A Passion Redeemed (27 page)

Sobriety tempered the smile on her face. "I will."

"You will what?"

"Tell Rigan it's over."

"Forever."

"Yes, forever."

"Well, it's a good thing I didn't call him, because you can tell him tonight."

"Not tonight," Charity said. Her nausea returned with a vengeance.

Emma stood. "Yes, tonight. I'll be with you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you can ask Rigan to drive us to my flat so I can pack my things. Then just tell him you need to drop me off before you can go out. Only you won't be going back out. You'll give him his ring right then and there, then come inside. Understood?"

Charity nodded, feeling a bit light-headed. Her smile was weak. "Okay."

"But first, we're going to apply some of your sister's sage advice."

Charity stiffened. "What advice?"

"We're going to take God up on his offer to turn things around for good for those who love him." Emma took Charity's hands in hers.

"But that's you, not me."

"Right," Emma said with a grin. "But it's you down the road. Trust me."

"Trust you?" She gave a short snort. "Easier you than him." Charity flipped her hair back in defiance and closed her eyes, waiting.

Emma's soft giggle filled the air. "Dear Lord, if you'd given her half as much brains as beauty, she'd be a force to reckon with."

Charity opened one eye. "I am now."

Emma shook her head and laughed. "And well I know it."

Mitch exhaled. Two more weeks. Fourteen long days. He absently scratched figures on the galley sheet he was supposed to be working on. Three hundred and thirty-six grueling hours. He groaned and launched the pencil on the desk. "A bloomin' lifetime," he muttered.

The pencil skidded across one of the few areas free of clutter and plummeted to the floor. Mitch stretched back in his chair and closed his eyes, kneading the bridge of his nose. How long would it take this time?

He swiveled around to stare out the window, completely oblivious to the usual hurry and scurry of Lower Abbey Street at eight in the morning. It took a year to be free of Faith, a woman he'd loved to the depth of his soul. If "free" was even accurate. How long could it possibly take to get over her sister, a woman with whom he'd barely scratched the surface?

He sighed. But scratch the surface he had, whether he liked it or not. The lust had finally simmered and stewed, thickening into something he'd tasted before. Longing. Missing. Caring. He closed his eyes. Dear Lord, how long would it take this time?

"Excuse me, Mitch..

He jolted in the chair and spun around, his mouth sagging low. He blinked. "Emma, what the devil are you doing here?"

She blushed, making the red welt beneath her eye all the more noticeable. Her gaze dropped to the coat she clutched in her hands. "I'm here for-"

He shoved himself up out of the chair. "If Charity sent you-"

She glanced up, her soft gray eyes as skittish as a fawn's. "No ... no, Charity doesn't even know I'm here."

He sat and exhaled slowly, idly scratching the back of his head. "Sorry. It's been a rough couple of weeks around here. I tend to get grouchy."

The trepidation in her face diminished, softened by a hint of a smile. "So I've been told."

He peered up and finally let loose with a grin. He waved her toward a chair. "Sit. Tell me why you're here." He stretched back and braced his hands behind his neck.

Emma moved timidly, lighting on the edge of the seat like a firefly ready to flit at the first glimmer of dusk. She folded her hands on top of the coat in her lap and trained her eyes on the front of his desk. "It's Charity," she whispered.

He stiffened. The smile faded from his lips. "I thought you said she didn't send you."

Emma's eyes fluttered up. "She didn't; her grandmother did."

He leaned forward. "Bridget? Why? Is something wrong?"

She nodded, chewing on the scarred edge of her lip. "Charity's been hurt."

Her words registered in slow motion, drifting in his brain until they congealed into a cold heap at the pit of his stomach. His voice was a hoarse croak. "When? How?"

She twitched in the chair. "Two nights ago. We think Rigan beat her."

A spasm jerked in his neck as he stared, his fury rising faster than the bile in his throat. "How badly?"

"One arm broken, a sprained wrist, three bruised ribs, and a broken leg." She looked up, her eyes filled with pain. "Multiple cuts and bruises on her face and body, and judging from a nasty bump on her head, the doctor thinks a possible concussion."

He closed his eyes. Liquid rage pumped through his veins. He bit it back, his breath coming hard. "Did he. . . "

"We don't know. Charity hasn't spoken, not once since she returned home from the hospital. The doctor wanted her to stay longer than one night, but she refused. Since then it's as if she's in a fog, drifting off to sleep whenever we try. The doctor says it's a form of shock." Emma shifted in the chair, then put her hand to her head, shielding her eyes. "When Rigan carried her in that night ... her clothes were torn. Her blouse ... and her skirt."

Mitch slammed his fist against the desk. "I'm going to kill that no good-" He jumped up and yanked his coat off the back of his chair. He rammed one arm through a sleeve and then the other. "He had the gall to do this and then carry her in, bold as you please?"

Emma rose, wringing her hands. "Claims he found her like that. Says she jumped out of the car after they fought. He was angry because she broke the engagement, so he didn't follow at first. Swears he heard her screams and found her in Paley Park. A bobby escorted them home."

A nerve twittered in his cheek. "Scum of the earth. Engaged? So she really did it?"

Emma nodded. "A ring the size of Gibraltar and dinner with the family." She lowered her eyes. "She hoped it would bring you around."

He swore under his breath. "Well, it worked. Get your coat on."

Emma jumped up and fumbled with the sleeves. Mitch snatched it from her hands and held it while she slipped it on. "Thank you," she whispered.

He took her arm and steered her out the door. "Bridie, tell Michael I had an emergency and won't be back. I'll call."

Bridie looked up, her mouth slacking in shock. "B-but your meeting with the board? What'll I tell 'em?"

Clamping tighter on Emma's arm, he all but dragged her past Bridie's desk. "Charity's been hurt. Her grandmother needs me." Mitch glanced at Kathleen, and guilt squeezed in his chest.

Her voice was quiet as he passed. "I'll be praying, Mitch."

"Thanks, Kathleen."

He ushered Emma to the double doors, almost yanking her through as she slowed to shoot a backward glance. "Is that the woman you told Charity you were going to marry?"

He scowled. "Does she tell you everything?"

"Pretty much."

With a nod at the receptionist, he picked up their pace on the way to the front door. The woman jumped up and flashed an eager smile. "Goodbye, Mr. Dennehy. Will you be back today?"

"No, Miss Boyle. I have an emergency. Forward my calls to Bridie."

He shoved the glass doors open with one arm and propelled Emma through with the other. "Why did she break the engagement?"

Emma seemed out of breath, running to keep pace. "We made a deal ... after I saw bruises on her body. To leave Rory if she left Rigan."

Mitch gave her a sideways glance. "You're a good friend, Emma Malloy."

A faint smile softened the harsh bent of her misshapen lip. "So is Charity, if given the chance."

He grimaced and opened the car door, then helped her in. "You sure she didn't send you?"

"No, but I think we both know who did." She looked up with a shy smile. The soft light in her eyes made her almost beautiful.

Mitch hesitated. "You're not talking Bridget, are you?"

She shook her head and smiled, fingering a delicate filigreed cross around her neck.

He slammed the door and clamped his lips tight, rounding the car to grind the crank. "I didn't think so."

He took one look and knew only God could keep him from snuffing out Gallagher's life. She lay in the bed like a limp rag doll who'd been battered and bruised, then tossed on a trash heap. His jaw felt like rock as he blinked, fighting the wetness that suddenly sprang to his eyes. She seemed smaller, more vulnerable, barely a bump under the covers as she slept, eyes sunken and shadowed. He stared at the bandages on both wrists, his gaze traveling past the soft cast on her arm and up to her throat, mottled with ugly bruises. She barely resembled the beautiful woman he'd known. Her face was pale and drawn, painfully accentuated by purplish swelling on one side, hairline to chin. Pulpy and discolored. Like overripe fruit.

God help me not to kill him.

He swallowed hard and moved forward, desperate to hold her in his arms and comfort her, heal her. He lowered himself into the chair by her bed and hunched over, one hand to his head and the other resting on the bed. Guilt assailed him and he closed his eyes, wishing he'd given her a chance, regretting his cowardice. He could have prevented all of this. Mere assent of his will, that's all it would have taken.

She moved in the bed, and his eyes flicked open. He gently grazed her shoulder with his fingers. She opened her eyes and stared, no spark or light glimmering in their pale depths. "Charity ... I'm so sorry."

She turned away. The effect was the same as if she'd spit in his face. He drew in a deep breath and rested his hand on her shoulder. "I swear I'll make sure he never does this again."

She turned then, a flash of fire in her eyes. "Like you did this time?"

He blinked, the shock of her words hardening his jaw. "Don't you dare try to hang this on me. I warned you what kind of man he was."

"Yes, you did. But you failed to warn me what kind of man you were. A coward in love, afraid to take a chance."

He stood. "I'm leaving. I don't want to upset you."

"Too late. Again." She turned away and closed her eyes, slumping back into a stupor.

His cheek pulsed as he watched her, a profile in pain. He went downstairs to the kitchen, where he knew Bridget, Mima, and Emma would be waiting. They looked up when he entered, their eyes full of questions.

"Was she glad to see you?" Emma breathed.

He yanked out a chair and flopped down. "Ecstatic."

Bridget leaned forward. "What's wrong?"

He rubbed his hands over his face and sagged in the chair. "She's angry. I think she blames me."

The three women exchanged glances. "It's not your fault," Bridget whispered.

He looked up through lids weighted with guilt. "Then why do I feel like it is?"

Bridget bustled to the counter to pour him a cup of coffee. She set it down and patted his shoulder. "She's angry. We all know she's in love with you, but that's not the only reason this happened."

He paused, his cup pressed against his lips. "What, then?"

"She wants to stay in Ireland." Bridget sighed and pushed a plate of apple muffins in his direction. "She thought marrying Rigan-or you-would accomplish that."

He snatched a muffin from the plate. "Which wraps it up rather neatly that I'm at fault."

Mima cleared her throat. "Nonsense. Charity's misguided actions are not your fault, no matter how much she wants them to be. I told you once that Charity begrudges fiercely and loves fiercely. Congratulations. You're now the proud recipient of both."

His lips twisted in a wry smile. "Thanks for the encouragement, Mima."

She chuckled and took a sip of her coffee, then set it back down and lost the smile. Her lips gummed into a hard line. "That said, I just have one question, young man, and I want a straight answer. Are you in love with my great-granddaughter?-

Mitch choked on his coffee, spitting it out. Bridget handed him a napkin. He swabbed his mouth and took a deep breath. "Respectfully, Mima, that's none of your business."

The fire in Mima's eyes blazed, growing her tiny four-footeleven frame to the height of intimidation. "Don't sass me, young man. You best answer me now or so help me, I'll rise from this chair-"

Bridget gasped. "Mother!"

Shuffling her feet, Mima struggled to stand.