A Passion Denied (53 page)

He clutched her hands in his. “No, Lizzie, I know you’ve been in love with John for years, so don’t apologize for that. But I thought—or hoped—you also had feelings for me.”

She looked away, feeling the blush in her cheeks at the warm stroke of his thumb on her palm. She bit her lip and slowly removed her hands from his. “I do have feelings for you, Michael. I . . . care about you very much.”

“But you don’t love me.”

She forced her gaze to his. “I don’t know. I think I do a little, or at least I was on my way. But whatever’s there, Michael, it can’t compete with the love I have for Brady. Since I was a little girl, I’ve known he was the perfect man for me.”

His tone was hard. “Yeah, ‘perfect.’ ”

She blinked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He drew in a deep breath and studied her for several seconds as if weighing his words. He exhaled slowly. “Look, Lizzie, you asked me once what happened to my brother years ago, but I wouldn’t tell you. Because despite the fact that we are obviously not close, John and I are blood, and I don’t want to hurt him. But . . .”

Everything within her stilled—her heart, her mind, the air in her throat—all of it, teetering.

“I love you too, enough to stop you from making a mistake. It’s true—I want you to marry me more than anything, but even if you won’t, I want you to be happy. And after a week in New York with John, I’m scared to death that not only will he
not
make you happy, but I think he’s going to end up hurting you again.”

She jerked away, but he gripped her arms. “Not on purpose, Lizzie, because he loves you, he really does. But the problems of his past are so deep, so damaging, that I worry he can never be the husband you need him to be.”

Tears burned her eyes. “Let me go!” He released her, and she stood to her feet. “I’ll get your ring and then you can go.”

She slipped out of the parlor and up to her room, tiptoeing in the dark to her nightstand drawer. She closed the ring in her hand.

“Lizzie? Are you still gonna marry Brady, even though Michael is here?” Katie’s voice floated from across the room.

“Yes, darling, I am. I’m just giving Michael his ring back.” She pressed a kiss to Katie’s forehead. “You go to sleep now. I’ll be up soon, okay?”

Katie nodded and turned over.

Lizzie moved to the window where moonlight streamed across her face. She held the ring up to the light and released a heavy sigh. Michael was just angry, she thought. And she didn’t blame him. She had no right to treat him harshly. When he’d left, she’d been engaged to him. Now she was engaged to his brother, and the absurdity of the situation made her feel a little foolish. Ring tightly in hand, she ran downstairs where Michael remained seated on the sofa, his head in his hands.

She moved across the room to sit beside him, and he looked up, breaking her heart with the soulful look in his eyes. She gently took his hand and pressed the diamond in his palm, closing his fingers over it.

He stood still for several seconds, his eyes never straying from hers, then slowly pocketed the ring. “I love you, Lizzie. I always will. John’s a lucky man, which I suppose he deserves given his unlucky past. I just hope and pray he doesn’t break your heart.” He rose and started for the door.

“Michael . . .”

He paused.

“I just love him. You understand that, don’t you?”

His back rose and fell with a heavy breath. “Yes.”

“Whatever’s in his past, it can’t change that.”

He turned. “It’s not his past I’m concerned about, Lizzie. It’s your future. And yes, it could. Good night.”

Fear clawed at her throat. She ran after him. “Nothing could be that bad . . .”

He turned at the door, his coat draped over his arm. “Then why are you afraid?”

Dread skittered in her stomach like scorpions waiting to sting. A fragile thread of air seeped from her lips. “Tell me, then,” she whispered.

Regret shadowed his features. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“It’s going to hurt. Are you sure?”

Her pulse pounded in her brain. “Yes.”

He observed her with sorrowful eyes, obviously wrestling with the weight of his decision. He finally nodded and took her hand to lead her back to the parlor.

When he spoke, he sounded quiet and low, and far more like his brother than himself. “All right, Lizzie,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you what I know.”

Marcy heard it first. Guttural sobs rising on the stairs. She shot up in the bed just as Lizzie staggered into their room, her body heaving with soul-wrenching sorrow. She fell into her mother’s arms, and Patrick seized up in the bed, his eyes wide in the dark. “Lizzie? Is that you? What’s wrong?”

She was weeping too hard to speak, and the words were so muddled that all Marcy could make out was Brady’s name.

Patrick pulled her from Marcy’s arms into his lap like when she’d been small, a little girl so afraid of storms. He rocked her gently against his chest and stroked her hair. “Nothing can be this bad, darlin’, nothing. Not as long as we have God to turn to.”

Marcy rubbed Lizzie’s back while her eyes locked with Patrick’s, reflecting the worry she saw in his. “Lizzie, you have to calm down and tell us what happened,” she said.

Lizzie nodded, and her body shook with heaves that slowly tapered off. She sniffed and wiped a sleeve against her face, and Patrick reached for his handkerchief on the nightstand. He pressed it into her hand and kissed her cheek. With a final quiver, she settled back against his chest. Her face was a mask of tragedy in the moonlit room.

“It’s Brady,” she whispered, her eyes lost in a cold stare.

“What about Brady, darlin’?” Patrick said.

“He . . . slept with his father’s wife.”

Marcy’s body went numb at the shock of her words, robbing her of all ability to speak. She heard Patrick’s harsh intake of breath, a violent hissing in a silent room. Seconds hung in the air like minutes, riddled with the ragged beat of her pulse.
No!
Please, God, no.

“Tell us everything,” Patrick whispered. His voice sounded like a stranger’s, cold, unfamiliar, and as tight as the fist clenched around his daughter’s shoulder.

“He was s-seventeen and she was twenty-five. Michael says he was drunk and seduced her . . .” A sob choked and she started to heave.

Marcy gasped and Patrick swore under his breath.

“H-his ten-year-old stepsister f-found them.” Lizzie began to weep, keening against her father’s side. “M-Michael s-said Brady left home that night, and stole his stepmother’s jewels before he ran away.”

“Oh, God help us.” Marcy made the sign of the cross.

“A-and t-then . . .”

Marcy’s voice rose with alarm. “There’s more?”

Lizzie nodded as a broken sob heaved from her lips. “M-Michael is w-worried b-because he says Brady h-has a temper and g-gets violent when he drinks.”

Patrick gripped her arms. “Brady drinks?”

Lizzie stared as if in a stupor. “Since he was fourteen,” she whispered. A spasm shuddered through her. “Michael says that Brady . . . that he . . . lived on skid row for almost a y-year after he left. And t-this l-last week, when he w-was in N-New York, he got b-blind drunk and tried to kill Michael.”

Patrick exhaled slowly. “Lizzie, have you ever seen any indication of this before? Brady’s temper, his drinking, his past?”

She shook her head. “No, I-I just knew he had a checkered past. That he never wanted to talk about it.”

Patrick grunted. “I can certainly see why. I’ll wager even Collin doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t. Michael says nobody does.”

Marcy stroked her daughter’s hair. “Maybe it’s not true, then. Maybe Michael is making it up . . . or exaggerating.”

Fresh tears swam in Lizzie’s eyes. “Oh, Mother, I pray you’re right. When Michael told me tonight, I felt like a part of me died inside. I love Brady, but if this were true . . . I just don’t know what I would do.”

“You’ll forgive him, Lizzie, just like God has,” Marcy said quietly.

Patrick shifted in the bed and punched his pillow several times before stuffing it behind his back. “No, Marcy, she’ll forget him. Any man who could do that to his own family, I don’t want for my daughter.”

A sob erupted from Lizzie’s throat.

“Patrick, we don’t even know if it’s true. Brady deserves the right to defend himself.”

Lizzie lurched from Patrick’s hold and jumped up from the bed. “God help me, I can’t handle this. I need to know—right now!”

“Lizzie!” Patrick rose up in the bed, his tone paralyzing her where she stood.

She put her hands to her face and started to sob.

“You are not going anywhere tonight. We are going to pray about this, and then you are going to bed. You can talk to him in the morning.”

She shook her head and took several steps toward the door. “No, Father, I won’t be able to sleep—”

“Lizzie!” Patrick’s tone was sharp with warning.

Marcy rushed to her side. “Your father’s right. We’ll pray about it, sleep on it, then you can talk to him in the morning.” She ushered her back to the bed, and Lizzie started to cry. “Patrick, will you pray?” she whispered.

He put his arms around them both and bowed his head. “Lord God, our hearts are heavy, but we trust in your Word which says ‘weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’ Be in this situation, Lord, work it out for Lizzie and Brady’s good, bringing joy in the morning. Reveal the truth, no matter what it may be, and give each of us the strength to receive it. And help all of us to sleep, Lord, especially Lizzie. Give her a peaceful night. Amen.”

Patrick squeezed Lizzie’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to her head. His voice was low and rough. “Lizzie, whether truth or not, we are bound by God to silence. Exposing Brady’s past edifies no one and hurts everyone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded and rose to her feet, her tear-streaked face iridescent in the milky moonlight.

“Good night, darlin’. Get some sleep. This will all work out. Trust me.”

“Lizzie, do you want me to lie with you for a while?” Marcy asked.

She nodded.

Marcy kissed Patrick’s cheek. “I’ll snuggle in as soon as she falls asleep.”

He watched the two of them leave and slowly laid his head back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, a father in shock. God have mercy, he didn’t want to feel this way toward Brady, he didn’t! But if it were true . . . how could he ever accept the man?

Trust me
, he had told his daughter. Patrick shivered with a cold, sinking fear. God help him—he couldn’t even trust himself.

She supposed the prayer had worked—at least half. She had slept, but it had been anything but peaceful. Her dreams had been a bizarre kaleidoscope of Michael and Brady in a surreal tug-of-war. Mother had stayed with her most of the night, sneaking out in the early hours of the morning when Father rose to get ready for work.

Lizzie’s eyelids felt too heavy to open, no doubt Michael’s revelations weighting them closed. That and a restless night that did little more than paste her eyes shut. She managed to open one eye and blink at the clock, then jolted up in bed at the late hour. Nine o’clock! She threw her covers aside and lumbered to her feet, her face still numb from hours of weeping. She thought of Brady, and a sharp pain seared through her.
No, God, please!

She dressed slowly as her thoughts rambled, and she was glad Katie and Steven had already left for school. Father and Sean would both be at work by now, so only Mother would be downstairs to wish her well in her quest for the truth.

The truth.
Lizzie wavered on her feet while a sickening dizziness whirled in her brain. Her Brady—always so decent, so kind, so perfect. Her knight in shining armor—tarnished by sins too painful to ponder. She reached for the bureau to steady herself, praying for God to give her strength.
And ye shall know
the truth, and the truth shall make you free.
Oh, God, let it be so!

Her mother looked up when she entered the kitchen, and her tired eyes mirrored Lizzie’s. “Were you able to sleep?” Marcy asked.

“Some. Thank you for staying with me, Mother. I couldn’t have gotten through the night without you.”