A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1) Page 5

  She shot off the blanket and glared down at him, elbows flaring at her side. "You leave her alone! She's not one of your common girls at Brannigan's. She's a good girl. Too good for the likes of you."

  "Too good for the likes of you ... " The words of his mother assaulted his memory, flaming the fuse. Springing to his feet, he towered over her and gripped her shoulders, fingers digging in. For an instant, it appeared as if she didn't dare breathe.

  "Don't ever say that again," he whispered. Fury pulsed in his temple. He tightened his grip. "Too good for the likes of me, is she now? Well, then, what about you, Faith O'Connor? Are you too good for the likes of me?"

  She caught her breath just before his lips found hers, and he felt the fight within her as he locked her in his arms. The taste of her mouth was so heady to his senses that a soft moan escaped his lips at the shock of it. She shivered before she went weak in his arms, and instinctively, he softened his hold.

  She lunged back and clipped the edge of his jaw with a tight-fisted punch, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "How dare you!" she sputtered, her green eyes full of heat.

  He grinned and silenced her with his mouth. She made a weak attempt to push him away, but he only drew her back with a force that made her shudder. He felt her pulse racing as his lips wandered her throat. The scent of her drove him mad. He kissed her with renewed urgency, the taste of her making him dizzy. And then, before she could catch her breath, he shoved her away, his heart thundering and his mind paralyzed.

  Faith reeled, nearly losing her balance. She swayed on her feet, breathless and weak, not trusting herself to speak. She had dreamed of his lips on hers, written pages of poetry about it. And now here it was, and she couldn't utter a syllable. Collin seemed bewildered, almost disoriented, rubbing his jaw with the side of his hand. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and she could tell he was trying to compose himself, to regain the casual confidence so much a part of who he was. His voice was gruff when he spoke.

  "Look, I'm sorry ... you made me angry." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. His mouth slanted into a wary smile. "Again." He took another deep breath, then exhaled. He appeared back in control. "But, you're right, you know. Your sister is too good for the likes of me. Unfortunately, that's not going to stop me. She's beautiful, smart, and most necessary of all, she loves me. And that, Faith O'Connor, is just too good to pass up."

  He studied her as if he didn't know what to make of her. "You're a bit scary, you know that?" He leaned close, his voice low and husky in her ear. "Something tells me in my gut I'm way ahead sticking with the younger sister." He touched her cheek, his fingers lingering on her skin. And before she could open her mouth, he turned and was gone, leaving her as cold and still as the statues scattered throughout the park.

  A chill swept her. Goose bumps prickled her arms. Shivering, she pulled her sleeves down and rubbed to bring back the warmth, then stopped. The thought of him produced another flash of heat, and instantly she felt lightheaded.

  She was ruined. The stark realization filled her with dread in the pit of her stomach. For years he'd possessed her dreams, but she'd been the master of those dreams. Now, he possessed her memory, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Faith stooped to pick up her pad and pencil, and in the next moment, she slumped to the ground, tears rimming her eyes. How was she to cope with this? Schoolgirl dreams were one thing-harmless reverie. But how was she to cope with the memory of his touch on her skin, his lips on hers, which even now produced a surge of warmth? If she never saw him again, perhaps the memory would fade. But then, he had no intention of going away. He wanted her sister. The only man who had ever turned her head, raced her heart-that man wanted her sister. The reality all but crushed her. It seemed to be the recurrent theme in the life and times of Faith O'Connor, and bitterness poured forth in the overflow of her tears.

  As she lay there, the sky clouded over and the false warmth of Indian summer gave way to the chill of autumn. She rose to her feet and gathered her belongings, tilting her face to the sky. Frequent had been the times she had called on the faith her parents had instilled, and countless were the prayers she had cried to the God of that faith. But never had she needed him more.

  Faith clutched her prayer book and journal to her chest and straightened her shoulders. It was really quite simple. She would do the only thing she knew to do. The only thing that would matter in the end. She would put herself and the situation in God's capable hands. At the thought, a holy peace flooded her soul, as familiar as the warmth of the sun. She knew then she could face whatever lay ahead, and she wouldn't do it alone. Faithfulness was a strong bent of this God of hers.

  "We're a mite glum this evening, aren't we, Collin, me boy? So what's the matter-Charity's daddy won't let you see his little girl?"

  Collin turned to give his best friend a withering look before draining the last of his beer. He reached into his pocket, threw some change on the counter, and grabbed his jacket. "Leave me alone, Jackson. I worked three double shifts this week. I'm tired."

  "And lonely. Come on, there's plenty of ladies achin' to keep ya company."

  Collin looked around. For once the allure of his favorite haunt failed him. The tiny bar was crowded with its usual patrons, rowdy and ravenous in their pursuit of pleasure. But tonight, the appeal of friendly banter and even friendlier women seemed diminished.

  In his usual corner sat Tommy Thomkins, caressing the keys of a battered-looking piano as he crooned a stirring rendition of a favorite Irish ballad. Singing along were a number of ruddy-faced regulars, whiskey in one hand and a pretty woman in the other. A haze of smoke, sweetened by the stale scent of perfume and whiskey, hung in the air like a fog, creating the illusion that those in its midst were happy.

  Collin turned his attention back to Jackson, who was watching him with more than a hint of curiosity. He grinned to deflect his friend's stare. "Don't think I'm up to it tonight, of buddy. But cheer up-that should give you a chance to make some headway with the ladies." Collin slapped him on the back and started for the door.

  Jackson grabbed his sleeve. "Come on, Collin, it's too early to go home. I know you'd rather be with Charity, but don't underestimate the affections of a pretty young thing to get you through the night. You know for a fact Bree still has it bad for you. She never has gotten over it. Come on, now, she's just waiting for a chance."

  Jackson cinched Collin's coat and bellowed across the room. "Hey, Bree, get yourself over here; somebody needs cheering up." Collin gave him a pained look, which apparently had no effect as Jackson pushed him back on the stool. "Come on, now, dance a little, laugh a little. You'll thank me for it in the morning."

  Jackson patted the stool next to Collin's. A shapely blond sat down. "Well, hello there, Collin," she said, her voice husky, hopeful. "So you need cheering up, do you?"

  "Bree, me girl," Jackson interrupted, "our friend Collin's having a bad time of it, I'm afraid. Seems he's been smitten by a lass whose father can't abide the sight of him. So ya see, he's sadly reduced to spending his nights heartbroken and lonely. And an unholy shame it is at that."

  Collin rolled his eyes and shook his head. Jackson was an idiot, he thought, smiling despite himself.

  And Bree was nothing if not a girl of opportunity. Fluttering her lashes in surprise, she scooted her stool close and leaned against him, her hand on his arm. "Heartbroken? Lonely? My, that's hard to believe. But I'm more than happy to do my part to help an old friend in need." She reached up and kissed Collin full on the lips.

  He heard her soft moan as she pressed against him, and for the briefest moment, he froze. In his mind's eye, it wasn't Bree's lips he tasted but Faith O'Connor's. An unfamiliar ache stabbed within. Where the blazes did that come from? One brief encounter, and some woman had him thinking about her? Wanting her? Well, it wasn't going to happen. He would be the one who decided whom he wanted and whom he didn't. As long as he had a breath in his body, no woman would control his thoughts
, and certainly no woman would possess him.

  The ache was replaced by an icy anger that stoked a cold resolve within. He wanted to push Bree away, to tell her that her kiss produced nothing but contempt. That neither she nor any woman, least of all Faith O'Connor, would ever own him. But he didn't. Instead, he jerked her close, his lips returning her passion with a hard fervor. And in the heat of their embrace, in the smoky midst of Brannigan's Pub, he quickly seared the memory of Faith O'Connor from his thoughts.

  "My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my heart was moved for him. I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands droppeth with myrrh, and my fingers with liquid myrrh, upon the handles of the bolt. I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone."

  Faith's voice faded to silence, leaving the words of Song of Solomon hanging in the air like a lament.

  Mrs. Gerson leaned forward in the chair, her brow furrowed with worry. "Faith? Are you all right? You don't seem yourself tonight, dear. We can do this another evening, if you like."

  Faith looked up, her breath catching in her throat. "No ... no, I'm all right."

  Mrs. Gerson clucked her tongue, shifting her vacant eyes in the direction of Faith's voice.

  Faith sighed. Mrs. Gerson's physical sight might be minimal, reduced to the movement of shadows, but the vision of her soul was remarkable indeed. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Gerson. I shouldn't have brought my problems here tonight. I'm all right, really I am. I'll do better. I promise."

  "If you're going to promise anything, my dear, promise to tell the truth-now that would be doing better." Mrs. Gerson, a devoted Protestant, settled back in her wing chair and rested her hands on one of the many Bibles she possessed. She often remarked how she enjoyed touching its smooth leather binding as Faith read its words. "Like I'm reading it myself," she would say with a chuckle. She waited calmly, her gnarled fingers clasped in expectation.

  Faith closed the Bible in her lap, the rustle of its pages followed by a soft thud. Her weighty sigh darkened the mood of the room like a shadow.

  "My dear, I've never known you to be like this before. Please tell me what's wrong."

  "I'm embarrassed to talk about it, Mrs. Gerson."

  "Why? Has someone hurt you?" The tiny woman leaned forward in her chair, a note of alarm in her voice.

  "No ... I mean yes. . . in a way. But mostly I've caused my own pain. I don't know, Mrs. Gerson, it seems so silly to put into words."

  "Suppose you give me the gist of it."

  The springs in the sofa squeaked as Faith fidgeted. Mrs. Gerson remained silent. A loud ping escaped into the air as Faith sank back in the sofa. She took in a deep breath, then exhaled. "When I returned to school after the polio, no one would even speak to me. I was an outcast, a cripple. One day, this older boy defended me from a bully." Faith looked up, grateful the old woman couldn't see the wetness in her eyes. "He was kind, and I was lonely. I missed my sister Hope so much I thought I would die." Faith swallowed hard. "That boy's one moment of kindness was balm to my soul."

  The sofa rattled as Faith jumped up to roam the parlor. "In high school we became friends for a brief time. Suddenly, he was all I ever thought about, dreamed about, wrote poetry about ..." Faith stopped to catch a breath, expelling it with a shudder. "Even prayed about. It sounds obsessive, I know, and I suppose it was. But I kept thinking I would get over it, honestly I did. Then his father died, and he changed, and I thought, this is it! Collin McGuire, the all-American boy with the winning smile, is gone. All that's left is this cocky rebel who runs with a rough crowd." Faith paused. "I thought that would do it. It should have done it."

  "Done what, my dear?"

  "Taken the feelings away! I'm not ten anymore, I'm almost nineteen. I'm tired of the feelings, and I'm tired of the jealousy."

  "The jealousy?"

  "He wants Charity, Mrs. Gerson. They all want Charity."

  "I see." The old woman set her Bible on the table and folded her hands in her lap.

  "Wait ... I haven't told you everything." Faith's voice broke as she sat back down.

  Mrs. Gerson rose and crossed the room to sit beside her. "My dear, nothing's so terrible that God can't deliver you." She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to her.

  Faith sniffed and blew her nose. "I know, and I would be crazy with despair if I didn't realize that. But what do I do? When it was just girlhood dreams, it was safe. But now ..."

  "My dear Faith, what in the world happened?"

  Faith sucked in a deep breath. "He followed me to the park ... and he made advances. He kissed me, and God help me, I can't get it out of my mind. I'm so ashamed because there isn't a minute I can't feel his touch, and yet I'm sick inside because ... Mrs. Gerson, I want his touch! Never has my heart soared so, and yet I know it's wrong." Her voice bubbled into a sob.

  Mrs. Gerson gathered her into her arms. "There, there, my child, everything's going to be fine. The Lord sees your heart. He knows how you long to please him."

  "But these feelings are wrong, aren't they? Even if the impossible were true and Collin wanted me instead of my sister, aren't these feelings wrong?"

  "Faith, my dear, feelings in and of themselves aren't wrong; it's what we choose to do with them that makes them wrong or right. Obviously you've been greatly stirred by this young man. Right or wrong, he's now fixed in your heart. As you read Song of Solomon tonight, your heart was reminded of him. Tell me, my dear, do you have any idea why the Bible would speak of these things in such a bold manner?"

  Faith said no and wiped her nose with the handkerchief.

  "Because, my dear, God is love. Not just maternal or fraternal love but romantic love as well. Song of Solomon was written to show what the love between a husband and a wife should be, but it was also written to emulate the depth of feeling and love God has for each of us. As intense and wonderful as this young man's kiss made you feel, more so is the passion and love God has for you. No, your feelings aren't wrong, but perhaps the timing is."

  Mrs. Gerson tilted Faith's face in her hands. "Dear Faith, those same wonderful feelings will knit you to your husband some day in a romantic bond that God intends. The feelings you experienced when this young man kissed you-the racing heart, the lightheadedness, the overpowering warmth and sense of the moment-these are all good things. Created by a God whose love for you, if you can imagine, far surpasses how Collin made you feel. God intended for these wonderful feelings to be experienced between a man and his wife. But we live in a fallen world, my dear. Many choose to pursue such feelings outside of God's intent."

  Mrs. Gerson sat back and sighed. "True enough, the passion and excitement are often as potent whether one is in or out of God's will. But a word of warning, my dear. The true depth, fulfillment, and joy you're searching for, such as what your parents experience, can only be found when God is part of the equation. When we seek such feelings and relationships outside of his will, I'm afraid we leave ourselves open to mediocrity and, more often than not, heartbreak."

  Faith sniffed. "I believe that. But what do I do with these feelings for now? I can't seem to fight them."

  Mrs. Gerson chuckled. "Oh, you'll fight them, all right. In a manner that will infuriate the devil more than you can know. You will, my dear, pray for this young man. Each time the feelings come, chase them away by praying that God will bring this Collin McGuire to his knees before the throne of God. Oh, the devil will hate that! With each prayer spoken, you'll find the heartache slowly receding. Trust me on this, my dear; when you pray for those who hurt you, remarkable things happen."

  "Mrs. Gerson?" Faith's tone was troubled. "I desperately want to have strength ... should he ever confront me again."

  "Not to worry," Mrs. Gerson said as she rose to her feet. She toddled toward the kitchen with a mischievous smile on her lips. "That prayer belongs to me, my dear. And we both know how much I enjoy giving the devil his due."

  Collin might have heard the church bells pealing if his b
rain wasn't pounding in his head. As it was, the blinding glare of the sun peeking over the horizon was the only reminder he'd stayed too long at Brannigan's Pub. His hands were sluggish and clumsy as he fumbled with the key in the door, and he was making far too much noise for someone who hoped to maintain a degree of stealth.

  Before he could turn the knob, the door swung open. In an instant, he knew his hopes for avoiding confrontation with his mother were not based in reality. He blinked and tried to smile despite the throbbing in his head, but she only stared at him coldly. Her eyes were puffy and ringed with dark shadows, suggesting a fitful night's sleep. Or none at all.

  "Mother, you're up. I hope I didn't wake you."

  "Of course I'm up. It's morning, Collin. You promised me you would be home early. You promised. But obviously you've the same talent for breaking promises as your father."

  Her words were a punch to the gut. He bit hard on his tongue, fearful he would say something he would regret. She was his mother, after all. He owed her that. He pushed past her to his room.

  She followed, jerking his arm to spin him around. "You're worthless, just like your father, you know that, Collin? I should have never married him. I could have avoided all of this. Instead, I'm living in a rundown flat in a wretched part of town." She flung his arm away and stepped back, the rage in her eyes tempered by a gloss of tears. She shivered. "With nothing to my name but the shame of a son with the morals of a cat."

  He stared, his anger suddenly melting into empathy. She was alone. Her bitterness cut her off from anyone who might attempt to love her. His father had tried and failed. She had been the world to him, the love of his life. But it hadn't been enough. He'd given his love, and she took until she owned him. Collin reached for the door, his fingers taut on the knob to keep from slamming it closed.

  "Good night, Mother. I'm sorry for disturbing you." With deadly calm, he quietly clicked the door in her face. He flipped the lock. She was all he had. And so when he rose from his much-needed sleep, he would make peace, exchanging civilities and common courtesies as most families did. Until the next time.