. More than anyone I know." She squeezed her eyes, trying to shut out the shame she felt. "Are you going to try and sleep too?"
"Yes."
She curled closer and shivered, her body shuddering with painful whimpers. Tears seeped from her eyes that had more to do with regret than crackers. I'll tell him in Boston, Lord, 1 promise. And with a quivering sigh, she cried herself to sleep, hopefully to a place of slumber far from her wretched soul.
Sleep? He couldn't even blink. He just sat staring, his body stiff and his eyes dry sockets of shock. He could hear the even rhythm of her breathing as she slept, and it calmed him somewhat. He looked at her beautiful face, delicate lashes curved against soft skin and full lips parted. He felt a stab in his chest. She didn't deserve this.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to think. What was she going to do? She would be ostracized, not by her family, but by everyone else. Forced into hiding for six months or more, her body torn apart by the pain of pregnancy and labor, and for what? To give birth to the child of the man who brutalized her. Mitch's heart seized in his chest, pumping with fresh hate. He released a ragged breath. God forgive me.
He steeled his jaw. He wouldn't run again. Not a second time. This time he would stay and make sure Rigan's dirty work didn't take a life. Or two. He would marry her, if need be. They'd become good friends over the last week, able to talk about anything and laugh about everything, sharing hopes and dreams. He sucked in a deep breath, thinking about the chemise. And she stirred his blood more than any woman alive. He didn't completely trust her, but that would co
me in time.
Wouldn't it?
She jerked in his arms and he studied her. A beautiful little girl with a big ugly problem. One he could certainly solve. Would she marry him? Probably. His talk of Kathleen always upset her. And his slip of the tongue about loving Faith had put her over the top. Despite her attempts at nonchalance and friendship, every indication seemed to be there. She was a woman in love. And he was pretty sure it was with him.
But did he love her? He let his mind wander over the months he'd known her. She was a spoiled little brat who used her beauty to manipulate and coax. But she'd started to change, gotten under his skin in a big way. She could rouse his temperor his passion-with a tilt of her head or a word from her lips. He looked down. Or a deadly undergarment.
When Bridget had asked him to take her to Boston, he hadn't been happy. But the idea had grown on him, settled in like a habit that was hard to break. In so many ways she was like a child constantly underfoot, trying one's patience. But when they were gone, you missed them something fierce. Did he love her? He swallowed hard, finally willing to admit it. He was pretty sure he did. He let that sink in, roll around in his brain for the very first time. Images flashed of the week they'd shared: a gloating competitor at Whist; a wildcat in his arms when she couldn't get her way; a little girl awed by a seagull in flight. He thought of her on deck, cocky and sure as she hobbled on a crutch, strutting with as much confidence as the Queen of England herself. He looked at her now, asleep in his arms, and his heart swelled with love. He glanced at the ring on her finger, then touched the one on his own. Somehow it felt right. She belonged to him.
She moaned and shifted away. The blanket scooted down to reveal a hint of lacey chemise inside the unbuttoned blouse. He let his eyes linger, enjoying the heat flooding his veins. She would be his, his very own wife, in his bed and sanctioned by God. He inhaled deeply and released it in one long, shaky breath. He jerked the blanket back up. Not near soon enough.
The cabin was almost dark when she finally stirred to the sound of snoring. She propped up on her good arm and blinked, adjusting her eyes to the shadows of the room. Mitch lay sprawled in the chair beside her bed, arms folded loosely across his chest. A low grunt, similar to a growl, escaped his open mouth. She scanned the length of him and chewed on her lip. He looked ridiculously uncomfortable, like a giant in a schoolroom chair, slouched low and those long, powerful legs slanted stiff, halfway across the tiny cabin. His head rested on the back of the seat, forcing that formidable chin to jut in the air, and his broad chest rose and fell with every groan issued. She reached to wake him, and her fingers stilled on his arm. She swallowed hard. Even in sleep, his biceps were taut and firm. She released a quiet sigh. He was truly a beautiful man. The snoring continued, so she allowed her fingers to trail ...
In one shocked breath, he jolted awake. "What are you doing?" he whispered.
Heat stung her cheeks. She quickly glanced out the porthole to deflect her embarrassment. "Nothing. I just turned to look out the window. Goodness, would you look how dark it is! It must be nigh past dinnertime."
"Uh-huh." He slowly stood and stretched his limbs with a dubious smile. "It sure felt like a caress to me," he said with a yawn, then paused long enough to reveal the flicker of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He fixed her with a penetrating gaze and angled a brow. "Was it?"
She was glad it was getting dark-her face was on fire. She looked away, taking great care to adjust the blanket and avoid his eyes. "Don't be silly, Mitch, you're imagining things. I didn't even touch your arm-"
He squatted and took her chin firmly in hand, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Don't, Charity. Don't start our marriage off with a lie. No more lies. Just truth. Do you understand?"
The air thinned in her throat. "Our ... marriage?"
His eyes searched hers for a brief moment, then strayed to her lips. "If you say yes."
"M-marry you?" Her heart stopped, then commenced thudding in her chest.
His eyes locked on hers as he slowly brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. He eased from his squatting position to his knees. "That's not an answer," he whispered. He pressed his lips to her palm, causing warmth to fan through her. "Will you marry me?"
She swallowed hard, guilt colliding with joy. "Oh, Mitch ... are you ... are you sure?"
A crooked smile tilted his mouth. "Still not an answer."
She sucked in a deep breath. Guilt won out. "But why? Why would you do this?"
His smile faded as he rose to his feet. "Because I'm not going to let you go through this alone."
She chewed on her thumbnail and glanced up. "Is ... is that all?"
He studied her through narrow lids. "No, that's not all. We're good friends."
"Oh." She tilted her head and gave him a shy look, allowing for a slow sweep of lashes. "Only friends? Nothing more?"
He laughed and turned to grab a fresh dress from her suitcase. He threw it at her, heating her with a wicked grin. "Yeah, there's more. Because you're nothing but trouble, little girl, and somebody's got to take care of you. Here, put this on. That one looks like you slept in it." He started for the door.
"But wait ... I mean, do you..."
He paused, not bothering to turn around. "Do I love you?"
Her heart constricted. "Yes," she whispered. "Do you?"
His shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch, and she saw his head dip, as if deep in thought. It seemed an eternity as she waited, daring not to breathe lest she miss his reply.
His back finally heaved with a quiet sigh. "God help me, I do," he whispered.
The relief rushed from her lungs and she closed her eyes. Thank you, God.
He opened his cabin door. "Get dressed. I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
"Mitch?"
He turned, hands slung low on his hips. "Yeah?"
She scrunched her nose. "I'll marry you, I guess."
He grinned. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
A ton of bricks. When had it fallen? Yesterday he wasn't sure he even liked her. Today he was hopelessly in love. When had the world shifted on its axis and become a better place?
Mitch yawned and tucked his shaving kit back in the drawer and stripped off his shirt, thinking about the woman in the next room. The woman who would be his wife. Breathtaking, exasperating, engaging, arousing. He grinned. Especially arousing. And she was all his-a little girl, a woman, a mother.
His glow faded. A mother. Bearing the child of a man he hated. If she was, in fact, pregnant. He supposed it could be a false alarm. But the symptoms were all there, and her tears had been more than real. Rigan had raped her. Her emotional response to his question had made that abundantly clear.
He flung his trousers over a chair. It didn't matter. He would raise it as his own. And Rigan Gallagher would never know that Mitch Dennehy's child was his. He slipped into his pajama bottoms and pulled the covers back, flopping into the bed.
Soon he would see Faith. In the same house he had said goodbye to her over a year ago. And the woman who had destroyed them both would be on his arm, poised to share his life. He sighed. God certainly had a bizarre sense of humor, although Mitch didn't crack much of a smile. He glanced up, his mind exhausted with thought. Am I doing the right thing? Am I making a mistake? This woman has laid claim to my soul. But what do you want, God?
He closed his eyes and saw Kathleen, and the gloom of guilt was immediate. His heart ached in his chest. More hurt. By his hand. Dear God, please protect her. Strengthen her spirit and prepare her. Please don't let hergrieve. Bless her with a man who will cherish her and love her the way she deserves.
Mitch turned on his side. And help me, please, to do the right thing.
Charity turned on her side. I'll do the right thing, Lord, Iprom- ise, once we're in Boston. She pressed a hand to her chest as if to calm the rush of her heart. I'm so close, and he's everything I've ever wanted. I didn't actually lie after all. I just didn't tell the truth.
"D
on't, Charity. Don't start our marriage off with a lie. No more lies. Just truth. "
She swallowed hard, guilt souring her stomach. Just this once, God. And never again. She would turn over a new leaf. Mitch Dennehy's wife-pure as the driven snow. She bit her lip. And holier than Faith, if need be.
She tucked the pillow under her chin, wondering what her sister would think. She sighed. Did it really matter? She and Faith were strangers at best. Charity blinked in the dark. How very odd their lives had turned out. Strangers in love with the same men. Two sisters, like night and day. A sad smile shadowed her lips. And maybe more alike than they knew.
"Scared?"
She nodded against his chest. His woolen coat was solid and warm against her face, in stark contrast to the frigid air of the cab.
Mitch rubbed her arms and pressed a kiss to her head. "Don't be. You're not alone. We're a force of two now." Soft billows of steam drifted from his words, lingering.
Like her doubt.
She cupped her gloved hands to blow on them. 11 know, but the whole thing is so surreal. Seeing Faith again. Her marrying my ex-fiance, me marrying hers. Gives me cold chills."
He lifted her chin with his finger. The soft leather of his glove tickled her jaw. He had that smoky look he'd worn the last forty-eight hours. The kind that fixated on her lips instead of her eyes. He gave her a dangerous grin. "Well, then how about some warm ones?"
Her temperature rose even before his mouth met hers, firm and warm, staking his claim. Heat shot through her, making her dizzy in his arms. Her head languished back, hungry for more. He caressed her lips, gently nibbling, playful at first, then deeper and deeper. His urgency seemed to collide with her own, evident in the press of his mouth and the pull of his hands. And then, with a low groan, he pushed her away, his breathing as erratic as if he'd just run a mile. The glazed look in his eyes defied the words of his mouth. "This has got to stop, Charity."