A Passion Redeemed (45 page)

He turned and left the room, his exhaustion complete.

She sat, still as a statue, covers still clutched to her throat. She blinked at the door, the blood rushing in her ears. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she stifled a sob that threatened the silence. Why had she done that? Why had she turned him away? She loved him! What was wrong with her heart that made it withdraw whenever her father reached out?

She slid down into the cool sheets, shivering from the absence of his love. She needed him to hold her, to love her, to tell her she was his girl. But he couldn't.

Her heart wouldn't let him.

A creak sounded at the door, and she froze in the bed. She held her breath as a large form eclipsed against the light in the hall. It faded into shadows when the door closed with a click.

"Mitch?"

The shadow stilled. "Charity? What are you doing up?"

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand, lit by a stream of moonlight. Midnight. She shuddered. "I couldn't sleep."

He moved toward her bed. "Are you all right? Do you need to use the bathroom?"

She shook her head and sniffed.

He sat down and bent to study her face. "Are you crying?"

She nodded and leaned into him with a sob.

His arms swallowed her up. "What's wrong? Are you sick again?"

"No. It's my father. He came to see me."

Mitch pulled away to look in her eyes. "What? Why?"

"To tell me he loved me, that he was glad I was home."

"That's good news, isn't it?"

"Not if I turned him away."

"Did you?"

She nodded, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her nightgown.

"Why?"

She put her hand over her mouth as a shiver traveled her body. "I don't know. Something's wrong with me. I need his love so badly, but I can't seem to accept it." She collapsed against his chest with a broken sob. "Oh, Mitch, I need to be held and loved. It's like I'm starved inside, empty. The feeling ... it's so awful."

He stroked her hair with his hand, and his voice was tender. "Charity, I love you. Your father loves you, and most importantly, God loves you. The more you draw close to God, the more you will realize that and be free from this emptiness."

She clutched at his shirt. "Will you hold me? Lay beside me till I fall asleep?"

He hesitated for a long time, then slowly laid her back on the bed. He reached down to take off his shoes, then tucked the covers tightly around her. He stretched out his legs as he sat back against the headboard and scooped her close to his side.

She released a soft sigh and snuggled close. The heat from his body seeped into hers, and she closed her eyes, melting against him. She felt the urge to be closer yet and stretched her arm around his waist. She needed his love, his touch. Just enough to push the hurt away. She trailed her hand across the broad expanse of his chest, then lifted up to kiss the crook of his neck. She could feel his pulse as her lips explored.

"Charity, what are you doing?" His voice was a strangled mix of harsh and husky. He fisted her hand. "Don't start this."

She pressed in closer. "Mitch, I need your affection tonight. There's this frightening loneliness inside of me. I need your kisses, your love, to chase it away." She heard the catch of his breath as she skimmed her hand down the side of his leg.

He pushed her away and lunged from the bed. His voice was a hiss. "Charity, no! If we start, I won't be able to stop. And this is wrong."

"Please, just hold me and kiss me, nothing more. We'll be man and wife in the morning, eight or nine hours, at the most. God would understand. He knows I need to be close to you tonight. Please!"

He stared at her in shock, his chest heaving as the heat of his anger warred with the heat of his passion. Dear God, he wanted her, but not this way. Not in the throes of lust, where sin could taint a love already too fragile.

He closed his eyes. But she needed him. And he needed her. They wouldn't make love, his mind argued. But he knew better. Every touch, every kiss would set his body ashiver and his soul ashamed. His passion was intense, pent up and bottled far too long. But in the light of day-or the dark of night-when his fervor finally cooled, there would be nothing left but the burden of sin.

His. And hers.

He opened his eyes and watched as she pushed the covers aside, the pull of her invitation melting his resolve.

"Mitch, please ... ," she whispered, and his gaze trailed from the deadly source of that plea to the soft curve of her nightgown as it clung to her body. Lust invaded his mind, bidden by thoughts of what lay beneath, and against his will, he found himself moving toward the bed.

All at once, he thought of her sister in a room down the hall, and his ragged breathing stilled. Faith had given him a glimpse of something holy and rare, a passion most pure. And despite the raging desire pumping through his veins at the moment, he meant to have it as well. With-or without-the woman before him.

He turned and ripped the cover off the other bed and retrieved his shoes. "I can't do this, Charity. I'm sleeping downstairs."

She sat up. "Mitch, wait, please ... don't go!"

He ignored her and stormed toward the door, his anger resurging as his desire died down. He heaved it open with a whoosh of cold air, then closed it quietly, padding through the hall to wend his way down the steps. Blarney met him at the bottom with a wet nose to his hand. He absently scratched him under his chin and moved into the dark parlor to drop on the sofa. The glow of the waning fire did little to warm the chill within. He tugged the blanket closer and stared in the dark, his mind muddled with confusion and his stomach roiling.

He'd made love to scores of women, but never encountered this sick feeling inside at the mere temptation of it, the regret of passion so strong, his body had craved to relent. And this was a woman he loved, a woman who would be his wife in a handful of hours. Not even consummated, no matter how close. Why?

He closed his eyes, and grief pierced his heart.

Because he knew the truth. It had set him free despite the chains of conviction that now tethered his soul. There'd been no guilt before, but no freedom either. He had been chained to sin, ignorant of the goodness of God or the blessing of obedience.

He pressed his hands to his face and closed his eyes, a low groan issuing from his lips. "God, forgive me for all the times I gave in to my lust."

For the hundredth time he searched his heart, wondering if he was making a mistake. He'd committed himself to marrying a woman with a heart for God, a woman he could trust. Charity was neither. Yet she needed him. And so did her baby.

He sucked in a deep breath, feeling closed in and desperate for air. His eyes flicked open, and his heart pounded in his chest. He swallowed hard, licking his dry lips. His eyes scanned the ceiling. Am I making a mistake? Please, God ... show me.

He closed his eyes and sagged into the sofa, hours of fatigue finally having their way. Sleep hovered at the edge of his mind, and he felt a release. Tension slowly siphoned from his body. "Thank you," he whispered. And with gratitude yet warm on his lips, he sank into the folds of the couch and slept.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Mitch's eyelids barely peeled open. A blur of navy serge towered over him. He blinked. Patrick O'Connor stared, newspaper tucked under his arm and a compressed smile on his lips.

Mitch's brain kicked into gear. He lurched up on the sofa. The bedspread slithered to the floor in a heap. "Mr. O'Connor, I must have fallen asleep."

Patrick stooped to retrieve the blanket, letting it dangle in his hand. His brow jagged up in blatant curiosity, the faintest glimmer of a smile threatening.

Mitch tunneled his fingers through his hair and cleared his throat. "It's not what you think, Mr. O'Connor. I have a snoring problem."

Patrick nodded and tossed the cover back on the sofa. "Marcy wants to know if you'd like a cup of coffee."

Mitch shifted his legs to the floor and began kneading the back of his neck. That sounds wonderful. What time is it?"

"Eight. We leave for Mrs. Gerson's at ten. I'll get that coffee."

"Mr. O'Connor?"

Patrick turned.

Mitch rose, quickly tucking in his wrinkled shirt. "Charity and I have plans ... I'd hoped to buy her breakfast out." Heat singed the back of his neck. "Errands to run, you know."

Patrick nodded, eyeing him with a narrowed gaze. "No problem. I'll tell Marcy." Patrick headed toward the kitchen, then stopped to face him at the door.

"You know, Mitch, Charity is what I've always lovingly referred to as a handful. More than any of my children, with the exception of Katie, she's always needed more attention. You know, a firm hand coupled with a firm heart. I've struggled over twenty years to understand her, and I haven't mastered it yet. Don't let a marriage of a few days derail you."

Mitch swallowed. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Patrick's eyes traveled the length of him. "It might be good to clean up and get into some fresh clothes. Those look like you've been wrestling with the devil all night."

Heat bloodied his cheeks. "Yes, sir."

"Hot coffee will be waiting when you come down." Patrick smiled and left the room.

Mitch released a shuddering breath. Wrestling with the devil. And then some.

A soft moan of contentment drifted from her lips as she dreamed, snuggling against her husband-to-be. Her hand dropped to the emptiness beside her, and she jolted up. Her gaze shifted to Faith's empty bed, bereft of its bedspread, and she chewed on her lip. He'd actually done it-slept downstairs, just as he said. Riddled with guilt, no doubt.

Over nothing.

She leaned back on her pillow and tugged the covers to her chin. She bit the nail of her thumb as her lips curved into a shy smile. She thought of the way he'd looked at her last night, his eyes glazed like a man possessed. Delicious heat braised her cheeks. If it weren't for her own nagging guilt over tempting him-and his refusal to give in-today, the day of her wedding, would be perfect. She sighed. But her condemnation-and his-would be gone once the vows were said, she reminded herself.

Tingles of excitement raced through her. They would be man and wife today. She bit her lip as she thought of her promise to Faith. No, telling him now was way too risky. She would tell him tonight. She slid deep under the covers, the warmth in her cheeks traveling to the tips of her toes. Right after he made mad, passionate love to her. A giggle rose in her throat, the sound of it muffled from the weight of the spread. Preferably enough times to seal his fate. She grinned. And his heart.

Mitch reread the headline for the umpteenth time, not comprehending any better than the first. He dropped the newspaper to his chest and closed his eyes, shifting to adjust his cramped legs on the sofa. The scent of pine needles drifted in the air along with a hint of cinnamon from Marcy's Christmas pinecones, soaked for days and then dried with care. They now graced the tree, along with a wealth of homemade ornaments and cranberries on a string, a subtle reminder that Christmas was less than a week away. The fire in the hearth cracked and popped, the only sound in a house where everyone had long since gone to bed.