A Light in the Window (19 page)

Sam laughed and butted Patrick aside. “Too late, O’Connor—I see an ear-boxing in your future, my friend, although I might just take one myself if administered by this beauty.” He wheeled Holly through the door, allowing his hand to casually brush against Marcy’s as he passed, fingers twining with hers for the briefest of moments. Patrick quickly turned away, Marcy’s reaction—a pretty blush, lowered lashes, shy smile—grating his nerves. He preferred to focus on painting scenery rather than Sam’s obvious effect on the woman of his dreams. Squatting, he proceeded to stir the paint, anxious to get on with the barn backdrop.

“Patrick?”

“Yes?” He stirred the paint too briskly, causing splotches to fly and splatter his arm. His lips ground tight.

“Would you … would you mind facing me, please?” she whispered, the soft proximity of her voice over his shoulder sending shivers of warmth to the tips of his fingers.

Expelling a noisy sigh, he rose and turned with a slack of his hip, prepared to fend off her obvious dislike. “Look, Marcy, I didn’t mean to call you a—” The words locked in his throat at her nearness, a mere two feet away while those blue eyes peered up with genuine warmth instead of her usual polite civility. He swallowed hard, bewitched by the humility of her gaze, the gentle smile on those full, pink lips, hair the color of white gold, gleaming in the sun. The scent of lilac water and Pear’s soap captured him, tangling his tongue—and his stomach—into more knots than the clover necklace Tillie had strung around his neck.

“I know that,” she said quietly. The creamy lines of her throat shifted along with his while the corners of that perfect mouth tipped the barest amount. “Although I suspect you’d be more than justified, with all the snapping and growling I’ve done at you lately.”

He was speechless, unable to prevent the sag of his mouth anymore than he could the erratic thud of his heart.

Her smile blossomed like a rose—pink, soft, and slow—and as breathtaking as a garden of exotic blooms. A delicate blush dusted creamy cheeks as dewy as satin, and just as sensual. “I …” Impossibly long eyelashes the color of dark honey flickered several times as if her words would not come without their gentle prompting. She cleared her throat and exhaled a shaky breath, the action quivering the bodice of a crisp blue blouse the exact shade of her eyes. “The truth is, I owe you an apology, Patrick. I’ve … been somewhat distant and cool to you, I know, and I’m sorry.”

He blinked.
She’s apologizing? No!
How would he remain aloof without the barrier of her silence? Her disdain? All moisture left his mouth, gluing his words to his tongue like a paintbrush left overnight in a bucket.

His silence must have unnerved her because the color in her face heightened and she began to ramble while she picked at her nails, easing his own anxiety in her presence for the very first time. Rather enjoying that he could fluster her as much as she could him, he waited, which given the fact he was dumbstruck, wasn’t difficult in the least.

“You’ve b-been nothing b-but kind to me,” she stuttered. When her eyes finally met his, her face fused as scarlet as the paint on the brush in his hand, the memory of his stolen kiss the night on her porch most likely coming to mind. She quickly looked away, gaze drawn to the haphazard hearts he and Tillie had painted. “The only explanation I have is that I have a dear cousin in New York who was engaged to a man who looked a lot like you, you see, and he broke it off after he … he …”

He detected the barest quiver of her chin, and comprehension dawned as clear as the sun-rich summer day. Yes, suddenly he did see … A sheen marred her luminous gaze, and the sight produced a cramp in his chest. “Marcy—”

She raised a palm, as if her own words begged release as much as the tears in her eyes. “No, please—let me finish because I need you to understand the reason for my rude behavior.”

He nodded, allowing the breath in his lungs to slowly seep out.

Squaring her shoulders, she raised both eyes and chin, meeting his gaze dead-on with a look of such vulnerability that he fought the urge to gather her in his arms. “You see, she loved this man with all of her heart and he … r-robbed her of her v-virtue, leaving her with a child he conveniently claimed was not his.” Her hand shook as she swiped at the single tear trailing her face. “I cannot even begin to convey the depth of my cousin’s humiliation and sorrow …” She promptly took the handkerchief he offered and dabbed at her eyes. “Or mine.”

“Marcy, I’m so sorry—”

She halted him with another hand, brows pinched over closed lids while she struggled to say what she obviously needed to say. “No, Patrick, please—hear me out. This is difficult as it is, but I need you to know just why I’ve been so mistrustful of you.” She sucked in a shaky breath and continued. “Not only did Nora’s situation nearly destroy me, but from the moment I came out in society, it seemed I was besieged by handsome rogues who left me with a bad taste in my mouth.” Her fingers quivered as they shielded her eyes. “The final blow came when an older man made advances to me …” She inhaled deeply, chest expanding and contracting while her hand slumped to her side. Her reluctant gaze finally rose to meet his. “He was a very handsome
married
man, you see …” Muscles shifted in her throat as tears glimmered in her eyes. “And, unfortunately, the father of my best friend.”

A ball of regret jerked in his throat. “Marcy, I’m so desperately sorry. Not only about your cousin and your friend’s father, but for my despicable behavior that night—”

“Thank you—” she said in a rush, then attempted a smile that came off tremulous at best. “And I believe you truly are. I’ve seen your kindness with the girls, with Evan and Miss Clara, and even the gentle souls at the center like Luther.” The blue eyes sharpened, as if she were really seeing him for the first time. “Julie and Sam and the O’Rourkes love you, and Tillie and Holly adore you …” One corner of her mouth tilted up. “And you’ve stolen the hearts of every female south of Boston proper, including Sister Francine.” A genuine smile lit her face—the first she had ever really given him—spilling across her lips like the sweetest of nectars he craved to taste. “I believe I have misjudged you based on the fact that you are …” The blush was back, staining her cheeks despite the glimmer of tease in her eyes. “An attractive man and notorious rogue.”

Notorious rogue.
A sharp pain seared his gut. Or in the words of his father—
fornicator
—a word he would never again hear from his father’s lips except in the dark recesses of his mind. It was his turn to blush, a completely uncommon occurrence with women. He pushed the painful thoughts of his father aside and attempted to deflect his grief and shame with an off-center smile. “Thank you, Marceline, but rogues need love too, you know.”

Her soft chuckle was music to his ears. “Yes, well, one would certainly find it, Mr. O’Connor, if one were inclined to look beyond a pretty face, you know, into the heart and soul.”

His smile faded to reveal some of the mourning that clotted thick in his throat. “A lesson learned all too late, I’m afraid,” he said quietly. “And only one of many regrets, I assure you.”

She blinked, and as if suddenly paralyzed by his words, her stare locked with his while a sheen of moisture marred her gaze, his own grief suddenly mirrored in her face. “I … never really had the chance at the funeral to tell you how very sorry I am about the sudden passing of your father.” She drew in a shaky breath, allowing it to quiver on a fragile sigh while compassion welled in her eyes. “It must be such a painful thing to lose someone you love.”

More than you know, Marceline,
he thought with an ache only partially caused by the death of his father, his fierce regret and shame greatly compounded by the woman before him.

She broke the spell with a clear of her throat, her manner suddenly as painfully efficient as always. She drew in a deep breath, head cocked as she studied him through questioning eyes. “So … apology accepted?” she asked with a gentle smile.

He wiped his hand on his stained work pants and extended it, a slow grin wending its way across his lips. “Most assuredly, Miss Murphy. Shall we start anew, then—as friends?”

Her gaze flicked to his proffered hand and back, uncertainty clouding her eyes while her tongue glossed her teeth, a habit he’d noticed whenever she was tentative or nervous about something. She slowly placed her hand in his and he carefully closed his palm around it. Her touch jolted with that same spark of current he’d experienced the last time, tingling his body—and from her sharp intake of breath—hers as well. He felt her start to pull away, and he held on, lingering long enough to give her a firm shake.

Slipping her hand from his, she barricaded her arms to her waist, gaze averted. “Now that we are officially friends, Mr. O’Connor—”

“Patrick,” he said quietly, noting she suddenly seemed ill at ease.

She nodded, still avoiding his eyes. “Patrick,” she said softly, and the very sound unleashed a shot of warmth that all but stole the breath from his lungs. “I wanted to apologize because I was wrong, certainly, but for another reason as well.” Her gaze rose to meet his with a tentative look. “You see, Sam has expressed an interest in—”

“I know,” he said quickly, wanting to deflect her awkwardness as well as his own. “He told me.”

She nodded. “It’s no reflection on you, of course, it’s just that Sam and I have always had …” Honeyed brows peaked, as if begging him to understand. “A connection, if you will.” A melancholy smile flickered on her lips. “And, of course, Julie has been plotting a relationship between us forever it seems …”

“It’s all right, I understand,” he whispered, wishing that understanding alone could dispel the sick feeling in his gut.

Relief eased the strain in her face. “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me, Patrick—your sensitivity in this situation.” She released a shuddery breath, a sincere smile beaming from her beautiful face once again. “Well, I best be going—a restless mood looms inside, no doubt.”

And outside as well …
He forced a smile. “No doubt.”

She turned to go, then whirled around at the door with a twinkle in her eye, inclining her head toward the sloppy hearts on the scenery behind him. “I’m hoping you’re a wee bit better with barns, Mr. O’Connor, than you are with hearts,” she said, a clear jest in her tone.

He watched her disappear through the door and for the first time, he felt the full extent of his grief. “So do I, Miss Murphy,” he whispered, “so do I.”

Marcy watched as Sam’s three little sisters and brother flew down the grassy hill of O’Reilly Park, shrieking wildly on their way to skip stones in the lake. “Don’t go too far,” she called after them, stomach in knots.
Please …

Palms clammy, she repacked the remnants of their lunch back into the wooden basket Sam’s mother had sent along, taking great pains to avoid Sam’s gaze. At the time, a picnic in the park had seemed like a good idea as their first official outing, especially since his sisters and brother would be along to chaperone. Marcy gulped as she hooked the basket closed. And she’d had a wonderful time—teasing with his sisters, playing tag on the lawn, laughing with Sam while he taught her how to fish, and even working on Father Fitz’s status report together. But now that she was alone with a rake who rippled her stomach as much as the skipping stones rippled the lake, she wasn’t so sure, especially lounging on a blanket in a secluded section of the park. Her eyes flicked to the shore where his siblings raced along to the far end of the lake, too distant and too distracted to care what their big brother did, and suddenly Marcy’s comfort level was as low as O’Reilly Lake after a rainless summer.

She inched to the edge of the blanket and nervously clasped her hands around tented knees, making sure her ankles were properly covered by her skirt. Hand to her eyes, she s
canned the shore of the azure lake as it sparkled in the sun, reveling in the beauty of a perfect late-summer day. The lake shimmered beneath the cloudless sky while boats skimmed its surface and families meandered its shore. Children’s laughter and the chatter of birds literally hummed in the air, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the towering oak overhead. Head back, she squinted at the sunlight that flickered through the branches above, imagining the vestige of golden foliage that would come in the month ahead. One half-gilded leaf sailed on a breeze, caressing her cheek, skimming her jaw … just like Sam had that night in the kitchen. Her heart stalled.

 
Sam.

Swallowing hard, she chanced a peek his way, and her
cheeks warmed at his blatant stare, his lean and muscled body sideways in an easy sprawl while he studied her, head propped in his hand. Humor sparkled in his dark eyes. “I’m not going to bite, Marceline,” he said in a husky tone, reaching out to graze the arm of her lavender silk blouse with a single finger. “We already had lunch, remember?”

 
A shaky giggle parted from her lips as she shifted to face him, positioning herself at the far corner of the tattered blanket while she once again encircled her knees like a vise. “I should hope not, Samuel O’Rourke, after the quantity of fried chicken you just consumed.” She gave him a playful thrust of her chin, the tease helping to calm her rattled nerves.

He laughed and fiddled with a frayed rose on his mother’s old quilt while he peered up beneath dark lashes. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Marcy, I’ve grown into a man with a ravenous appetite.”

Oh, yes, I’ve noticed …

“So,” he continued in a casually polite tone, “tell me about Marceline Murphy.”

Her head tilted with a squint. “You already know everything about me, Sam—we grew up together, remember?”

“Yes, I do.” His fingers gently pulled at a loose thread from the quilt, carefully tugging it free. “I know you’re an only child who is a voracious bookworm and my sister’s best friend. Julie tells me you were at the top of your class at your old school in New York, the president of the drama club
and
an actual debutante with an official coming out in
high society
.” His eyes twinkled on the last two words before he continued. “And I have on good authority that as a little girl, you not only had a propensity for climbing trees that were too high, but getting stuck at the top, too afraid to come down.”

She laughed. “Yes, I do suppose I tend to shoot high with goals in life, it seems, only to freeze in terror when I’ve gone too far.”

He cocked his head, assessing her through curious eyes. “And just what are your ‘goals,’ Marcy?” he said softly, “besides reading books and scaling heights?”

She sighed, the tension in her limbs easing along with it. “Well, originally, my parents had hoped to send me to Vassar College in New York, but when Papa lost his job with the railroad, that all changed. Now they want me to go to Smith College here in Boston next year, provided the vice president job Papa applied for comes through, God willing.” She wound her arms around her knees and rested her chin on top. “He thinks it’s essential for a well-bred young lady to be well-rounded in every field of study—music, drama, academics. But I have to admit, it’s always been his dream, not mine.”

Sam abandoned the now unraveled rose for a leftover apple at the edge of the blanket. “So, what is your dream, then?” His gaze fixed on hers as he tossed the fruit in the air, Max’s bite marks clearly evident in its side.

Marcy felt a rush of adrenaline, and for the first time all day, it had nothing to do with Sam. She sucked in a deep breath laced
with the loamy scent of the mossy bank, the fishy smell of the lake, and the lingering trace of
Sam’s shaving soap, and quickly released it again. Her voice fairly brimmed with excitement. “I love my parents, I do, but I haven’t the heart to tell them that my dreams look nothing like theirs. I’m not happy Papa lost his job, but there’s a part of me that is so grateful we were forced to return to Boston, so grateful that …” She absently picked at her nails, guilt working its way into her tone while she peeked up at Sam, hoping he wouldn’t think her crazy or worse yet, ungrateful. “Well, that our current financial dilemma may allow me to do what I’ve always longed to do.”

His brow lifted when she paused. “And that is …?”

She chewed the edge of her lip and then grinned outright. “Oh, Sam, I’d give anything to work with the babies at the St. Mary's Infant Asylum and Lying-In Hospital after I graduate instead of college, absolutely anything! Not that I don’t want Papa to find a wonderful job, mind you, but nothing thrills my heart more than babies, and if we don’t have the finances to send me to Smith next year, well, then I hope to acquire a position at St. Mary’s.”

Sam’s other thick brow rose along with the first. “Blue blazes, Marcy, does that mean you plan to forego marriage and children of your own?”

She gave him a shy smile. “Heavens no—I’ve longed to fall in love, get married, and have babies since I received my first bisque baby doll the Christmas I was five.” A bit of melancholy niggled at the memories of the dozens of dolls she’d collected over the years to assuage her yearning for siblings, vowing she would have a large family like that someday. Her thoughts leap-frogged to her cousin Nora and the precious child she had to give up, and Marcy’s euphoria suddenly seeped out with another frail sigh. “But until that happens, I’m content to give my love to those precious little ones who have no mothers of their own,” she whispered, thoughts of Nora’s broken engagement a stark reminder that marriage wasn’t always a guarantee. Shaking off her malaise, Marcy lifted her chin with a warm smile. “There will be plenty of time for marriage if it’s meant to be, but until it happens, I hope to serve and love little ones who have no family of their own.”

Mouth agape, Sam stared in awe as if she’d just sprouted a halo. “Remarkable,” he breathed, the edges of his mouth curling in a slow grin.

“‘Remarkable’ that I love babies and want to care for them?” Marcy dipped her head in a skeptical smile. “I don’t think so. I’m a woman, Sam—that’s what women do—they love babies. What’s so remarkable about that?”

He chuckled, bunching the blanket beneath his head as a makeshift pillow, elbows cocked and hands braced to the back of his neck. “Nothing if you’re a woman with an eye on a gold band to accomplish the feat. But loving babies on your own, with no immediate interest to toss a noose around some man’s neck?” He shook his head, his eyes glowing with interest. “That, Marceline Murphy, is truly remarkable.” His gaze traveled from her high-collared lavender silk blouse to the black laced shoes beneath her gray gabardine skirt, and his low whistle pierced the air. “Especially for a woman who looks like you,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t tip my hand, I know, but regrettably, I’m as blunt and honest as I am bold, so I have to say, Marceline, I could find myself falling in love with a woman like you. Trust me—nothing is more appealing to a man like me than a woman who’s willing to wait for that white picket fence.”

Marcy tipped her head, her stomach swooping along with the seagulls over the water. “A man like you? And what exactly is that?” she teased, hoping to deflect the disappointment his words instilled.

“Oh, you know—a so-called rogue who would like to experience life before settling down.” Face to the sun, he closed his eyes while a breeze ruffled the curls on his head. “That is, if one settles down at all.”

Marcy’s jaw dropped so quickly, she was grateful Sam’s eyes were shut. “If you settle down at all?” She covered her shock with a light tone. “Goodness, coming from a wonderful family like yours, I would think marriage would be a given, that having a happy home like your parents would be something you’d want.”

He grinned. “Not if you’re not the marrying kind, which I considered myself to be until recently when something changed my mind.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” she said with a hand to her chest, her relief evident in a slow exhale of air. “Goodness, you have the type of family I’ve always dreamed of, Sam, and to think you might not have the desire to pass that wonderful upbringing on to a family of your own is unthinkable.” Feeling worlds better that Sam intended to provide grandchildren for his parents, Marcy relaxed with a flat stretch of her legs, adjusting her skirt before leaning back on her hands, studying him with interest. “So, what changed your mind?”

She waited while another slow grin eased across his handsome face. One eyelid edged up. “You,” he said softly. “I never dreamed I’d find a woman like you, Marceline.”

“M-me?” Her hand fluttered to her stomach as if she could still the somersaults provoked by the husky sound of her name on his tongue.

“Yes, you ...” He sat up and moved in so close, she swore she felt the warmth of his words on her cheek. He trailed an unhurried finger down the sleeve of her blouse, his touch tingling her skin right through the material. “I’m attracted to you, Marceline,” he whispered, “unlike any woman I’ve ever known, and as God is my witness—I’d run like the devil if you and I weren’t of like mind.”

“Of … l-like m-mind?”

He reached to fondle a loose strand of her hair, the flick of his gaze to her mouth stealing her air. “A woman I can love who’s willing to wait until I’m ready to say, ‘I do.’”

Her heart beat faster than a thousand hummingbirds splashing in the sugar water of her mother’s feeder in the garden.
Until he’s ready to say I do?

“Are you, Marcy?” he whispered, thumb tracing her jaw.

“Am I what?” Her voice cracked.

“The kind of woman who’s willing to wait?”

Her lips trembled as a lump dipped in her throat. “I don’t understand, Sam—what do you mean?”

“I mean you’re the kind of girl I hope to marry …” he said softly, drawing her close with the firm press of his hand at the small of her back. “Someday. But I need to know—if you and I are meant for each other, are you willing to give me time? Will the babies of St. Mary’s be enough until I can put a ring on your hand?”

She jerked away, so stunned by his declaration, she could barely breathe. “Are you … proposing, Sam? Is that what you’re saying? Because this is no laughing matter.”

“I’m not laughing,” he whispered, caressing the side of her face with the palm of his hand, not a trace of humor to be found in his eyes. “
You
are the type of woman I want, Marceline—eventually. Both as my wife …” His gaze dropped to her lips while his fingers slowly twined in the loose hairs at the back of her neck, “… and in my bed.”

Heat braised her cheeks, both at the boldness of his remark and the idea that marriage was even on the mind of a man like Sam O’Rourke. “Are you … serious?”

“I am,” he said softly. “If we’re right for each other and you’re willing to wait, that is. So, I’m asking you again—are you? Willing to commit to me without a ring or engagement? A courtship of sorts, that may be years in the making?”