A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Read online

  A PASSION

  REDEEMED

  JULIE LESSMAN

  -Psalm 83:13-16 TNIV

  Prologue

  BoS'I'ON, MASSACHUSETTS, 'I'IIE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING 1918

  Patrick O'Connor stirred from a deep sleep at the feather touch of his wife's breath, warm against his neck.

  "Patrick, I need you ..."

  Her words tingled through him and he slowly turned, gathering her into his arms with a sleepy smile. He ran his hand up the side of her body, all senses effectively roused.

  "No, Patrick," she whispered, shooing his hand from her waist, "I need you to go downstairs-now! There's someone in the kitchen."

  Patrick groaned and plopped back on his pillow. "Marcy, there's no one in the kitchen. Go back to sleep, darlin'."

  She sat up and shook his shoulder. "Yes, there is-I heard it. The back door opened and closed."

  "It's probably Sean after a late night with his friends. He hasn't seen them since before the war, remember?"

  "No, he came home hours ago, and it's the middle of the night. I'm telling you, someone's in the kitchen."

  Marcy jerked the cover from his body. Icy air prickled his skin. Both of her size 6 feet butted hard against his side and began to push.

  He groaned and fisted her ankle, his stubborn streak surfacing along with goose bumps. "So help me, woman, I'll not be shoved out of my own bed. . ."

  She leaned across his chest. "Patrick, I'm afraid. Can't you at least go downstairs and check?"

  Her tone disarmed him. "It's probably just Faith, digging into Thanksgiving leftovers. She didn't eat much at dinner, you know."

  "I know, and that's what I thought too, but I just peeked in her room, and I'm sure she was under the covers."

  "One of the others, then-"

  "No, they're all sleeping. I checked. Please, Patrick? For my peace of mind? Won't you go down and see?"

  He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Yes, Marcy, I will go down and see. For your peace of mind." He swiped his slippers off the floor and yanked them on his feet. "And for mine." He started for the door.

  "Wait! Take something with you. A shoe, a belt-something for protection."

  He turned and propped his hands low on the sides of his tie-string pajamas. "Shoes. Yes, that should do the trick. Newspaper editor bludgeons intruder with wing tips."

  Marcy tossed the covers aside and hopped out of bed. "Wait! My iron. You can take my iron. It weighs a ton." She padded to the wardrobe and hefted a cast-iron appliance off the shelf. She lugged it to where he stood watching her, a half smile twitching on his lips. "Here, take it. And hurry, will you? He could be gone by now."

  He snatched the iron from her hands. "And that would be a good thing, right?" He turned on his heel and lumbered down the hall, stifling a yawn as he descended the steps.

  "Be careful," Marcy whispered from the top of the stairs, looking more like a little girl than a mother of six. Her golden hair spilled down the front of her flannel nightgown as she stood, barefoot and shivering. He waved her back and moved into the parlor, noting that Blarney wasn't curled up on his usual spot in the foyer.

  Patrick stopped. Was that a noise? A chair scraping? He tightened his hold on the iron while the hairs bristled on the back of his neck. He spied the shaft of light seeping through the bottom of the kitchen door and sucked in a deep breath. Heart pounding in his chest, he tiptoed to the swinging door and pushed just enough to peek inside.

  A husky laugh bubbled in his throat. He heaved the door wide, pinning it open with the iron. "I trust this means you've made up your mind?"

  "Father!" Faith jerked out of Collin's embrace while Blarney darted to the door and speared a wet nose into Patrick's free hand. His daughter faltered back several steps and pressed a palm to her cheek. Her face was as crimson as the bowl of cranberries on the table. "I ... Iwas just giving Collin Thanksgiving leftovers."

  Patrick smiled. "Yes, I can see ... starting with dessert, were you?"

  "Patrick, who is it?" Marcy's frantic whisper carried from the top of the stairs and he grinned, turning to call over his shoulder. "It's Faith, Marcy, getting a bite to eat. Go back to bed. I'll be right up."

  Collin took a step forward. His face was ruddy with embarrassment despite the grin on his lips. "Mr. O'Connor, I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again. When I'd heard you were killed in the war ..." His voice broke and he quickly cleared it, his eyes moist. He straightened his shoulders. "Well, when my mother told me you were alive, I hitched a ride any way I could just to get here from New York." He took another step and held out his hand. "Sir, despite the fact that you could take me to task for kissing your daughter, I thank God you're alive."

  Patrick grinned and pulled him into a tight hug. He closed his eyes to ward off tears of his own at holding this man who was more like a son. He pulled away and waved the iron at Collin's chest. "So, the chest wound all healed up? Good as new, despite the war?"

  Collin smiled and tucked an arm around Faith. "Better than new, Mr. O'Connor. You might say I'm a new man."

  "So I've heard," Patrick said, scratching his forehead with Marcy's iron.

  Collin stifled a grin. "Uh, sir, did we wake you up ... or were you catching up on your ironing?"

  Patrick chuckled and set the iron on the table. "Marcy's idea, I'm afraid. She's a light sleeper." He reached over and popped a piece of turkey in his mouth. "So, Collin, you haven't answered my question. Have you made up your mind?"

  Collin glanced down at Faith and swallowed hard. "Yes, sir, I have. I'm in love with Faith. I want to marry her."

  Patrick assessed the soft blush on his daughter's cheeks as she gazed up at the man who had once been engaged to her sister. Her eyes shimmered with joy, and Patrick had never seen her so happy. He snatched another piece of turkey. "And Charity? You've discussed all of this with her, I suppose? As your former fiancee, she has a right to know of your intentions with her sister."

  "Yes, sir, I agree. I wrote her immediately before I came home from the war."

  "And she's fine with it? No heartbreak?" Patrick chewed slowly, studying the pair through cautious eyes.

  "No, sir, no heartbreak, I can assure you. Actually, she was more than fine with it. As I told Faith, it seems she has a new love interest."

  Patrick stopped chewing. "A new love interest? Who in blazes could that be?"

  Collin and Faith exchanged looks before Faith took a deep breath. "Father, we think she's after Mitch."

  Patrick blinked. "Your Mitch?"

  Collin's lips pulled into a scowl, and Faith squeezed his hand. "Father, please, we're not engaged anymore, so he's no longer 'my' Mitch. And yes, we think he's the one Charity's after."

  "Saints alive, the man is practically old enough to be her father! And after the stunt she pulled in Dublin, trying to break you and Mitch up, does he even like her?"

  Faith bit her lip and glanced up at Collin. "I don't think so. But you know Charity. Once she gets an idea in her head, it's there to stay."

  "Yes, yes, I know Charity." Patrick exhaled a weary breath. "Faith, put some coffee on, will you? Then you let that man sit down and eat. I suspect your mother won't be able to sleep any more than I will, so we may as well talk. We've got a lot of praying to do-about your plans for the future, your wedding, and your wayward sister in Dublin."

  Faith grinned and scooted to the stove to make coffee. "Yes, sir. Want a sandwich too?"

  "May as well. Looks to be a long day, and I'm going to need all the energy I can get." Patrick started to leave, then turned with his hand braced on the door. He squinted at Collin. "Yo
u're home to stay, I hope? No more New York?"

  Collin shot him a grin and reached for a hefty drumstick. "Yes, sir, home to stay. I hope that's good news. Except for your grocery bill."

  Patrick chuckled and pushed through the kitchen door. Thank you, Lord, for bringing that boy home safe and sound. With a bounce in his step, he mounted the stairs, anxious to share the good news with Marcy. His thoughts suddenly returned to Charity, and his pace slowed considerably. She was the daughter who puzzled him the most. Beautiful, stubborn, wild-and so hard to reach. He fought a smile and made his way down the dark hall, shaking his head as he entered his room. God help Mitch Dennehy!

  DUBLIN, IRELAND, OCTOBER 1919

  Poor, unsuspecting Mitch. The dear boy-well, hardly a boydoesn't stand a chance.

  The thought coaxed a smile to Charity O'Connor's lips as she entered the smoky confines of Duffy's Bar &r Grille. The aroma of boxty cakes and sausage bangers sizzling on the griddle reminded her she'd been too nervous to eat. Her escort held the heavy wooden door while she stepped in. The brisk night air collided with the warmth of the cozy pub. Her eyes scanned the room, past the long, serpentine bar crowded with patrons, to the glazed mahogany booths lining the mirrorladen walls. Disappointment squeezed in her stomach like hunger pangs.

  He isn't here!

  With a lift of her chin, her gaze shifted to the sea of tables occupied by lovely lasses and well-to-do gentlemen who appeared to be enjoying each other more than the food. In a cozy corner, a flute and concertina harmonized, the sound of their lively reel laced with laughter, off-key singing, and the murmur of intimate conversations.

  "Charity, if this is too crowded, I know a quiet place we can go-"

  She whirled around. "No, please. I see a table in the back."

  Her breathy tone and eager smile produced the desired effect on Rigan Gallagher. His hazel eyes softened. Slacking a hip, he notched his straw boater up with one thumb to reveal an errant strand of dark hair, giving him a boyish look despite his thirty years. His lips pulled into a wicked grin. "Aye, Duffy's it is. But it's fair to warn you, Miss O'Connor, you can't avoid being alone with me forever." He pressed his hand firmly against the small of her back and guided her to the one unoccupied table at the rear of the room.

  Every nerve in her body tingled with electricity, but not from Rigan's touch. Charity took the seat he offered and draped her shawl over the back. Her eyes flitted to the booth she had shared with Mitch Dennehy over a year ago. The memory washed over her like the candlelight flickering across the crisp, white tablecloth before her, its flame dancing high and hot.

  A tall, gangly waiter approached, and Charity looked up, fixing him with a radiant smile. He must be new, she thought; she hadn't seen him before. A lump the size of a persimmon bobbed in his throat while two pink splotches stained his cheeks. He handed them each a menu. His bony fingers fumbled the parchment sheets. "G'day, miss ... sir. What can I get for your pleasure?"

  Rigan opened the menu. "I daresay the most important thing would be a liter of your best wine, my good man."

  "Yes, sir, very good, sir." The waiter wagged his head and darted away.

  Rigan perused his menu, absently reaching across the table to twine Charity's hand in his. "Suddenly I find myself quite ravenous." He looked up, a twinkle lighting his eyes. "But then you always whet my appetite, Miss O'Connor."

  Charity bit back a smile and slipped her hand from his. "Rigan, you are incorrigible. Behave ... or I shall never accompany you again."

  He leaned back in the chair with a low, throaty laugh. His gaze assessed her from head to waist, finally lingering on her mouth. "Oh, I think you will. I've been told I'm irresistible."

  "Mmmm ... to the right woman, I suppose." She studied her menu and decided on the shepherd's pie. She looked up, eyes blinking wide in innocence. "Tell me, Rigan, did they happen to mention anything about being a rogue?"

  He clutched at his chest with a pained expression. "Charity, you wound me. The moment I stepped into Shaw's Emporium, I've only had eyes for you." He leaned forward, his manner suddenly serious. "Charity O'Connor-you, only you-take my breath away."

  She fidgeted with the filmy sleeve of her lavender blouse to deflect the intensity of his gaze. For the hundredth time, she thought what a pity it was she was in love with Mitch Dennehy. With money, looks, and reckless notoriety, Rigan was a catch for any girl. But alas, for her, that's all he was. A catch-the perfect man to "catch" the eye of a certain editor from the Times.

  Rigan removed his hat and placed it on the table. He returned to his menu, his manner confident as he relaxed in the chair. That maverick strand of ebony hair fell across his forehead in unruly fashion-like the man himself-providing a mesmerizing contrast to the hazel hue of his eyes. His nose, no doubt once straight and strong, now sported the slightest of bumps, as if broken in a brawl. Probably over a woman, Charity mused, given what her friend, Emma, had told her about Rigan Gallagher III.

  "Too handsome for his own good, that one," Emma had whispered on the fateful day he entered the shop where Charity worked. "And too handsome for the good of any lass, if you ask me." Dear Emma had rolled her eyes in such a comical way, Charity had to stifle a giggle. "Aye, and too rich as well. But that won't be stopping Mr. High-and-Mighty once he sets his eyes on the likes of you, I'll bet me firstborn."

  The waiter returned with a bottle and two glasses. His hands were quivering as he poured the wine. Suddenly a stream of port splashed over the edge into Rigan's hat. Rigan jumped up with a shout. He snatched his hat from the table and shook it out. You clumsy oaf! It would take two months of your wages to replace this hat!"

  Charity shot to her feet. "Rigan, please, it was just an accident, and it's only a dribble of wine." She blotted the table with her napkin, chancing a peek at the waiter. The poor fellow appeared to be having trouble breathing as he gasped for air. Charity chewed on her lip. Oh my-she had never seen a redder face! She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't mind him," she whispered. "It could happen to anyone. Why, my first week on the job, I broke an expensive bottle of perfume and the shop reeked for days." She patted his hand and smiled. "But after that, the place smelled rather nice."

  The fear faded from his eyes and he nodded. "Thank ye, miss, you're a kind lady, ye are." He turned to Rigan and clicked his heels. "Forgive me, sir, for my clumsiness. Please allow me to tidy your hat ..."

  Rigan waved him away. "No, the lady's right. It's only a dribble of wine." He glanced at Charity with a sheepish grin. "Although I'd prefer it dribbled down my throat rather than my hat."

  "Yes, sir," the waiter said with another blush. "I can bring a fresh bottle if you wish-"

  "No, no, just see to our food, my good man, and we'll call it even."

  "Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

  Rigan ordered their food and dismissed the waiter. Charity watched as he poured their wine and put the bottle down. He propped both arms on the table and leaned forward, slowly twiddling his glass. He fixed her with a probing stare. "So, Charity, tell me. Why are we slumming in Duffy's again when there are nicer places I could take you?"

  Her cheeks grew warm. "No reason. I came here once and liked it, that's all."

  Rigan eyed her with frank curiosity. "With Dennehy?"

  Charity drew a quick breath. It lodged in her lungs, refusing to budge.

  Rigan's laugh was harsh. He grabbed his wine and downed it. "Really, Charity, how big of a fool do you think I am? The moment you discovered my father owned the Irish Times, you were more than willing to go out with me. Of course, that was fine with me-you certainly wouldn't be the first woman after my money."

  "Rigan, you're being ridiculous. I couldn't care less about your money-

  "Or me."

  "Well, no, not when you behave like a fool."

  He poured himself more wine and lifted his glass in a toast. "To the 'fool'-a part I suspect I will play more than once when it comes to you." He took a drink and settled back in his chair. "So ... what is Mitch
Dennehy to you?"

  She fingered the silk ruffle of her V-necked blouse, careful to avoid his eyes. "I already told you. He was my sister's fiance. He's like a member of the family."

  Rigan snorted, idly tracing the rim of his glass with his finger. "How is it that I don't get a 'brotherly' feeling?"

  Another rush of warmth invaded her cheeks, stiffening her jaw. "What you 'get' or don't get is no concern of mine. Nor are my relationships any concern of yours."

  He slanted forward with a low growl. "They are if I intend to go on seeing you."

  Charity pushed her wine glass away and reached for her shawl. "Very well, perhaps you'd better take me home." She stood in a rush and swiped a strand of hair from her eyes. Take that, Mr. Gallagher!

  He rose and blocked her exit, straw boater in hand and a smile on his lips. His thumbs stroked the nubby rim of his hat. "I can do that, but I don't think that's what you want. I think you would much rather stay and enjoy a plate of Dublin coddle with a charming-albeit notorious-scoundrel." He bowed slightly, his boater clutched to his chest. "Especially a scoundrel with a knack for boiling the blood of Mr. Mitch Dennehy."

  Charity drew in a quick breath. "What do you mean?"

  Rigan pressed close, his low laugh warming her ear. "I mean, who better to enlist in turning the head of the man you love than the one he can't abide?"

  "Oh, Rigan, you're utterly impossible. I'm not in love with anyone."

  He cocked a brow. "Maybe not, but for some reason I have yet to ascertain, you desperately want to catch his eye. Of course, I hoped you were interested in me. But regrettably, I do believe I detected an increase in your ardor once you learned of my connection with the Times. Tell me, Charity, did you think I wouldn't notice your subtle queries about him? And now this-" he waved his hat toward the pub, "your curious obstinance to continually have dinner in a middle-class bar frequented by Times employees?"