eyes. She put a finger to her lips. "Shhh ... you're my favorite granddaughter, you know. But mum's the word. Don't stay up too late, my dear."
Bridget shuffled from the kitchen, leaving Charity alone to clear the few remaining dishes. She lifted Mitch's full glass of wine in her hand and held it aloft. Trailing her finger on the rim, she dipped it in the wine, then closed her eyes and touched it to her lips. The taste was warm and strong. Like her feelings for him.
She set the glass on the counter and headed upstairs to her room. She leaned to light the oil lamp by her bed before stirring up the peat fire in the small pot-bellied stove. Her fingers felt numb while she worked with the buttons of her blouse, barely aware when it slithered to the floor. Ina daze, she stood before the mirror and unfastened her skirt. Its pale blue folds dropped in a pool at her feet.
Her focus sharpened on the girl in the mirror ... the one with the tragic eyes.
Sky blue eyes a man could get lost in. Full, ripe lips demanding his gaze. A lush body to quicken his pulse. Every man's dream. So she'd been told.
"Not for me, Charity. I want more. "
She shivered and picked up her robe from the chair, tying the sash with a jerk.
More. He wanted more. Anger knotted in her stomach. He wanted virtue and God and a weak-minded woman. One with the icy milk of human kindness in her veins.
She looked in the mirror, her eyes steeped in pain. He wanted Faith. They all wanted Faith-Collin, Mitch. And even her father, preferring her sister as the daughter of his heart.
Charity dropped on the bed. A mix of anger and guilt shuddered through her like the chill of the room. She couldn't escape it. She'd betrayed her sister. Now regret shadowed her in shame, never allowing her to forget.
She grappled her fingers through her hair. If only she could be free. A clear conscience. A forgiven heart. The love of the man she longed for. Her fist trembled to her mouth as an involuntary cry escaped her lips. Oh, Faith, I'm sorry. When did I start hating you?
Charity pressed her fingers to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. Hadn't she, Charity, always been the beauty in the family? The younger sister who turned the heads? The apple of her father's eye? Yes. Until the 1907 Massachusetts polio epidemic changed everything. God stood by while it stole the life of her older sister, Hope-Faith's twin. Overnight, the family's focus shifted to Faith, the eight-year-old fighting for her life in a hospital far away.
Charity brushed at the wetness springing to her eyes. Even at the tender age of six, her memories were as sharp as the pain in her throat. No more tea parties with big sisters, no more center of attention, no more "Daddy's girl." No, that role belonged to Faith, along with stacks of pretty books, handmade dolls, and homemade fudge. As if she had a fairy godmother. Someone watching over her.
God?
Charity stood, staring in the mirror over her dresser. The line of her jaw hardened.
God. Some invisible being pandered to by her sister and parents. A lover of men, supposedly, good and kind. But not to her. Never to her. She squared her shoulders, clenching her fists at her sides. Nothing more than a demanding deity, thriving on partiality.
Just like her father.
She lifted her chin. Let her sister have her God. She didn't need him. She would make Mitch Dennehy fall in love with her, and it wouldn't take prayer to do it. She turned and kicked her skirt across the room, then slumped on the edge of her bed. In the flickering shadows of her dark, cold room, she put her head in her hands. And cried.
Charity cricked her neck staring up at the ominous red-bricked front of the Irish Times. Her lips tightened into a flat line. Here goes nothing.
Rigan offered her his arm. "Are you quite sure you want to do this? It seems a bit more obvious than just slumming at Duffy's."
Charity sucked in a deep breath and wrapped her arm around his, hoping to bluff him with her most
Bridget shuffled from the kitchen, leaving Charity alone to clear the few remaining dishes. She lifted Mitch's full glass of wine in her hand and held it aloft. Trailing her finger on the rim, she dipped it in the wine, then closed her eyes and touched it to her lips. The taste was warm and strong. Like her feelings for him.
She set the glass on the counter and headed upstairs to her room. She leaned to light the oil lamp by her bed before stirring up the peat fire in the small pot-bellied stove. Her fingers felt numb while she worked with the buttons of her blouse, barely aware when it slithered to the floor. Ina daze, she stood before the mirror and unfastened her skirt. Its pale blue folds dropped in a pool at her feet.
Her focus sharpened on the girl in the mirror ... the one with the tragic eyes.
Sky blue eyes a man could get lost in. Full, ripe lips demanding his gaze. A lush body to quicken his pulse. Every man's dream. So she'd been told.
"Not for me, Charity. I want more. "
She shivered and picked up her robe from the chair, tying the sash with a jerk.
More. He wanted more. Anger knotted in her stomach. He wanted virtue and God and a weak-minded woman. One with the icy milk of human kindness in her veins.
She looked in the mirror, her eyes steeped in pain. He wanted Faith. They all wanted Faith-Collin, Mitch. And even her father, preferring her sister as the daughter of his heart.
Charity dropped on the bed. A mix of anger and guilt shuddered through her like the chill of the room. She couldn't escape it. She'd betrayed her sister. Now regret shadowed her in shame, never allowing her to forget.
She grappled her fingers through her hair. If only she could be free. A clear conscience. A forgiven heart. The love of the man she longed for. Her fist trembled to her mouth as an involuntary cry escaped her lips. Oh, Faith, I'm sorry. When did I start hating you?
Charity pressed her fingers to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. Hadn't she, Charity, always been the beauty in the family? The younger sister who turned the heads? The apple of her father's eye? Yes. Until the 1907 Massachusetts polio epidemic changed everything. God stood by while it stole the life of her older sister, Hope-Faith's twin. Overnight, the family's focus shifted to Faith, the eight-year-old fighting for her life in a hospital far away.
Charity brushed at the wetness springing to her eyes. Even at the tender age of six, her memories were as sharp as the pain in her throat. No more tea parties with big sisters, no more center of attention, no more "Daddy's girl." No, that role belonged to Faith, along with stacks of pretty books, handmade dolls, and homemade fudge. As if she had a fairy godmother. Someone watching over her.
God?
Charity stood, staring in the mirror over her dresser. The line of her jaw hardened.
God. Some invisible being pandered to by her sister and parents. A lover of men, supposedly, good and kind. But not to her. Never to her. She squared her shoulders, clenching her fists at her sides. Nothing more than a demanding deity, thriving on partiality.
Just like her father.
She lifted her chin. Let her sister have her God. She didn't need him. She would make Mitch Dennehy fall in love with her, and it wouldn't take prayer to do it. She turned and kicked her skirt across the room, then slumped on the edge of her bed. In the flickering shadows of her dark, cold room, she put her head in her hands. And cried.
Charity cricked her neck staring up at the ominous red-bricked front of the Irish Times. Her lips tightened into a flat line. Here goes nothing.
Rigan offered her his arm. "Are you quite sure you want to do this? It seems a bit more obvious than just slumming at Duffy's."
Charity sucked in a deep breath and wrapped her arm around his, hoping to bluff him with her most
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