"Charity, you made it down, I see. This is Collin's cousin from New York, Mr. Dillon C. Harris. Dillon, this is my daughter, Charity O'Connor."
Dillon C. Harris grinned and extended a hand, which Charity shook, noting the firm hold. "It's a real pleasure to finally meet you, Charity. Your father has told me a lot about you. Unfortunately, none of it prepared me for this."
She smiled and tilted her head, enjoying the flirtation. "What's that, Mr. Harris?"
His gaze was bold, and his lips formed a smile that told her he was a man of experience. "Call me Dillon, please. Why, the depth of your beauty, of course."
A blush heated her cheeks and she looked away, feeling off her game for the first time in her life. Being with Brady had required none of this, and she feared she was woefully out of practice. "Why, thank you, Dillon. You're very kind."
"I'm afraid kindness has nothing to do with it whatsoever, Miss O'Connor."
She blushed again and glanced at her father. "I'd better get Mother's candlesticks to her or we may starve. See you in a bit."
She whirled around and made a beeline for the box on the foyer table, then released a shaky breath. Dear Lord, she certainly hoped Mr. Dillon C. Harris didn't throw a wrench into her plans. Maybe he was a bore. She smiled and picked up the box, thrusting it to her chest. With a bounce in her stride, she hefted it high against the kitchen door and pushed through, cocking her head sideways to watch her step. "Well, he did it, Mother. Brought another prospect home for his pitiful daughter."
"Two," he said, his tone casual as he rose from the table. His tall frame unfolded to fill the kitchen, obliterating anything in her vision but him. "He brought two."
The door swung closed behind her in a swish of cool air. The box in her hands crashed to the floor. Everything stopped-her breathing, her heart, her brain-until she finally blinked. Then her hand flew to her mouth with a faint cry.
"Excuse me, Mitch," Marcy said with a giddy whisper, "but I think Emma and I will see to our other guest." They hurried from the room, retrieving the candlesticks, but leaving the box scattered on the floor.
A faint smile hovered on his lips as he took a step forward, as if waiting for her reaction. "You don't do well with the element of surprise, do you, Charity?"
She backed up against the counter, stumbling over the empty box. "What are you doing here?" she breathed. Her pulse was skyrocketing.
He took another step. "Applying for a job. Assistant editor for the Boston Herald. Ever hear of it?"
She rubbed her skirt to wipe the sweat from her hands. Her voice was a mere rasp. "B-but I ... thought Dillon. . ." She waved a trembling hand toward the door.
He cocked a brow and kept moving, closing the distance between them. The clean line of his jaw was firm-a man on a mission, barely six feet away. "Nah. I think I may have the edge. I'm going to marry the editor's daughter."
The blood drained from her face and she braced a hand to the counter. "But I thought ... six months ago ... you ... Kathleen. Where is she?" With a nervous thrust, she rammed her thumb to her mouth and bit hard on the nail.
He glanced at his watch, his towering frame a mere five feet away. "Well, right about now, I'd say she's tucking her little girl into bed."
She blinked. Her chest heaved as he took another step. "What?"
The blue eyes locked on hers with all the precision of a man who knew what he wanted. "She broke the engagement. A day before the wedding. Said I should marry the woman I love."
She chewed on another nail. Somewhere inside a little bubble of joy floated to her throat, pushing a shaky grin to her lips. "She has a little girl?"
'Yep.-
Four feet away.
"Ended up marrying a pressman at the Times whose wife died of the Spanish flu three years ago. Seems he's had a crush on Kathleen for a while, but was too shy to act on it. After she broke our engagement, he didn't waste any time. His fouryear-old is crazy about her."
Three feet.
Charity started to hyperventilate, her breathing as ragged as her nails. She butted hard against the counter, gouging her spine. "That's wonderful."
Two feet.
"No," Mitch whispered, caging her in, "this is wonderful." With a heated look, he held her face in his hands and took his time with slow, deliberate kisses. Her forehead. Her cheek. The curve of her chin.
The breath in her throat refused to comply, dispelling in hoarse, jagged breaths.
"I love you, Charity," he whispered. "I was a fool."
She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his lips on her lids. They moved to the soft lobe of her ear, and heat shivered through her. A faint moan escaped her, and he captured it with his mouth, caressing her lips with his own until the heat began to build.
She lunged away, her breathing erratic. "Six months? You think you can just waltz in here, Mitch Dennehy, and I'll swoon in your arms? Is that it? The last time I saw you, you were dead-set on marrying another woman." She shoved him hard with both hands, fury rising within. You spurned me, you called me a whore!" She darted away, moving across the room to distance herself. Her insides quivered as she backed against the sink, hands gripped white on the counter. The heat in her eyes collided with the heat in her body, filling her with confusion. Dear God, she wanted to pop him ... as much as she wanted to kiss him! How dare he presume he could have her back, scot-free?
He turned. The smile faded on his face. "Charity, I'm sorry. At the time, it was the only thing I could do to keep you away. I was committed to Kathleen." He swallowed hard. "I hurt her before. I vowed I wouldn't hurt her again."
His words barbed her, chasing all reason from her mind. "So you chose to wound me instead, cutting me to the core?"
The muscles in his throat shifted. "I didn't mean it. I love you."
Her brows jutted high. "You love me? And I'm supposed to believe that? You wouldn't even be here now if Kathleen hadn't thrown you over."
Ruddiness bled up the back of his neck. "No, I wouldn't. But God intervened." His lips pressed white as he took a step forward. "Let me make it up to you, please. I want to take care of you, protect you. Always. You were right, Charity. We belong together."
The nerve of him! Putting her off for years, when she'd known they were meant for each other all along. Oh, she wanted to throttle him! Her hand shot up in the air. "Hold it right there, buster. I have a full life without you. I have my family, an endless stream of suitors hand-picked by my father, and an amazing friend named Brady, with whom," she emphasized with steel in her tone, "I just may fall in love."
Mitch's jaw shifted, and the color drained from his face. He strode toward her with fire in his eyes. "You're not falling in love with anybody. You're already in love with me."
"Don't you dare come any closer!" Her hand flailed behind for something to throw. She gripped the edge of a small bowl and hurled it. He grunted in shock as it ricocheted off his chest and crashed to his feet. She stared in horror. So did he-down at his crisp, white shirt where a trail of Marcy's cranberry sauce oozed and plopped to the floor.
His gaze slowly rose. The muscles in his face were sculpted tight. "Feel better?"
The door flew open. "What in sweet saints is going on?" Marcy stood on the threshold, hand plastered against the door. Her eyes went wide. "Dear Lord, what happened?"
Mitch's searing stare never left Charity's face. "Mrs. O'Connor, your daughter is a spoiled brat who needs a strong hand."
Charity slammed her hands on her hips and glared. "Oh, and I suppose you think you're just the man for the job?"
He gave her a look that burned. "I might be. In fact, you can count on it."
Marcy grabbed the dishrag. "Oh, stop it, you two! You're acting like children, and I'll not have you ruin dinner." She marched over to Mitch and slapped the soggy rag against his shirt, brushing away pieces of cranberry pulp. She shoved him toward the door. "Now you get into that parlor, Mitch Dennehy, and herd everyone into the dining room, do you hear? And tell Emma and Beth I need them
both-now! We all could do with a bit of food in our stomachs."
Mitch mumbled something under his breath and stalked from the room. The door whooshed hard behind him.
Marcy whirled around. "Charity Katherine O'Connor! Have you lost your mind? What has gotten into you?"
Charity put a hand to her mouth and sagged against the sink. The knot of anger in her stomach slowly dissolved into fear. "I don't know, Mother."
"You've been pining over that man for well over a year, and worrying your father and I sick in the process. For pity's sake, I thought you were in love!"
"I am," she whispered.
Marcy folded her arms. "You're in for a lifetime of heartache, young lady, if this is how you intend to show it."
Charity closed her eyes. A sick feeling bubbled in her stomach. "Heaven help me, Mother, I didn't even know I had any anger toward the man. It must have been buried deep. All that grief and loss and missing he put me through." Her eyes flickered open. "And then suddenly here he is, and I'm supposed to collapse into his arms? Well, it's not that easy."
Marcy moved to Charity's side. "Charity, you have to forgive him. As stubborn as both of you are, if you two are going to make a life together, mercy will have to be a key staple in your pantry."
Charity rested her head on her mother's shoulder and sighed. "I know. And I will. He just took me by surprise, that's all. All that pain and hurt just came welling up." She pulled away to retrieve the broom. Her lips twisted as she swept the sticky glass and goo into a pile. "But the man has no tact whatsoever. He actually admitted he's only here now because Kathleen threw him over."
Marcy chuckled. "Well, he's not a man to mince words, that's for sure. Thank God Kathleen had the sense to see what he was too stubborn to admit." She rinsed the stained dishrag and bent to wipe up the mess. She cocked her head and glanced up. "So when are you going to put him out of his misery?"
Charity tossed the contents of the dustpan into the trash. "Not until after dinner. I'm hoping Mr. Dillon C. Harris can teach him a lesson or two about taking me for granted."
"Mama, I'm hungry-wow, what happened?" Katie barged through the door and screeched to a stop. Emma and Beth collided behind her like stacked-up railcars.
Charity turned at the sink. "Nothing, darlin'. Mitch accidentally broke Mother's bowl of cranberry sauce, that's all."
"Oooooo, so that's why his shirt is all wet and pink." Katie crossed her arms. "Well, I certainly hope you intend to punish him."
Marcy and Charity exchanged glances, prompting Marcy to chuckle. She stood to her feet and winked at Charity. "I don't think you need to worry about that."
Mitch buttered his roll with a vengeance. What was he doing here? She obviously still held a grudge-a monumental one, judging from the size of the purple blotch glued to the hairs of his chest. He shoved the roll in his mouth and glared across the table, irritated at the way this Harris character fawned over her. For pity's sake, she belonged to him, not some would-be editor with New York airs. Mitch's lips flattened into a hard line. And certainly not some would-be friend named Brady who probably had designs on the woman Mitch intended to make his wife. He just needed to convince her, get her alone so they could talk, tell her how sorry he was ...
Mitch rubbed the sticky wet spot on his shirt. Yeah, he'd seen how far he'd gotten with that. The truth was, she hated him, and he didn't blame her. What he did, how he treated her, well, he wasn't sure he could forgive it himself. He shot a furtive glance across the table where she sat, conversing with the New York dandy. He'd been so blinded by his own fear, he hadn't realized that she was the woman God had given him to love. But love her he did, enough to work at stemming his pride and controlling his temper, if that's what he needed to do. He popped the roll in his mouth. He supposed it was time. Time to change his ways, time to grow up. He swallowed hard. Time to be the man God intended him to be.
"I understand you're a department editor for a small newspaper in Ireland," Mr. Harris said, taking his eyes off Charity long enough to address Mitch with a cool gaze.
"I'd hardly call Ireland's largest press 'a small newspaper,' Mr. Harris, but yes, I am."
"Seems rather curious to transfer from a European paper to an American one, such a difficult transition, leaving family and friends."
"Not at all. I've been to Boston in the past and have wanted to return for a while now." His gaze locked on Charity. "You might say my heart is in Boston."
"How so?" Harris asked, buttering a roll of his own.
Mitch was tired of pussyfooting. "It's simple, really. Charity and I are going to be married."
Charity's fork clattered to the floor.
"Oh, my, Mitch ... ," Marcy stuttered, shooting a tentative glance at her daughter.
"Congratulations, son," Patrick boomed, reaching across the table to pump Mitch's hand. "That's great news!"
Charity jumped up to retrieve her fork. "Mother, I'll start the coffee." She bolted into the kitchen, her ire rising faster than the lump in her throat. The nerve! That man had all the romanticism of that wet stain on his shirt. How dare he just blurt it out like that, as if she had no say in the matter whatsoever?
The door creaked behind her. She spun around and singed him with a glare. "Just who do you think you are, announcing to the world that we're going to be married?"
Mitch stared her down. "Your future husband, that's who."
"Ha! And I suppose I don't have anything to say about it?"
He began to grind his jaw and took several steps forward. "You can say yes."
She moved back to lean against the sink, rankled by his attitude. "Maybe. And just maybe I'll say yes to Brady."
His cheek pulsed as he started toward her. "You'll say yes to me."
"Don't you dare think you can tell me what to do, you thickheaded bully!" She reached behind and scooped up the dishrag from the rinse water in the sink. Before he could clamp a hand on her arm, she pelted it at his face. It bounced against his rockhard cheek with a noisy splat. Dirty water slopped into his eyes before sluicing down his neck. She stared in shock.
His water-slicked face accentuated the nerve twitching in his jaw. Little plops of water dribbled on his shoe while the dishrag dangled from his shoulder, soaking his tweed Norfolk jacket.
A hand flew to her mouth as she fought the urge to laugh.
He moved in to grip her arms, ignoring the dripping rag on his coat. "Who's Brady?"
She tried to twist free. "Let me go! You're getting me wet."
He pressed her to the counter. "Answer me! Who the devil is Brady?"
"A man who treats me with a lot more respect than you ever did."
He released his hold. "Do you love him?"
She glared at him, angry at the time they'd lost, the pain he'd inflicted. "Yes."
He stared hard for several seconds. Hurt replaced the shock in his eyes. He turned away.
Her heart shot to her throat. "As a friend ... ," she whispered in a rush.
He slowly shifted to face her, one brow cocked. With a questioning gaze, he latched a thumb onto the pocket of his trousers.
She swallowed hard and crossed her arms. "Do you have any idea the torture you've put me through, Mitch Dennehy?"
His lips twisted. I went through the same torture, you know, not to mention all the months you put me through the wringer with your charm."
She sucked in a deep breath. "But six months? It took you six long months? Why didn't Mrs. Lynch tell my grandmother?"
He sighed and slacked a hip, closing his eyes to massage the bridge of his nose. "I had a lot of issues to work through, Charity. With my mother, Anna, you. After Kathleen broke the engagement, I asked Mrs. Lynch not to say anything. I needed to stew for a couple of months, pray about a few things."
"A couple of months?" She propped her hands on her hips.
He looked up with sorrow in his eyes. "I felt compelled to pray about us, to be sure I was doing the right thing." He took a deep breath. "And I didn't know. About the r
ape. When Mrs. Lynch mentioned it in passing a few weeks ago, I thought I was going to lose my mind." He took a step forward, his eyes glistening. "That's when I knew. Knew I wanted to be with you. To protect you, take care of you." He hung his head, and the grief was evident in his face. "Forgive me, little girl, for wounding you like I did, for ever implying you were a ..." He swallowed hard and lifted his gaze. "I was angry and desperate to push you away. I ... I didn't realize ... realize that I had been wrong all along."
"Thickheaded?"
He took a deep breath and another step. "Yes, thickheaded. Too much to see that although I'd forgiven my mother, Anna, and finally you, I had never dealt with my fear and deep lack of trust. It drove me away from you, Charity, and I was too blind to see it."
"You mean thickheaded."
He smiled and moved close, tugging her into his arms.
"Don't you dare try and sweet-talk me, Mitch Denne-"
He kissed her gently on the mouth, effectively silencing her as he intensified the kiss. He pulled away. "Yes, thickheaded, but desperately in love with an equally obstinate little girl. How are we going to make this work, Charity O'Connor? Two bullheads, but only one of us can win."
She stared, her anger momentarily doused by the heat throbbing within. She lunged to kiss him back, releasing years of pent-up passion. Mitch groaned and finished it off with a kiss that tingled all the way to her toes. She jerked away with her chest heaving. "Maybe we both can win. It would take a lot of compromise and even more prayer, but what do you think?"
He gave her a half -lidded look that made her mouth go dry, then leaned in and nestled his lips along her throat. The bloodpumped in her veins. She felt the shadow of his late-day beard, and the realization of what was happening prompted a chuckle of joy from her throat. She shivered. "I love you, Mitch Dennehy, so much that even prayer couldn't get you out of my heart. Sweet saints above, I can't wait to marry you!" Her gaze narrowed. "You are asking, aren't you?"
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 44
