A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1)

by Julie Lessman

  "You know my sister?" Charity asked, a slight razor edge to her voice.

  Collin never took his eyes from Faith's. "We've met. Let's see, I believe it was in the-"

  "High school," Faith interrupted. "It was in high school."

  His smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.

  He's enjoying this! Instinctively, her lips clamped tight. He laughed out loud. "And just what is so incredibly funny?" Faith demanded.

  He laughed again. "You. You're the same funny little girl you were then."

  Faith was appalled, Charity seemed relieved, and Maisie appeared to enjoy every mortifying moment. Collin turned back to Charity. "Enjoyed the book. Let me know when the next one comes in." He reached to pull her close and kissed her soundly.

  Faith looked away with heat scorching her cheeks. Collin turned and edged by, resting a hand on her shoulder in a fraternal fashion. He leaned close to her ear. "What about you, Faith? Read any good books lately?"

  He's a devil, she thought, her heart thundering in her chest.

  With effortless charm, Collin turned to Maisie. He nodded his head toward her. "Nice to meet you too-Maisie, is it? Have a good evening, ladies."

  And with that he was gone, leaving, as always, bewildered women in his wake.

  Patrick tried to remember the last time he'd crossed the threshold of Brannigan's Pub-certainly not within the last twenty years. There'd been no need. From the moment he had laid eyes on Marcy, she had been all the intoxication he needed. But tonight ... well, tonight he needed more, and with lips leveled in a hard line, he once again returned to the dark and smoky confines of the pub that had once been a second home. He looked around. Almost nothing had changed, except for the faces and style of clothing the patrons wore. They still crowded around the same rickety piano and leaned against the same endless cherrywood bar, which looked as if it were polished to a gleam twice a day. The smoky haze was the same, the smells were the same, and the lure and promise of trading in one's problems for a night of revelry was as strong as ever.

  Patrick only recognized a few faces, such as Lucas Brannigan, the proud owner of this, the most successful pub in the Southie neighborhood. And, of course, there was Tommy Thomkins, minstrel to those who found themselves alone and miserable, catering to anyone who would drink up his melodies along with bottomless mugs of beer.

  Patrick found a vacant barstool and wearily sat down, wedged between a bloke passed out on the bar and a young couple so entwined they only required a single stool. The sleeping man beside him was snoring loudly, cheek pressed hard on the cherrywood bar. Drool funneled from his mouth into a pool of saliva. Patrick forced himself to stare straight ahead at the endless rows of bottles overhead, each reflected in the smoky mirror behind, each a tonic of choice for various problems of the afflicted. The couple to his right disengaged momentarily to sate their thirst, and Patrick caught the nauseating scent of perfume mingled with sweat and stale beer. The whiff of it reminded him just how much Marcy had changed his life for the better.

  The thought of her now brought a strange mix of sadness and longing, and more than a bit of anger. They'd had their arguments over the years, but she had never done this before, never questioned his authority or spoken to him with anything other than the utmost respect. And certainly, she had never turned him out of her bed before. Patrick nodded to the bartender who pushed a foaming mug toward him, the frothy rise of beer tumbling over the edge before slithering into a puddle on the bar.

  He brought the mug to his lips, and the biting brew tasted strong and good going down. So much so, he was shocked when he emptied it. He would have only one more, he vowed to himself. This wasn't the end of his life, after all, only an argument, a minor interruption in a twentyone-year love affair that was the impetus of everything good in his life. She would know by his absence just how much she had hurt him, and she would be sorry and ready to welcome him back. Patrick signaled for another, then sipped it slower this time as he mulled over his thoughts. He downed the dregs of the mug and blinked in surprise when the bartender magically produced another, its glorious overflow enticing him to succumb.

  His sweaty palms hovered around the glass. He was wrestling with pushing it away when he felt the presence of someone standing close, lodged between the hopelessly entangled couple and himself. He blinked up at a pretty woman in her midthirties, and his fingers recoiled as if he'd touched a hot stove. Her dark hair billowed loosely about her shoulders while her green eyes assessed him with open curiosity.

  She nodded at his beer. "Drink up-my treat. And tell me now, sweetness, where in the world have you been keeping yourself!" It was a statement of pleasant surprise rather than a question, and Patrick could do nothing but stare, completely caught off-guard by the woman before him. Her smile broke into a delighted grin at the effect she seemed to be having, and she sidled closer until barely inches away, her gaze level with his. "What, cat got your tongue? The name's Lucy, and it appears you could do with some company. We have a table over there-why don't you join us?"

  She waited while he grappled with his response, then noticed the ring on his left hand. If she was disappointed, she never let it show as she rested her hand on top of his.

  "Look, it's only a beer with some friends. We'll send you back to your darlin' wife with your virtue intact, if that's what's worrying you."

  Patrick knew in his gut he should turn and go. Something within him desperately wanted to walk away and return home to Marcy, work things out and hold her in his arms once again. But as the beer took effect, the allure of home seemed impaired, temporarily overshadowed by the irrefutable charm of this place and the woman before him.

  Lucy seemed to be holding her breath as she awaited his answer. When a smile pulled at his lips, she exhaled slowly, carefully. Her eyes were gleaming. "I hope that's a yes!"

  "It is, at that. One beer with you and your friends. Then I'll be on my way."

  It was only an innocent drink with friends, he reasoned, nothing more and nothing less. Within the hour, he would be back home with Marcy where he belonged, where he would be right now if she hadn't turned on him so. She had provoked him to this end, he decided, and she would soon realize just how much she'd hurt him.

  "Everyone, this is-" Lucy turned to Patrick, an unabashed grin on her face. "Saints alive, I completely forgot to get your name."

  "It's Patrick ... Patrick O'Connor. It's a pleasure to meet you all."

  "Oh no, Patrick, you have it all wrong. The pleasure is all Lucy's!"

  The group broke into uproarious laughter as Lucy punched the arm of the sloshed man who'd spoken. Someone ordered a round of beer. They raised a toast to Patrick, and then one to Lucy, and then to no one in particular. Their laughter was contagious and their beer ever flowing, and before long, Patrick found himself wondering why he'd stopped coming here. Through the fog in his mind, he felt someone tugging his sleeve. He looked up and saw Lucy in a blur, smiling like a trio of angels.

  "Let's dance," she said.

  And so he did, unsteady on his feet as they slowly moved to the melancholy sound of Tommy Thomkin's soulful ballad. She burrowed in his arms, startling him when the scent of her perfume aroused his senses. She lifted her gaze to his mouth, her lips parted slightly. Closing her eyes, she waited for the kiss she seemed to expect. Painful seconds passed as a war waged within him, and Patrick could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Suddenly, his arms went slack at her waist. He faltered back.

  Lucy opened her eyes to see his retreat, and before he could turn her away, she kissed him. Abruptly, he shoved her away, a mixture of arousal and shame in his gut. He stood there, weaving, sweat trickling inside his collar.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath the numbness the beer created and the passion Lucy ignited, an appalling guilt began to gnaw. He thought of Marcy, alone and asleep in his bed, their children slumbering in the rooms down the hall, and a sense of shame began to counter the intoxication of Lucy's seduction.

  Wha
t had possessed him to do this? He hadn't touched another woman for over twenty-one years, hadn't sought it out or even wanted to. But tonight he'd fallen. The virtues he espoused to his own children now returned, a bitter derision of his own failure. Dear God, forgive me, I've been a fool. But, surely a fool who could put an end to his folly. Patrick stared at Lucy, his eyes too clouded to see her face. He hesitated before touching her arm. "Lucy, I'm sorry, but I should go. Lucy ... I love my wife."

  Lucy's lips quivered into a weak smile. She put her hands on Patrick's face. "That's as plain as the nose on your face, Patrick O'Connor." Stepping on tiptoe, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Go on with you, now."

  Patrick nodded, lowering his gaze from her eyes. His body went to stone at the sound of a voice from behind.

  "Well, good evening, Mr. O'Connor! Hello, Lucy."

  Patrick's stomach rolled. Slowly he turned to look into the smiling face of Collin McGuire.

  "You two make a lovely couple," Collin remarked.

  A rush of hot blood flooded Patrick's face as he confronted the man who had been the source of so much grief. He wanted to slap the smirk off his face, to berate him for enticing his daughter and driving a wedge between them. He wanted to hurt him because he stood there judging him for this moment of failure, just as Patrick had always judged him. Patrick felt the sweat crawling down the back of his neck.

  Collin offered a smug smile while Lucy blinked, totally bewildered. "Collin, do you know Patrick?"

  "Lucy, do you know he's married?"

  Patrick started to lunge, but Lucy held him back.

  "Yes, I know he's married! You think I'm blind, do you?"

  "This isn't as it appears ..." Patrick's breathing was heavy, his face hot. He hated himself for being in a position where he felt the need to explain himself to this rabble. And he hated the superior look on the rabble's face even more.

  "Is that so? Well, you know, that's often the case, isn't it, Mr. O'Connor? For instance, it certainly looks for all practical purposes as if you were-shall we say dancing?with a woman who's not your wife."

  Patrick winced as if Collin had struck him.

  "But we both know despite how it looks to the naked eye"-Collin paused, his eyebrows arched in apparent assessment of the situation-"we can find not only a perfectly innocent explanation, but ourselves in grave danger of misjudgment, wouldn't you say?"

  Patrick's humiliation was complete. Suddenly he felt very tired, very sober, and completely drained of all energy. Shame weighted him down like a ton of steel. Resigned, he turned to Lucy. "Lucy, I owe you an apology, I owe Collin an apology, and most of all, I owe my wife an apology. I should have never come here tonight. I love her, and I let momentary anger get in the way of that. I was wrong to succumb to your obvious charms. Please forgive me."

  Lucy managed a sad smile. "Oh, go on with ya now, Patrick. It was me who came after you, now didn't I? I saw the ring on your finger, plain as day. I was just hopin' it didn't mean all that much, that's all. Go on, hurry home to that wife of yours. I swear by St. Patrick himself she's one of the luckiest women in all of Boston. And don't you know I'm giving her fair warning. If she ever treats you badly, I promise I won't be letting go quite so easy." Lucy grabbed Patrick's coat from the chair and threw it at him, a feeble attempt at a smile on her face. "Go on, get out of here!"

  Patrick caught his coat and nodded before turning once again to Collin. "There's not much I can say, Collin. You're right. I have judged you-a most common error, I suspect, among fathers of the sixteen-year-old girls you've pursued. I apologize for that. And I apologize you had to see me make the biggest mistake of my life. But I don't apologize for being Charity's father. That in itself entitles me to decide whom my daughter may court and whom she may not."

  Patrick put his coat on. "You know, Collin, I was a lot like you when I was your age; had quite a way with the ladies, if you will. I certainly broke more than my fair share of hearts, much as I suspect you do. As Charity's father, I prefer you break someone else's heart other than hers. For goodness sakes, she's sixteen and very vulnerable. I know she looks like a woman, but she's just a little girl-my little girl."

  Some of the arrogance faded from Collin's face as he watched Patrick through wary eyes.

  Patrick continued. "You're a man. You need to find the love of a good woman, not a young girl. I found the right woman, and it changed my life forever. Filled me with contentment and happiness I never dreamed possible."

  "Except for tonight." Collin's voice was quiet.

  Patrick's countenance fell. "Yes, except for tonight. Tonight something happened that hasn't happened in over twenty years of marriage. We fought bitterly. Tell me, Collin, do you know what we fought about? Would you like to know what shattered our evening and sent me bolting into the night? Well, I'll tell you. We fought over Charity. Over whether or not she should have the right to go out tonight. Could we trust her? Was the discipline of confining her to the house for three weeks enough to impact her? These are questions that race around in a parent's mind, sometimes creating an environment of volatility. And so we fought-over whether or not the punishment we gave for seeing you behind our backs was enough. Enough to let her know we loved her, and as her parents, knew what was best for her. Maybe you can tell me. Was it?"

  Collin's eyes filled with surprise. "Why don't you ask your daughter?" he said, his tone belligerent. "She's your little girl, after all."

  Patrick's anger surged with renewed fervor. "I'm giving you fair warning, McGuire. Stay away from my daughter."

  "Or what? How can you stop me except by making it a little more difficult? I have a lot of feelings for your daughter, Mr. O'Connor. She's not just another conquest to me. Charity loves me, and that's pretty tempting for someone who's never had a lot of that in his life. I don't want to be at odds with you, truly I don't. But don't think you can cut me off from Charity's love."

  "And what's more important? Charity? Or the fact that you think she loves you?"

  The truth of his query seemed to catch Collin square in the gut. For a moment, his gray eyes widened, then clouded to charcoal as he brooded over Patrick's words. Collin cuffed the back of his neck and cursed under his breath. He peered at Patrick, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "It doesn't matter. Charity loves me. And nothingnot the fact I may or may not love her, nor the fact she's only sixteen, nor the dictates of her father-nothing will stop that girl of yours from seeking me out, nor me her. It's a fact of life, Mr. O'Connor, and one I'm afraid you'll just have to get used to."

  Patrick looked at the young man before him and tried very hard to dislike him. He was too good-looking for his own good, too confident and too cocky. But for all his air of superiority and all the problems he posed to Patrick's peace of mind, Collin was not unlike a similarly cocky Irishman of twenty years past. Before he found the love of a good woman and before he relented to the hand of God in his life. Patrick sighed and put his hand on Collin's shoulder. At his touch, Collin stiffened.

  "Nothing?" Patrick's voice was strangely unaffected. "Well, make no mistake about it, Collin, I will fight you every step of the way on this. And I'm very sure you and Charity will do the same. However, my boy, I'm afraid you're forgetting one very important thing." Patrick slapped Collin on the shoulder, then buttoned his coat and headed toward the door.

  Curiosity apparently got the best of Collin McGuire as he grabbed Patrick by the arm. "And what might that be, Mr. O'Connor?"

  The faint smile on Patrick's lips felt almost peaceful. "Never-and I repeat, never-underestimate the power of a father on his knees." And with that he left, leaving Collin, despite the warmth of the pub, very much out in the cold.

  Patrick entered the dark foyer and glanced at the clock on the parlor mantel. His heart sank-1:07 a.m. The reality of what had taken place tonight settled over him like a shroud, blacker than the gloom of his house as he slowly made his way up the steps. At the top of the stairs, Blarney met him, his tail wagging to let him know someone was
glad he was home, even if Marcy wouldn't be. He scratched the dog under the neck for a moment, then glanced down the hall at the door of his room. Would Marcy be awake? He hoped not. He desperately needed some hours of sleep before facing her. But face her he would, come morning. The very thought caused his stomach, full of beer and bitter regret, to churn within. As if in a trance, he moved to the bathroom, where he quickly washed his face and brushed his teeth before continuing down the hall to their room.

  Carefully, Patrick turned the doorknob to his bedroom and cautiously pushed the door ajar. He peered into the dark and strained his eyes until he saw her small form in the bed. She was buried beneath the mound of covers that always occupied her side. Patrick stopped and listened. The faint rhythm of her breathing could be heard, the mountain of covers slowly rising and falling in harmony with the sound. He removed his shoes and trousers and then his rumpled shirt and tie. He reached for his pajamas from the hook on the wardrobe and put them on. He walked to the nightstand and poured water from the pitcher into a glass, then added a small amount of Marcy's perfumed water. Swishing the concoction in his mouth, he glanced at the bed and swallowed hard. He prayed it would disguise the smell of beer on his breath. Silently, he crossed the room to his side of the bed, gently lifting the covers. Marcy never moved a muscle, except for the imperceptible motion of the covers as they rose and fell. Patrick eased his way into the bed, gradually stretching his legs to the bottom edge. With a silent sigh, he tentatively began to relax, the peace of sleep quickly pulling at the corners of his consciousness.

  Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he heard something move. And then, before the escape of sweet sleep could steal him away, she pounced. Her eyes blazed and her fingernails slashed like a cat stabbing its prey. Bolting up in bed, Patrick fended her off as her hands flailed in the dark and she spat whispered screams. He grabbed her wrists and shoved her back on the bed, holding her down.