A Passion Denied (22 page)

She turned and made her way down the dark hall, grateful that Lizzie had taken Katie to a last-minute play practice. A shudder rippled through her. She needed to escape. To strip off her clothes and crawl into bed, where sleep could take her far, far away. She flipped on the light in her bedroom and suddenly sagged against the door, not putting much hope in the prospect of sleep. She had a feeling that slumber—like Sam O’Rourke—would be anything but a friend tonight.

Patrick dismissed the uneasy feeling in his gut and turned to Sam with a smile. “So, you up for a cup of coffee?”

Sam laughed. “I’d much prefer a good scotch like old times.”

“As would I, my friend, but then the eighteenth amendment isn’t particularly concerned with your preferences or mine.” Patrick grinned. “Not to mention the fact that I’m clean out.”

Sam’s teeth flashed in a return grin. “But I’m not.” He disappeared out the door and returned a few moments later, bottle in hand. “I trust you still have whiskey glasses?”

Patrick chuckled as he rose to his feet. “You never have been a good influence.” He retrieved two glasses from the kitchen and set them on the table. Sam filled each three-quarters full and then raised his glass in a toast. “To good influences—may they be few and far between.” He gulped half of his drink and settled into a chair.

Patrick swallowed some whiskey and eyed him over the glass. “What brings you to Boston? Business?”

Sam smiled and twirled his drink in his hands. “Of a sort. I’m looking for investors for a business venture I’m putting together. Interested?”

Patrick grinned and raised his glass before taking another quick swallow. “Only in your whiskey, my friend. It doesn’t burn quite as much when it goes down.”

Sam laughed. “I suppose that’s a natural reaction after the last time I invested your money. But I’ve paid it all back, you know. Gave Marcy a check tonight. We’re all clear, my friend, and ready to begin again.” He emptied his glass and stood up to pour more. He held the bottle out, but Patrick waved him off.

“No, better not. I’m already this close to sleeping on the couch after not showing up tonight. Marcy might not look too favorably upon me if I came to bed drunk.”

“You’re a lucky man, my friend, going to bed—drunk or otherwise—with a woman like that. She’s something special, Patrick. Always has been.”

Patrick took another drink and wondered why the compliment bothered him so.

The front door wheeled open, and Lizzie and Katie trudged in, apparently as exhausted as Marcy had been. Patrick glanced at his watch and frowned. “Don’t tell me you had practice until now? Sweet saints, they must have it near perfect.”

Lizzie smiled and propped two hands on Katie’s tired shoulders. “No, play practice was over at nine, but your daughter insisted on a fountain soda.”

Katie yawned and lumbered over to give Patrick a hug. “Good night, Daddy.”

“Before you girls head up, I’d like to introduce you to an old friend of mine. Sam, these are my two youngest girls, Lizzie and Katie. Girls, this is Sam O’Rourke.”

Sam stood to his feet, drink in hand. He smiled and raised a toast before taking a sip. “Hello, Lizzie, Katie. Patrick, I do believe Lizzie favors you, and Katie, her mother.”

Patrick studied the girls and felt his heart glow warm with pride. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment to Lizzie, but they’re both beauties, that’s for sure.”

Katie yawned and gave him a tired nod while Lizzie smiled. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. O’Rourke.” She leaned to give Patrick a kiss. “Good night, Father. Is Mother in bed?”

“Yes, she went up a bit ago, but she may be asleep by now. She looked pretty beat.”

Lizzie draped an arm around Katie’s shoulders. “Come on, Katie Rose, before you fall asleep standing up. Good night, Mr. O’Rourke, Father.”

Sam sat back in the chair and watched the girls ascend the stairs. His eyes were pensive as he took a quick swig of whiskey. “They’re beautiful, Patrick. Just like their moth—”

The glass suddenly slipped from his fingers and tumbled in his lap, prompting a curse from his lips.

Patrick jumped to his feet. “I’ll get something to wipe that up.” He hurried to the kitchen and returned with a wet rag. He handed it to Sam and watched as he blotted his pants. All at once the blood chilled in his veins. A rose-colored smudge marred the far right side of Sam’s collar, the exact shade of Marcy’s lips.

Patrick turned away, stunned at the barrage of thoughts in his brain. Lipstick smeared on the side of her mouth. The disheveled hair. The guarded look in her eyes. His instincts had sharpened, but he’d merely brushed them aside, ignoring the unfamiliar coolness he had sensed in her manner. He had written it off as nothing more than wifely annoyance. But what if it were more? His pulse began to throb at the side of his head. What if it were guilt?

“Sorry. I’m afraid I become clumsy when I tip the bottle too much.” He poured himself more whiskey and sat back in his chair. “As I was saying, your family is beautiful, Patrick. You’re a lucky man.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “In fact, I think I may be jealous.”

Patrick turned to face him, his nerves twitching under his skin. “Enough to make advances to my wife?”

“What?” Sam’s lips went pale.

“You heard me. You care to explain why my wife’s lipstick is staining your collar?”

Sam froze for a split second and then calmly set his glass down. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, my friend. Marcy tripped on the cobblestones, and I caught her before she fell.”

Patrick stared, his teeth aching from the tension in his jaw. He hadn’t seen Sam O’Rourke in over twenty-five years, but he could still sense when he was lying. Sam had been his best friend since the second grade, the two of them inseparable. Until Marcy. The taste of nausea soured his stomach. Marcy had dated Sam before him.

“You’re lying, O’Rourke. What did you do to her?”

Sam stood to his feet. “Nothing. Don’t let her come between us again, Patrick. We were good friends once.”

Patrick took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. “So help me, God, if you hurt her . . . Answer me! Did you touch her?” He grabbed the lapel of Sam’s sack suit and fairly spit the words in his face. “Did you?”

Sam pushed him back with a sneer. “And what if I did? Who’s to say she didn’t like it?”

Patrick slammed a fist against Sam’s jaw, sending him careening into the chair. “Get out—now!”

Rubbing his jaw with the back of his hand, Sam stared up with cold fury in his eyes. “You think I’m lying? Why don’t you ask her? Ask why it took her so long to say yes to you.”

Patrick lunged and hauled him out of the chair, flinging him toward the door. “You’re nothing but a vicious liar, and I can’t stomach liars. Get out!”

Sam was breathing hard when he turned at the door, his eyes little more than slits. “A surprising declaration since you’re married to one. You think you’re the man she loved when she said ‘I do’? Ask her sometime, about the morning of your wedding.”

He slammed the door behind him, leaving Patrick in a stupor. Despite ragged breaths that heaved in his lungs, his body felt numb. He closed his eyes and almost staggered at the heaviness shrouding his mind.
The man she loved when she said “I do”?

Cold comprehension pushed pain aside to allow his rage to rise. He remembered with painful clarity how she’d been the only woman immune to his charms. He had always had his pick of the lot. Until Marceline Murphy, a beguiling lass who had remained aloof. But he had persisted until she’d said yes, a sweet conquest that had taken him far too long. Everything suddenly shifted in his mind, becoming all too clear. Had she been in love with someone else? Had his marriage begun as a lie?

With lethal calm, he locked the front door and returned to the parlor to douse the lights. His gaze fell on his half-finished glass of whiskey, and he bolted it down in one burning swallow. He snatched the bottle of whiskey and strode to the kitchen, pouring it out in the sink along with the hot coffee. The steam rose like his ire. He mounted the stairs as if in a trance, feeling his temper sharpen with every step he took. He stood at the door and stared at their bed. Beneath the covers lay the woman who had shared his life and given him joy. Now the poison in his mind said she was no more than a stranger.

He entered the room and closed the door, shattering the silence with a sharp snap of the bolt—a perfect complement to the edge in his voice. “Don’t pretend you’re asleep, darlin’, we both know that you’re not.”

Marcy squeezed her eyes shut. Fear shivered through her at his icy tone. She held her breath, praying he would believe she was asleep.

She was met with a cool blast of air when he snatched the covers from her body and flipped on the light. “Get up, darlin’, I’d like to hear all about your evening.”

Marcy sat up and put a hand to her eyes, squinting at the blinding light. “Patrick, have you been drinking?”

His laugh was not kind. “Yes, Marcy, I have. A man will often do that when he learns his wife has been unfaithful.”

She pressed back against the headboard, alarmed at the brutal look in his eyes. “That’s a lie! I have never been unfaithful.”

His look pierced her to the core. “Not physically, I’m sure. At least, not until tonight.”

Fear paralyzed her. “I fought him off, Patrick, I swear I did. He’s a liar.”

“Funny, he said the same about you.”

He took a step forward, and she cowered back. Her husband had never laid a cruel hand on her. But this man was not her husband. “Patrick, you’re tired, and you’ve been drinking. Come to bed, and we’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“Did you kiss him?”

“No, of course not!”

“Did he kiss you?”

She gasped for breath.

He gripped her arm and shook her. “Answer me!”

“Yes!”

His eyes glittered like ice. “Well, Mrs. O’Connor, and how do I compare?”

She stared in shock, tears welling. “How dare you act like I enjoyed it!”

He stepped back, a total stranger with distant eyes. He moved to the bureau and opened a drawer, spilling clothing on the floor as he rooted through it. His back was so rigid and his manner so cold, she barely recognized him. “Do you love him?”

“What? No! How can you think that?”

He slammed the drawer shut and turned, a pair of clean socks and underwear fisted in his hands. There was no love in his eyes. “Have you ever?”

Her heart stopped. She swallowed the fear that cleaved to her mouth. “Once. A long time ago.”

“When you married me?”

She remained silent, a lie weighting her tongue like forbidden fruit waiting to be tasted.

“What happened the morning of our wedding, Marcy?”

The blood drained from her face. “Nothing, Patrick, I swear.”

“You’re lying. Tell me the truth!”

Her fingers quivered as she pushed the hair from her eyes.

“H-he came to see me . . . at the house . . . h-he begged me not to marry you.”

“And why would he do that, darlin’?” His term of endearment hissed from his lips like a curse.

She leapt from the bed and ran to his side, clutching a hand to his arm. He slung it away and moved to the closet with deadly calm.

She stared in horror. “What are you doing?”

He snatched a clean shirt and turned. “Did you kiss him then too?”

“What?”

“What else happened?” His voice stung like a slap.

“Patrick, don’t do this. It was a long time ago. And it doesn’t matter now. I love you!”

“But not then.”

The truth hung in the air like a cloying mist, burning the air from her lungs. She looked away, unable to bear the pain in his eyes.

“The truth. I want the truth.
Who
were you in love with when you became my wife?”

She put a hand to her mouth and began to cry.

“Who, Marcy?”

She forced the truth from her lips. “Sam.” It was a mere whisper, but she felt him flinch from across the room.

“I see. Well, it seems as if Sam’s not the only one adept at lying.” He strode to the door.

“Patrick, wait! Don’t leave, please—I love you.”

She barely recognized the man who turned. “Somehow, Marcy, that doesn’t carry a whole lot of weight right now. If you need me, I’ll be at the
Herald
.”

“No!” She followed him downstairs, her chest heaving with sobs. “Patrick, please, can’t you forgive me . . . for the sake of our marriage?”

He unbolted the door and swung it wide. It ushered in a cool breeze far warmer than his eyes. “I don’t know, Marcy. Maybe. But I can tell you one thing, darlin’—it won’t be anytime soon.”

The door slammed behind him, effectively severing her hope. A frightening loneliness shivered through her, and she listed against the door, stunned at how easily love could be shattered. With a low moan, she turned and mounted the stairs as slowly as a woman twice her age, barely able to breathe. Like a sleepwalker, dully and without purpose, she finally collapsed in a heap on her bed. She shut her eyes to block out the pain, but it only droned on in her brain—a mind-numbing lament, suffocating until she thought she would die.

Oh, God, help me! Please! Restore our peace and heal my marriage.