A Passion Redeemed (29 page)

He blasted through the door of the Times with a surge of relief, grateful to escape into the cool rush of autumn air. He took a deep breath before pressing his lips into a grim line. Yeah, he'd be doing some pounding of his own. And carrying a load that may well break his back. He flipped up the collar of his jacket and headed to his car. And it would be anything but fun.

Charity surveyed the damage in the mirror. Bile rose to her throat.

Again.

She couldn't get used to her reflection in the glass. The right side of her face was still swollen, its puffiness in stark dissymmetry to the smooth curve of the other, finally healed. She lifted her hand to touch the bluish streak along her cheekbone and flinched. She blinked wide, noting that her right eye, still a bit swollen, sported a fading shiner that rivaled those of a pub brawl on St. Pat's. She shivered and turned away, closing her eyes to block out the image in the mirror Emma held. "Don't let me see until I really start to heal, no matter how I beg."

"As if that's possible. All of your whining and pleading wears me down. What makes you think I'll do better next time?" Emma laid the mirror on the dresser and chuckled.

Charity tried to smile and moaned instead. She put a hand to her head, shielding her bloated eye. "Oh ... don't make me laugh. It hurts even to smile."

"Not as much as it hurts to cry. Ready for lunch?" Emma sat in the chair by the bed and leaned in to push a stray curl from Charity's eyes.

"Can I feed myself?"

Emma sighed. "We've been over this time and again. You're right-handed, are you not? With a broken right arm? And a left-wrist sprain? How do you propose to eat?"

Charity squirmed in the bed, wiggling to sit up. "Well, if you'll be kind enough to assist, I can try it left-handed. A most sloppy southpaw, perhaps, but at least feeding myself."

Emma shook her head. "Pure, unadulterated obstinacy. You are truly queen."

"And you, Emma Malloy, are my loyal subject, so stop moaning and give me a boost."

With another sigh, Emma wrapped her arms around Charity's waist and gave her a gentle tug to elevate her to a sitting position. "How does your leg feel?"

"Fine if you like dragging fifty pounds of plaster of paris around."

"Doc Simms just wanted to make sure you didn't sabotage his hard work. Does it hurt?"

Charity wiggled her toes. "Surprisingly, no. But the blackand-blue marks all over my body are really annoying. I never knew a body could ache in so many places."

Her friend's eyes softened. "You're a trooper, my friend. Even Doc Simms thinks so. You've come along faster in four days than any patient he's ever seen. Must be the prayers."

Charity rolled her eyes, then grimaced, hand to head. "No, it must be the boredom. When did the doctor say I could go back to work?"

"He hasn't said." Emma reached for the bowl of stew, then flipped a napkin in Charity's lap. She set the dish on top, avoiding Charity's gaze.

"Well, I certainly intend to ask." She reached for the utensil, but her grasp was precarious at best. She awkwardly buried the spoon in the stew, feeling every bit the invalid. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the pain and ladled the broth into her mouth. "When is he coming back?"

I don't know," Emma mumbled, settling in the chair once again. "Tell me when you need a drink. Your grandmother sent up apple cider."

"This is good. I'm finally starting to feel like a human being again."

"Charity .. .

She looked up, the spoon hidden deep in her mouth. "Mmmm?"

Eyes fixed on the cider propped in her lap, Emma shifted in the chair. "I've been ... well, I've been worried about something ..."

The spoon plunked back into the bowl. Charity leaned her head back against the pillow while she rested her sore wrist on the blanket. "What?"

Emma hesitated. "Well ... you haven't spoken one word about what happened that night. At first, we left you alone because we knew you were in shock. But we need to know. Was it Rigan who beat you ... or did he find you in the park like he said?"

The mention of Rigan's name constricted Charity's throat, narrowing her passage of air. It hurt when she swallowed. "I don't want to talk about it," she whispered.

"You have to tell us the truth."

She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, desperate to calm the sudden racing of her pulse. Fear shivered through her. Fear for Emma. Fear for herself. Rigan had made it clear. If Charity left Dublin, he'd retaliate against Emma. If she told Emma the truth, Emma would tell Grandmother. And Grandmother would force her to go home. She took another breath, deeper this time, then winced at the soreness it produced. Doc Simms said five to seven weeks before she could walk. There was no way she could travel till then. And Faith's wedding would be over. Done. Maybe Grandmother would let her stay. She shivered. But not if she knew Rigan had hurt her.

She finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "Promise me, Emma. Promise you won't tell Grandmother or Mima."

"No, Charity, I can't ..."

She gripped Emma's hand. "I won't tell you unless you promise."

Pale and biting her lip, Emma finally nodded. "All right. I promise."

Charity sagged against the pillow. Tears stung her eyes. "Yes, it was Rigan."

A shudder rippled through Emma. She wrapped her arms around her middle. "Why didn't you tell the police officer that night?"

She stared straight ahead. "I was afraid. Rigan ... he ... said he would do terrible things if I told anyone ..."

Emma laid a hand on Charity's arm. "Your grandmother and I ... well, all of us ... we believed it was him all along, that he was lying." She bit her lip and began to fiddle with the glass in her hands. "There's ... something else."

"What?"

Emma flushed. "I have to know, Charity. Rigan ... did he...

The blood siphoned from her face and tension strained in her jaw. "No. He didn't. Not that he didn't have every intention."

"How ... how did you stop him?"

She hesitated, focusing on the bowl in her lap. "I bit his ear."

Silence.

She looked up. Emma's mouth was gaping.

"You bit his ear?"

Charity nodded, pride swelling in her chest. "Drew blood too. And then I stabbed him with his own umbrella."

Emma gasped. "Oh, dear! Is that when he beat you?"

"No. That didn't happen until I bolted from the car. He was a madman when he finally caught up with me in Paley Park. I was running so hard in the dark that I tripped ... on a root, I think. All I know is I heard something crack in my leg right before I hit my head on a rock. I screamed. He found me, then, and he was livid, telling me this little jaunt was going to make it 'worth his while.' He began pawing at my blouse and skirt, and when I tried to fight him off, he started beating me, twisting my arms behind my back. I was screaming, and I honestly believe he would have raped me then and there, except for the bobby on his nightly round. Rigan picked me up then, just as the officer approached. He whispered in my ear-threatened me, really-to keep quiet or ..." A shiver traveled her spine. "The next thing I know, he was carrying me in his arms, telling the officer I'd been mugged."

"Dear Lord, it's the grace of God that blessed bobby arrived."

Charity's lips twisted. "Yeah, well, the 'grace of God' could have come a bit sooner to suit me. And spared me broken bones in the process." She took another taste of stew, scrunched her nose, and tossed the spoon back in the dish. "Suddenly I've lost my appetite."

"Do you want cider?" Emma asked, removing the bowl.

Charity sighed and inched down in the bed. "No, I think I'll get some rest. But tell Grandmother thank you for me, will you?" She glanced up. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Emma. Rory's the biggest fool alive. Has he tried to get in touch with you at all?"

Emma shook her head. "He had one of his drinking buddies drop off a note at Shaw's." She paused to pick up the napkin and adjust the covers.

"And?"

"Well, I believe his exact words were 'Good riddance.' Said not to bother coming home as his new missus-to-be has already moved in." Emma blinked and swiped at her eyes.

Charity's face hardened. "Men. Worthless creations, the lot of 'em." She closed her eyes.

"Not Mitch Dennehy," Emma whispered.

Charity grunted. "Especially Mitch Dennehy. It's his fault I'm in this predicament in the first place."

Emma didn't answer.

Charity opened her lids a slit. "Don't you? I mean think this is his fault, at least partially?"

Clutching the bowl close to her chest, Emma straightened her shoulders and jutted her chin, completely out of character. "No. No, I don't. We make our own decisions, Charity, and you made a bad one. Just like I did with Rory. It isn't Mitch's fault that you fell in love with him. Nor is it his fault if he chooses to marry someone else. That's his right, plain and simple. Just like it was yours to marry Rigan. Moronic as it was."

Charity blinked. "Well, thank you, Emma Malloy. Now if you don't mind, I think I'll lay my moronic head down on this pillow and put us both out of our misery." She plopped back and squeezed her eyes shut, lips clamped in a flat line.

The sound of Emma's chuckle floated in the air, followed by a light squeeze on her shoulder. She ignored it and pinched her eyes tighter.

"I love you, Charity O'Connor. And just for the record? When it comes to being 'thickheaded,' I'm afraid you could teach our Mr. Dennehy a healthy thing or two."

Mitch yawned and glanced at his wristwatch. Four o'clock in the morning. Typical. He propped his head against the headrest of his Model T, parked in the shadowed street of the Gallagher Estate. He scowled. Little Lord Fauntleroy was either somewhere downing his last quarter bottle of booze or lying passed out in some woman's bed. A rush of rage suddenly replaced his fatigue, surging adrenaline through his veins once again. Gallagher was an animal. Using women for his own selfish pleasure. Like he'd done to Charity. Nothing but pure slime.

And you? Before Faith?

Mitch froze in the seat. Anger burned in his chest. He was nothing like Gallagher.

Love seeketh not its own ...

Kathleen's face loomed before him, lovesick, anxious to please, giving her all. Mitch heaved his fist on the dash, his breathing shallow. "I cared for her, I did!"

Love seeketh not its own ...

He groaned and hung his head on the steering wheel, his heart sick with grief. The realization pierced him with brutal force. He had used her. For his own pleasure. And when all was said and done, other than physical abuse, there was really very little difference between Gallagher and him.

The silence of conviction engulfed him. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I'm new at this. Understanding you, understanding your Word. I try to apply it like Faith did, but it's hard. I've prayed for Gallagher; you know I have. But when I think of what he did to Charity ..."

Vengeance is mine.

Mitch heaved his palm against the steering wheel. "No! This time it's mine. I won't kill him because I fear you, but I won't turn my back. Not again."

The sweep of headlights diverted his attention. A Rolls-Royce squealed onto the street, careening toward him at breakneck speed. Mitch's jaw tightened, and his fingers were itchy on the wheel. The coupe barely slowed as it approached the Gallagher entrance, finally screeching to a stop to avoid slamming into the gate. The gate Mitch had closed.

The driver's door swung open with a jerk, and Rigan Gallagher tumbled out, his slurred expletives rising into the still night air. He stumbled toward the iron bars and rattled the latch as if it were the gates of hell. Curses echoed in the dark. Mitch smiled and opened his door. Apparently Gallagher didn't like the wire Mitch had wound around the bolt. Too bloomin' bad.

Mitch moved like a shadow to the front of Rigan's car. He crossed his arms and eased back against the grill, his muscles as taut as the skin on his fists. Nerves twitched in his cheek like skittering drops across a white-hot skillet.

"Guess they finally wised up and locked you out ... Mr. Gallagher III." His voice was pure acid.

Rigan spun around, as if Mitch's tone had eaten away at his drunken stupor. The glaze in his eyes glinted into anger.