A Passion Redeemed (37 page)

She jutted her chin toward the sky. "I'm afraid you're out of luck, Mr. Dennehy. It makes little difference. Wine or fresh sea air-both do it every time."

He hadn't felt this close to a woman since Faith.

And it scared him silly. Suddenly they were friends. Honest-togoodness friends. No embarrassment, no flirting, no thoughts of anything more.

Well, almost.

They spent every waking moment together, talking, laughing, moonlight chats on the deck or playing cards. Dining in or dining out, it didn't matter. Even the powerful attraction they'd shared seem tempered, quiet, not raging like before. He suspected it wasn't gone, only disarmed by the focus on friendship. Kind of like trying to touch someone through a pane of glass. You wanted to, but the connection was cold. He thought of Kathleen, probably praying her heart out for him, and smiled. The letter he'd left had asked for her prayers, and he was pretty sure they were in play. A smile flickered on his lips. Good girl.

Simply put, he couldn't remember when he'd enjoyed a woman more. Okay, he could. Faith. He ignored the niggling guilt in his gut. And this was the sister that had betrayed them both. A familiar tightening creased his jaw. As a woman, he didn't trust her a hair beyond her shadow. But as a friend? He was starting to cave. And that scared him silly too.

He positioned the cards in his hand and studied her, narrowing his eyes to assess the woman before him. She lounged on her bed, back propped against the headboard and legs stretched flat. She crossed delicate ankles beneath a blue muslin skirt while her bare feet twitched back and forth. She chewed on her lip, apparently trying to decide which card would bring him down.

"Do I have to impose a time limit?" he growled.

With lips kinked in thought, her lashes flipped up. "Don't threaten me, Dennehy. I'm the invalid here. I'll take as long as I please, and there isn't a thing you can do about it."

He bit back a grin, going for stern. "No, I suppose there isn't." He crossed his arms on the table and steeled his jaw. "Not unless you want to eat or go to the bathroom or anything else that your demanding little heart desires."

Her nose lifted in the air. "I have my crutches, thank you. I'll just use them. My arm is stronger every day. Besides, who needs a whining, condescending, ill-tempered nursemaid?"

He slid an arm along the back of his chair and gave her a veiled stare. "I swear that before this week is done, you little brat, I'm going to turn you over my knee."

She hurled a card down and looked up, her blue eyes glinting with challenge. "I believe I'd like to see you try. By the time I got done with you, you'd be huffing and puffing like the first day on the ship." She tilted her head and presented him with an angelic smile. "But then, I suppose that happens to men of your age."

He threw his cards on the table and jumped up. "All right, that's it." He lunged and scooped her up before she could even blink, then sat and carefully turned her over his knee. Her giggles bounced off the cabin walls as she thrashed in his arms, his laughter in harmony with her own. She squirmed like the little girl she was, sassing him with a salty tongue. He raised his hand and popped her lightly on the behind. At the moment of impact, her giggles died a quick death, and she froze in his arms. A pitiful cry wrenched from her lips.

His stomach lurched. "Charity, did I hurt you? Your leg? Your arm?" He carefully righted her, holding her on his lap. He scanned her body with anxious eyes. Her face was white and her lips parted. Short, shallow breaths escaped from her mouth.

"What did I do?" he breathed.

She started to shake, and he pulled her close, rocking her in his arms. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I'm okay. You just ... scared me for a moment."

He lifted her face with his thumb, his eyes intense. "I would never hurt you on purpose. You do know that, don't you?"

She sniffed and pushed her hair from her eyes. "Yes, I know that, Mitch. It's just that for a moment ... when I was over your knee ... I had this strange feeling. An awful feeling, really, that I can't explain. And when you hit me ..." She shivered. "I got sick inside. It brought back a memory."

"A bad one?"

She nodded, wringing her hands in her lap. "Of Uncle Paul, my father's brother. I hated him."

"Hated? Past tense?"

"He died, years ago in a factory accident." She swallowed hard. "And I was glad."

"Charity, I ... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry. I was only teasing. I wouldn't have done it if I'd known." He rose and gently placed her on the bed. He fluffed the pillow behind her. "Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to go? You need to be alone?"

Her head jerked up. She pressed a hand to her stomach. "No, I think I need to talk. I want to talk. Are there any crackers left from the other night? I feel queasy."

He searched the nightstand drawer and pulled out two. "Need more than this?"

She shook her head and reached for one, then nibbled on the edge. "It seems so odd ..."

"What?"

"Remembering Uncle Paul. I've closed him out of my mind for so many years now." She looked up, her brows furrowed in confusion. "At least until the dream the other night."

He bumped her shoulder with his hand. "Move over."

She complied, shifting so he could sit beside her. He kicked his shoes off and stretched his legs out, then grabbed the blanket lying at the foot of the bed. He tucked it safely between them. Leaning back, he curled an arm around her shoulder and settled in. "He was in it?"

She nodded and sucked in a deep breath.

He tightened his hold. "Did he hurt you when you were young?"

She looked past him in a hard stare while her forehead strained in thought. "I don't really remember clearly, but I think ... I think he may have."

Mitch took her hand in his. "The dream-tell me about it."

She closed her eyes as if to remember, and her face crimped in pain. "All I recall is Rigan slapping me, knocking me against a wall. There was blood on my face and I screamed, calling for my father."

"He was in the dream too?"

She nodded. He and Uncle Paul were enjoying a smoke, watching the whole scene as if it were a day in the park. When I screamed, my father turned away. And the next thing I knew, Rigan had me on his lap, whispering in my ear, telling me that my daddy left. He kept saying that he would take care of me and what a beautiful girl I was." She looked up at Mitch, her eyes wide. "He smelled like smoke ... like Uncle Paul."

She closed her eyes and began to fidget with her hands, rubbing hard between the fingers. "I remember how scared I was when he took his hand and. . ."

Mitch waited, the muscles in his stomach constricting. He could feel the tremor in her body. His voice was a whisper. "What, Charity? What did he do?"

Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears escaped from beneath her pressed lids. "His hand ... in the dream ... it went up my dress and ... he hurt me." Her eyes suddenly opened, wide and wet. "Oh, Mitch, it was Uncle Paul-Rigan was Uncle Paul! I remember now!"

Her shiver chilled him to the bone, and fury thickened in his throat. He reached inside his pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to her. He drew in a deep breath. "He didn't ..."

She shook her head violently, sobs choking her words. "Not in the dream, but ... I don't remember. I was young, probably only five or six. I never allowed myself to think about it before. 1 ... I couldn't."

He released a slow breath and pulled her close, stroking her hair with his hand. "You've had that buried inside of you a long, long time, little girl. Your uncle Paul-did he visit often?"

She shook her head against his chest. "Almost never. But when Hope died and Faith was in the hospital for a year, Mother and Father were desperate. He stayed for a month."

"I thought Bridget was there, taking care of you and the others while your mother and father spent time with Faith."

"She did, but every summer, she'd go back to Ireland to see Mima, and Father didn't want to deny her that. So he asked Uncle Paul to stay."

"And you think he ... did that to you?" He forced his voice to remain calm.

She nodded.

"Did it ... happen more than once?"

Her voice was almost inaudible. "I think so."

His jaw felt like a trap about to spring. "Did you tell anyone?"

A bitter laugh spewed from her lips. "No, of course not. Once, when I cried, he spanked me, threatening to tell my father. Said if I told on him, he would tell my daddy what a bad girl I'd been. And I didn't want that. I worshiped my father. I was 'Daddy's Girl,' or at least that's what he called me. And I was. Faith and Hope had each other. And I had my daddy. I didn't know it at the time, but I must have been painfully ashamed, because even after Uncle Paul died, I never said anything. By that time, Father was so immersed in Faith, I didn't think it would do much good anyway."

Mitch felt like putting a fist through a wall. He held her tighter. "You know something, Charity O'Connor? This explains a lot. Bitterness toward your father for leaving you in the clutches of that monster, your unwillingness to forgive him for his preoccupation with Faith, and your anger toward your sister." He lifted her chin with his finger and gazed long and hard into her swollen eyes. "Not to mention your propensity to use sensuality as a means to get love."

She blinked and her lips parted in surprise. "It does ... doesn't it?"

He nodded. "I once told you that what you were selling, only the wrong guys would buy. I made you promise you would stop. Do you remember your response?"

She scrunched her nose. "No."

"You said that you didn't know how. That this all came so easily for you."

"I did?"

"You did. And maybe this is one of the reasons why."

She stared at him for several seconds, the wheels apparently turning in her brain. With a quiet sigh, she leaned her head against his chest. "I didn't realize."

"I know," he whispered. He closed his eyes. His jaw hardened as images of a wounded little girl seared his mind. His teeth clenched in silent rage. God, why? How can anyone forgive an injustice such as this? It was inconceivable. And yet he knew she must, lest her uncle's painful violation live and breathe forever. God help her, please! He drew in a ragged breath and released it slowly. But not today. No, today had seen the wounds of the past reopened, jagged and raw. A sense of protectiveness surged within as fierce as his fury. Right or wrong, forgiveness would wait for another day.

With a gentle squeeze, he kissed her head and slowly rose to his feet. She stared up at him with doleful eyes, lashes spiked and wet with grief, and he felt his resolve begin to crumble. His resolve to stay at arm's length, to be only a friend, to offer a shoulder and not his heart. He turned away to reach for the nightgown she had strewn across the other bed. He avoided her gaze as he gently tossed it in her lap. "It's late, little girl, and you've had a long day. You need your sleep. I'll be back in a while to take you to the bathroom." He moved toward his cabin.

"Mitch?"

He stopped, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. "Yes?"

"Thank you for listening ... and for caring. You're a good friend. You make me feel safe."

His chest expanded and fell with the weight of his relief. He stared straight ahead, not willing to turn and glimpse that wounded little girl once again. It was too dangerous. And he needed his distance. "You're welcome, Charity." He reached for the door.

A catch in her voice stiffened his hand on the knob. "Can you ... will you ... pray for me? That I can get past ... everything?"

He paused, then nodded. The faintest of smiles curved the edge of his mouth. "Already have, little girl," he whispered, and then closed the door without so much as a glance back.

Surface impressions. Never would he trust them again.

Mitch lay in the midget-sized bed and stared at the ceiling, feet exposed and chest too. But the chill of the room had no effect whatsoever. A warmth unlike anything he had ever experienced surrounded him like a cloud, straight from the threshold of heaven. He released a cleansing sigh and blinked, clearing the wetness from his eyes.