A Passion Redeemed (23 page)

She shivered in his arms, his words and touch sending dangerous goose bumps over her body. "I know, me too, Collin. I thank God every day I'm going to be your wife." She pulled away to look up at him, her eyes gentle. "But it's because of what God did for us, bringing us together, that we wait ... and wait patiently." She pushed a strand of chestnut hair away from his forehead. A rush of love filled her as she searched the depths of his clear, gray eyes. "Once we're man and wife, I'll be all yours."

The wicked grin resurfaced. "It could be days before we come up for air . . . "

Faith slipped out of his grasp, unnerved at how quickly this man could bring blood to her cheeks. She pulled a serving knife from the drawer and turned her back to him, cutting the pumpkin pie as if it were life-and-death surgery. "Have you given any thought ... you know, to Charity being home?"

Collin sauntered to the icebox to retrieve the whipped cream before returning to thump the bowl on the counter. "Nope. But I take it you have?"

She looked up at him, working her lip. "Not at all? I mean, you haven't thought about it? What it would be like to see her again?" She looked away, fumbling for a spoon to dollop the cream. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were in love with her once."

She heard him sigh before he gently took the spoon out of her hand. He lifted her chin to face him. "Yes, I thought I loved her once, but I was wrong. It was you, Faith-and God-who taught me what true love really is. Charity coming home doesn't change that or what we have. I love you, Faith O'Connor, more than I ever dreamed I'd love any human being on the face of this earth. Charity has no hold on my heart. Only you."

Faith sniffed, blinking to fight the moisture in her eyes.

Collin's gaze reflected concern. "You're afraid, aren't you? Of facing her again?"

She nodded. "I haven't spoken a word to her for almost fifteen months now, since the day I found her with ..." She swallowed hard, shocked at how much it still hurt after all this time. Her sister's betrayal, the hatred in her eyes despite the fact they were blood. A shiver iced through her. "Maybe I haven't forgiven her."

Collin picked up the spoon and plopped whipped cream on top of each piece of pie. "No, you have. I know you, and that would have been the first thing you did when you finally came to your senses. You're the only person I've ever known bent on pleasing God and following his precepts to every jot and tittle. Trust me. You've forgiven her."

"Then why doesn't it feel like it?"

He picked up two plates of pie, his eyes tender. "Because sometimes, when you're obeying God, feelings are the last things to follow. You've been true to his Word, Faith. You've forgiven her, you've been praying for her, and soon, somewhere down the road ... ," he bent to gently graze her cheek with his lips, "... you'll feel love for her too. Trust me. Or better yet, trust him."

Faith smiled. "You think?"

He smiled back. "I know."

Patrick studied the sheen of Marcy's golden hair as she brushed it, flecked with silver as it tumbled down her back. Except for the slight touch of gray, she didn't look anywhere near forty-one. Giving birth to seven children had only served to round out her once reed-thin body, softening it with curves he loved. Her eyes, though weary at times and etched with the faintest of lines, were still a vibrant cornflower blue, never failing to draw him in. Though her youth was clearly fading, her beauty was not. He sighed, the sound rising from half exhaustion, half grumbling. "You know, Marcy, one night without your one hundred strokes would not change the world as we know it. By the time you get into bed, I'll be long gone."

Marcy turned, brush in hand and a half smile on her lips. "I'm almost done, and I suspect you won't be 'gone' until you can throw your leg over me to relieve that sore hip. Besides, I'm waiting for you to warm up the bed."

"You best make it quick, woman. Much longer, and I won't let your ice-cold body near me." Too tired to smile, Patrick exhaled loudly and closed his eyes. He burrowed deeper under the blankets to stretch his long limbs to the bottom of the bed. His toe stubbed something. "What the ..." He sat up, reaching beneath the covers to unearth one of Katie's porcelain dolls. He groaned. "That girl will be the death of me yet. You mark my words."

Marcy placed her brush on the bureau and laughed, leaning to douse the oil lamp with a quick breath of air. "Not before she extracts every dime from your pocket for an education and a wedding, I'm afraid."

Patrick tossed the doll on the floor, where it landed in the dark with a thump. He pulled the covers back up to his chin. "I don't want to talk about it. We should have had her first, when we still had the energy."

"You'll have to take that up with the Man upstairs, my love," Marcy said, slipping under the sheets. She snuggled close to Patrick's side and rubbed her cold feet along his warm leg.

He jolted to the far side of the bed. "No, ma'am, you warm up first."

"Patrick, please, you're being a baby. I'm freezing and you're warm. It's your husbandly duty." Marcy pressed in closer, a slight pout in her voice.

"It's survival of the fittest, Marcy, and right now you aren't fit to warm anything. Not till you get some heat in your bones."

Giggling, she slid her hand to the muscle of his thigh. "Speaking of 'fit,'" she whispered in his ear, apparently deciding on a different approach, "why don't you just get it over with and warm me up? It's like jumping into a cool lake, Patrick. At first you turn blue, but then you get used to it."

The heat of her breath against his neck countered the chill of her hand on his leg. He turned over on his other side to face her, his fatigue suddenly forgotten. "Marcy O'Connor, you don't play fair one bit." He dragged her body close, his mouth seeking hers.

Marcy screamed and scrunched up against her pillow. "Patrick! There's something at the foot of the bed-I just felt it!"

Patrick sat up, observing a tiny mound tunneling its way up the middle of the covers. He sighed. "Katie Rose, you were supposed to be asleep an hour ago."

Katie popped up, looking more like six years old than eight, her eyes wide in her petite face. She blinked at them in the moonlight. "But, Daddy, I can't sleep without Miss Buford. You know that. Where is she?"

"Right where she shouldn't be, young lady-on the floor."

"But I didn't put her on the floor," Katie protested.

"No, I did because-"

"Mama, Daddy left Miss Buford on the floor. Aren't you going to punish him?"

At Katie's smug tone, Patrick suddenly felt exhausted all over again. He pushed the covers back and snatched his youngest daughter in his arms. Her little legs thrashed against his nightshirt while her giggles echoed in the dark. She squealed in delight, ignoring his whispered warnings as he carried her out.

"What's all the commotion?" Faith asked, standing in the doorway with a sleepy grin.

Patrick jumped, startled by her sudden appearance, which only served to set off another round of Katie's laugher. He grunted and threw Katie over his shoulder like a sack of baby raccoons. "An invader in our midst." He tugged on Katie's toe. "Katie Rose, you best quiet down or I'll give you another tug that won't feel so friendly."

"But, Daddy, Miss Buford! She needs to be in her own room."

Patrick halted midstride with a groan, then backtracked to scoop the doll from the floor. "That's where you both should have been in the first place. Marcy, keep the bed warm," he bellowed, disappearing down the hall.

Marcy patted her side of the bed, eyeing Faith with concern. "Trouble sleeping?"

Faith rounded to her mother's side and plopped down, allowing Marcy to tug her close.

Marcy pulled the blankets up and began to stroke Faith's hair in a slow, calming motion. "Is something bothering you?"

Faith started to shake her head, then stopped. Her quivering sigh drifted in the air.

"Come on, out with it. What is it?"

"What is what?" Patrick demanded, bounding into the room. He slid into the bed next to Marcy. "Warm me up, woman, I'm freezing."

Faith laughed and started to rise. Marcy pulled her back. "Oh, no you don't ... not till you tell us what's bothering you."

Patrick sat up. "Something's bothering you?"

"No, not really, Father. I'm just tired."

"But not tired enough to sleep," Marcy said, glancing at her husband. She turned back to Faith. "Is it Collin or the wedding or what?" She sat up, blocking Patrick's view.

He tapped her on the shoulder, and Marcy scooted over. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Now, what's this all about?"

Faith lay back against the pillow. "It's nothing, really. I'm just worried about Charity."

"What about Charity?" Patrick asked, realizing his chances for a good night's sleep were slipping away faster than the heat from his bed.

"I'm worried she's holding a grudge ... that it will ruin my wedding ... that we'll never be friends. You name it."

Marcy sat up straighter. "Holding a grudge? Over what? It can't be over Collin because Mother says she's set her sights on..."

Faith looked up. "Mitch, yes, I know. But, no, it's not about Collin or Mitch. This is about Charity and me. About how she...

Patrick cocked a brow, ignoring the knot in his stomach. "She what?" he whispered.

Silence loomed in the air, as dark and downcast as the shadows distorting his daughter's face. Her lips parted as if the words were fused to her throat. The knot tightened in his gut. "Spit it out, Faith. What are you trying to say?"

Moonlight glinted off the sudden moisture in her eyes. "She hates me. Charity hates me."

Marcy huffed, repositioning herself to sit ramrod straight against the headboard. "That's ridiculous, Faith. Charity doesn't hate you. Sisters fight-"

"No, Mother, Charity does hate me. She's always hated me, from the moment.. . "

Even in the dim light, Patrick could see the steel line of his daughter's jaw, so like his own. Wetness spilled from her eyes, casting a silvery trail down translucent cheeks. He swallowed the fear in his throat. His voice was a strained whisper. "From what moment?"

His daughter turned to stare at him, her eyes deep pools of hurt. "From the moment Hope died instead of me."

Marcy gasped. "Stop it, Faith! That's an awful thing to say. Your sister loves you."

"No, she doesn't, Mother. She loved Hope. But then, who didn't?" Faith closed her eyes, and Patrick sensed a faint shiver traveling her body. "Hope was ... the kindest, most loving person I knew, always mothering Charity, always defending her, begging me to let her tag along." Faith opened her eyes. "I didn't want to, but I did. Because of Hope. Because I loved her."

"You love Charity too," Marcy cried, her shock echoing in the dark room.

"Maybe deep down inside I do, but I have never felt it, never really shown it. Not until you forced me to read the Bible to Mrs. Gerson when I was sixteen." A faint smile lifted the corners of Faith's mouth. "Who would have thought that a blind woman would be the one to open my eyes? She showed me how to apply God's Word, praying for Charity every time she tried to hurt me, forgiving her. And I did, over and over again." The smile flattened on Faith's lips. "But apparently it was too little too late."

Marcy grasped her daughter's hand. "It's not true. Charity idolized both you and Hope."

"Maybe then. But once Hope died, and I came home after being away for a year in that dreadful hospital, things were different. Charity hated me, Mother, I know it. I could see it in her eyes and the hurtful things she'd say. She resented the attention you and Father gave me."

"That's just your imagination talking. Why, Charity was only six, just a mere child-"

Patrick placed his hand over Marcy's, his eyes locked on their daughter. A slow, painful comprehension prickled through him. "A child too young to realize why her parents focused attention on her sick sister." He closed his eyes and exhaled, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Dear God, all these years, how could I have missed it?"

Faith's hand gently touched his arm. "Father, you lost one daughter to polio and were on the verge of losing another. No one can blame you or Mother for not being aware."

Patrick opened his eyes and searched his daughter's face in the pale light, the air thin in his lungs. "I should have known. I should have guessed. You two were always fighting, bickering." He lowered his head. "I thought it would pass."

"So did I," Faith said, her voice barely audible.

Marcy stared, first at her husband, then at her daughter. "This can't be. . ." She swallowed hard. She blinked several times and pressed a hand to her chest. "Faith, we didn't know. Dear Lord, we didn't know! Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't know myself. Not really. Not until Ireland." Faith looked up, her eyes dark with pain. "You saw it, Mother. She stabbed me through the heart. I knew then that her hate was real, that I hadn't imagined it. It wasn't until I was on the ship home that I started thinking about it, wondering why. And then it all came back. The times she'd accuse me of stealing Father's love, hurtful things uttered when I came home from the hospital. Until I thought about it on the ship-really thought about it-I never fully understood why."