A Light in the Window (10 page)

She lurched away, the stinging jolt of her slap vibrating his jaw till his teeth nearly rattled in their sockets. “How dare you!”

He blinked, the strike of her anger diffusing his own and breaking the spell the kiss had cast. “How dare I?” he whispered. “How dare I do anything else, Marceline, but be all you’ve proclaimed me to be?” Throat constricting, he bent to retrieve the portfolio, the same sick feeling of shame shuddering through him as when he fought with his father. He held it out, and her hand quivered when she took it back with tears in her eyes, making him feel like the despicable lowlife she and his father believed him to be.

He met her eyes with a look of grief that exposed him for the lost soul that he was. “My most humble apology, Marceline, for losing my temper and causing you pain.” Head bowed, he lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “And although the word of a man of my ‘ilk’ may mean nothing, you have it nonetheless, along with my abject sorrow.” He looked up then at the one woman he wanted more than any other, painfully aware his temper and pride had just cost him any chance he might have had. “You have my promise—I won’t bother you again.”

Without another word, he turned and walked to the street, hands in his pockets and shame in his throat. He was giving up without a fight, he knew, something he’d never done a day in his life, but he’d seen the truth in her eyes—she despised him—and with just cause. One foolish slip of his Irish temper had sealed his fate, confirming once and for all to Marceline Murphy what his father so blatantly proclaimed—he was not a man to be trusted.

Head down and heart heavy, he plodded toward home, giving up any hope of ever turning her head. But then maybe he was more like his parents than he knew, giving up on the things that mattered most—one’s children, one’s marriage, one’s self-respect. Somewhere an owl hooted, and the mournful sound echoed the despair and loneliness that had plagued him since he’d found his father in the arms of another woman at the age of ten, betraying both his wife and his two sons. A pillar of the Church who chose lust over family, self over flesh of his own flesh and bone of his bone. A hypocrite who chastised his son for public sins he practiced in private.

And served a God just as false.

Patrick’s jaw tightened. No, he would never be the type of man Marceline Murphy wanted because he’d just proven he possessed a vile temper and a “lust for things of a more … carnal nature.” But by sweat and by blood, he would earn her respect with the worth of his word. A vow he would keep, unlike his father. He stopped in the street in front of his house where lights glimmered and glowed without any warmth, determined to show her he was worthy of love even though she would never give it. And he would do it in the only way he knew how.

He’d leave her alone.

And leave her to Sam.

A rogue like himself, yes, but a rogue who possessed one less flaw. Marcy was a woman who craved family and fidelity, hearth and home. Who longed for the wholeness of loving parents and siblings who cared. Something Sam could easily provide. Patrick opened the door to his house of despair.

And something he definitely could not.

Heart thundering, Marcy plastered herself against the inside of her front door, eyes squeezed shut and the back of her head pressed to the wood while saltwater swam in her eyes. The memory of Patrick’s kiss inflamed both her cheeks and her blood, spiking her anger.
How dare he!
A warning shiver pulsed through her and she was reminded just how deadly a man like him could be—kisses that coaxed and begged for more, disarming a girl’s will to say no. It had been a man just like him that had disarmed her cousin, but it would never—
ever
—happen to her, no matter how much his kiss had tingled her skin and surged her pulse. Hand trembling, she swiped at her eyes, the taste of his mouth still burning her lips and quivering her stomach.

“Marceline—are you all right?”

Her eyes popped open with a harsh catch of her breath. “Mother!”

Worry flickered across Bridget Murphy’s face as she hurried down the steps, her blue dressing gown fluttering wildly. At thirty-eight, her mother was a beautiful woman with a fair amount of sass in sky-blue eyes that matched Marcy’s to a T. Waist-length pale-blonde hair—the exact shade of her daughter’s—was loosely tied with a sash at the back of her neck, spilling over shoulders now squared with worry. “Something’s wrong—what is it?”

Marcy forced a smile, hoping to calm her mother’s frantic look. She laid her father’s attaché on the foyer table and quickly embraced her, breathing in the comforting scent of Pears soap and rose water. “Nothing’s wrong, I promise.”

Her mother held her at bay, gaze narrow as she studied her daughter. Her tone was no-nonsense and to the point, so like Bridget Murphy herself. “No, your eyes are red and your face, flushed—something’s wrong.”

“Nothing, truly,” Marcy soothed, “just a wee bit upset over something that happened tonight, but it’s nothing serious, I assure you, so you can go back to bed.”

Bridget buffed her daughter’s arms before prodding her toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “Your father’s snoring up a storm and I need chamomile, so we’ll talk.” She pressed Marcy into a spindle chair at a polished oak table graced with cottage roses that infused the kitchen with the scent of summer. Filling her trusty copper teapot with water from the tap and a hefty dose of tea, her mother set it to boil on the cast-iron stove before retrieving two floral cups from the cabinet. Eyelet curtains billowed with a gentle wind scented with mulch while her mother shimmied into a chair, hands folded on the table and brows arched. “So … what happened?”

Marcy’s heavy sigh could have fluttered the curtains along with the breeze. She kneaded the bridge of her nose, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “Nothing terrible, I suppose,” she said carefully, “it’s just that Patrick O’Connor walked me home tonight, and he …” A muscle dipped in her throat as she paused to swallow. “Well, he … made advances.”

“What?” Bridget Murphy sat straight up, nose pinched in a frown. “That hooligan friend of Julie’s brother? What kind of advances?”

Marcy picked at her nails, gaze fixed on her hands. “He kissed me,” she whispered, feeling the heat of his lips all over again, along with an annoying flutter in her belly.

“Good heavens, you didn’t like it, did you?” Her mother’s tone bordered on alarm.

“Of course not,” Marcy fibbed, desperate to convince herself as well as her mother that the sparks she’d felt were from anger and shock rather than attraction. A shiver whispered through her mind. Passion had no place in her life except passion for God, and she intended to keep it that way. From everything she’d seen and felt in New York, romantic passion only led to trouble for a woman, blinding her eyes and clouding her judgment. No, Marcy wanted none of that. Yes, she wanted to be attracted to the man that she would eventually marry, but an attraction based on friendship and a keen mind, not sweet talk and swoons. She’d learned through the heartaches of her cousin and best friend’s parents that palpitations and promises were no basis for a happy marriage. And if there was one thing Marcy intended to have, it was a happy marriage. Her lips quirked. A near impossibility with a handsome rake like Patrick O’Connor. “He reminds me too much of Nora’s ex-fiancé,” she said with absolute certainty. “You know, too handsome to be trusted, too experienced with women.”

“Good.” Her mother’s jaw shifted in a familiar grinding motion as her eyes narrowed to slits. “I certainly hope you slapped him silly.”

 
Marcy nodded, chewing the edge of her lip as mischief tugged at her smile. “I think I may have rattled the poor man’s brain.”

“Humph … nothing ‘poor’ about a scoundrel like that except his manners, and you have to have a brain before you can rattle it.” Bridget leaned in, a glint of warning in her eyes. “You stay far away from the likes of him, Marceline, do you hear? And the same goes for Julie’s brother. Cocky lots the both of them, preying on young girl’s affections.”

Julie’s brother.
A shaky exhale parted from Marcy’s lips.
Affections, yes.

The teapot whistled and her mother jumped up, straining the steaming brew into each cup before she delivered them to the table. The sweet smell of apple swirled in the air along with the steam as she bustled back for spoons, milk and sugar, then returned to her seat, eyeing Marcy while she stirred the cream in her cup. “Where was Julie and why was that scalawag walking you home in the first place?”

Marcy blew on her tea and sweetened it to taste. “Julie and Sam had a family function to attend, so Sister Francine insisted Patrick walk me home.”

“Sweet mother of mercy, does the woman not realize the type of reputation that boy has? Goodness, Loretta McPhee asked for prayer at our sewing circle just last week concerning those Lotharios, the two of them forever sniffing around her daughters.”

Hot liquid pooled in Marcy’s mouth, burning far less than the mention of Sam with another girl. She wrinkled her nose and added more sugar. “I think Sister Francine was so relieved I didn’t have to walk home alone, she overlooked that it was Patrick who offered.”

“Well, just see to it that it doesn’t happen again.”

Marcy bent to sip her cup, her thoughts lost in its golden depths.

“Marceline?”

She glanced up, idly warming her fingers on the sides of her cup. “Yes?”

Her mother squinted to study her face. “You don’t have feelings for this O’Connor boy, do you?”

She absently shook her head, her gaze fading back into her tea where the kiss played out once again, warming her skin like the steam from her cup. Tremors rolled through her stomach as she abruptly pushed the cup away, golden liquid sloshing in her saucer.
Not if I can help it.
“Of course not,” she whispered.

“Good, because the boy comes from bad blood, make no mistake, so it’s best to stay far away from a man like that.” She wrinkled her nose while she tasted her tea. “After all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Marcy glanced up. “What do you mean?”

Bridget paused, assessing her daughter over the rim of her cup. She huffed out a weary sigh and slowly placed her cup back in its saucer. “I suppose you’re old enough to know of such things now, especially in light of the O’Connor boy’s advances, but it’s not a pretty story.”

“What happened?” Marcy whispered, her breathing suspended.

“Well, it seems Patrick’s father—a church board member, mind you—had an affair with the sixteen-year-old daughter of the next-door neighbor.”

Marcy sucked in a harsh breath.

Bridget clucked her tongue. “Yes, I can assure you it was shock to everyone. The poor family up and moved so quickly that everyone just knew the girl was pregnant.”

“No …” Marcy clutched a hand to her throat.

Bridget nodded. “The man has since repented and mended his ways, of course, but he’s never been the same, I can tell you that.” She gave a short grunt. “And spawning a rake for a son certainly didn’t help.” She took a drink of her tea, lips pursed in a scowl. “The sins of the father, you know.”

Yes, Marcy knew.
And he did that which was evil in the sight of the Lord, as his fathers had done …

“Mark my words—it’s in the boy’s blood. A young woman would do well to study the father if she wants a glimpse of the son …”

Thoughts of Sam popped in her mind, and her heart sped up. Although not overly devout, Mr. O’Rourke was a God-fearing man who attended church with his family. Without question, he loved his wife and children, ensuring a close-knit bond among parents and siblings to provide the kind of family Marcy desperately craved.

She shook off her reverie to give her mother a sad smile. “I knew something terrible had happened to the O’Connors, but I never really knew what.” Marcy tucked her arms to her waist, warding off a shiver. “It certainly explains a lot.”

“Yes, regrettably it does, so it’s best to keep that scoundrel at arm’s length.” Bridget paused, teacup hovering at her lips. “And the scoundrel’s friends as well, Marceline.”

Eyes averted, Marcy quickly sipped her tea while heat scalded her cheeks.

The chair squeaked against the wood floor when her mother shifted to lean in, eyes shrewd. “Did you hear what I said, daughter? That includes Julie’s brother.”

Marcy’s eyelids weighted closed as the tea clotted in her throat. She gulped it down hard, the sharp bob of her throat prompting a catch in her mother’s breath.

 
“Oh, Marceline, no—not Sam O’Rourke!” Upending her tea, her mother clunked her cup back in her saucer. “The saints preserve us.”

Marcy peeked up, her voice frail. “I’ve always had a fondness for Sam, Mother, you know that.”

Bridget slammed a palm to the table, her jaw grating as she peered at her daughter. “But that was five years ago! I hoped that time and distance would diminish that schoolgirl crush.”

Marcy’s hands quivered as she sipped, her mother’s disappointment no more than her own. “Trust me, Mother, I have no intention of acting on it.”

Her mother grunted in unladylike fashion. “It’s not you I worry about trusting. Sam may not be as tempting as Patrick O’Connor, but those two are cut from the same cloth, make no mistake.” She rose to pour herself more tea. “So much for sleeping tonight after that bit of news—it’ll take the whole bloomin’ pot.” She plopped back into her chair and drowned her tea with more milk. “I’ve a mind to forbid you to stay the night at Julie’s anymore.”

Marcy’s cup clattered against her china saucer. “No, please! I love Julie and I love her family, and that would be so unfair.”

“No, young lady, ‘unfair’ would be if I lost my daughter to the likes of Sam O’Rourke.”

“You have nothing to worry about, truly.” Marcy reached to stroke her mother’s arm, ducking her head to capture her gaze. “I intend to fall in love with a man who shares my faith as deeply as I do, so trust me, please? Besides,” she said with a hint of a smile, “Sam is somewhat of a flirt, yes, but he’s not as worrisome as Patrick, for heaven’s sake. He’s not near as handsome nor cocky and he comes from a stable home.”

“Humph. He may not be as devilishly handsome as the O’Connor boy, but the two share the same shadow, you mark my words. And I love Julie and her family, you know that, but I would be lying through my teeth if I didn’t tell you that you having feelings for Sam O’Rourke puts the fear of God in me.”

Marcy chuckled. “And me as well, I assure you. But, who knows,” she said with a wiggle of brows, suddenly giddy at the thought. “Maybe I could put the fear of God in him as well.”