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Dust motes danced over the breakfast food in the early morning sunlight, doing pirouettes in the wind of Amber’s breath. She resisted the urge to rub her back and thus protrude out her belly. She’d slept well enough, though something in everyone’s expression when she’d crawled off to bed early Sunday night had left her wondering.
Maybe they’d talked about her while they were out. She couldn’t blame them.
A sound at the door pulled her gaze upward, and she swallowed the knot in her throat. Michael. He smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling, and ran a hand through his fair hair. Her fingers itched. She’d like to do the same.
He lifted a plate and dipped his food, then sat at her side. Yet before he took a bite, he paused. “What’s on your schedule for Friday?”
Friday? Startled, she could only stammer. “I ... don’t know.” Why did he ask her about Friday?
He shoveled a bite into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he concentrated his gaze on her. “It’s probably not my place to ask,” he said, swallowing. “But how’d you like to go to dinner Friday?”
“Dinner?” The pitch of her voice increased an octave. “You’re asking me to dinner?”
“No, I’m not asking you. Patrick is.”
Disappointment swamped over her. Patrick? Well, he was nice enough. Quiet, but nice. But he’s not you. She drowned the thought in a forkful of eggs.
“Whoa,” he called.
She gulped down the bite. Look like your expecting, why don’t you? But she couldn’t help it. She was so hungry.
“You can’t know,” she replied, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin, “How hungry I was travelling. The family I was with ... I’m afraid the wife was a bit jealous of me, so the portions she gave me were meager.”
He threw back his head and laughed. She smiled. He had such a beautiful laugh.
“Well, it probably didn’t help that I encouraged it.”
That was maybe too close to the truth. The man had stared at her plenty, all goggle-eyed, much to the chagrin of his pencil-thin wife.
“Tell me,” she continued. “Why are you asking for Mr. Finnegan? Surely, he can ask for himself.”
Michael choked down another mouthful of food. “He can, but he won’t. Pat has this idea he needs to protect his reputation.”
“I most certainly do not.” Patrick smiled in at the pair from the doorway, his stomach jiggling.
He’d thought about asking her to the dinner all night and had come to the conclusion the Biblical phrase “the war with the flesh” was apt. His flesh wanted one thing. His common sense another, and he wasn’t sure which side had won except he’d decided it was uncharitable not to include her.
“You look perky,” Michael laughed. “You toss around all night?”
Patrick pulled a face at him. “Less than you and the child.”
The corners of Michael’s mouth twitched. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what got into the little fellow.”
“I suspect he has his father’s lungs.”
Michael waved his hand in defeat. “Touché.”
Patrick smiled. He’d gotten used to their repartee and enjoyed it now. Michael O’Fallen was so full of life, and he’d missed that living alone.
He returned to the subject. “And I am not concerned about my reputation.” He shifted his gaze to Amber. “I tossed that out long ago when my father called me ... let’s see ... I believe his words were ‘weak’ and ‘pulpy’.”
“Ouch,” she replied.
Patrick lifted a plate and crossed over to the counter where a bowl of eggs, fried bacon, and fresh biscuits were displayed. “Who cooked?” he asked, casting the question over his shoulder.
“I did,” Amber said.
He glanced at her as he reseated. “Then that explains it’s not being burnt.” He smeared a blob of jam onto a biscuit.
“Pulpy?” she asked.
He chewed the bite and swallowed. “My father had high expectations for me. I’m afraid I fell short.”
“I can’t see any parent rejecting a child.”
Her words settled in the room, and silence enfolded them.
What had happened in her life as a child to put her in that profession? Rejection? Fear? Did no one teach her the greatest respect you can have is for yourself?
Michael rose from the table and carried his plate to the sink. “I hope you’ll both excuse me, but I must descend to my cave.”
“Hope you come out fresher than the last time,” Patrick called as Michael exited the door. He stared back down at his plate. “It’s very good. The food, I mean. Thank you for cooking it.”
She inclined her head. “It’s the least I can do. Would you like some coffee?” She rose and reached for the pot.
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
She sat a brimming mug before him, and he lingered over it, the hot liquid steaming his cheeks. To think of asking her and actually do it were two different things.
He set the cup by his plate. “I guess Michael mentioned Friday to you. I’d ...” He exhaled, the puff of air exploding in the room.
“That bad?” she asked. Her eyes sparkled at him.
“I’m afraid so.” He rotated his mug. “Never been good at this kind of thing. But it seems I need a date.”
Need? He licked his lips. “I didn’t mean to say it that way. I’d like a date. No, that’s not it either. I’m botching this up. Aren’t I?
“I’ve never been asked on a date.”
He paused and leaned back in his chair. Of course not. And now, I’m a complete heel. He ran his finger around the rim of his plate. “Can’t say I’ve been on one either, so would you do me the honor of fumbling through our first date?”
She smiled, and the sight of it washed into his heart. “I’d love to.”
Amber could kick herself. Why had she agreed to go with Patrick on Friday? Because he looked at you so sad. Because he seemed nice. That was it. He was kind, and so she hadn’t been able to deny him.
But that made this wrong. She shouldn’t lead him on and let him think there was more to her acceptance than there was.
If only she wasn’t so muddled in the head.
Michael. The sight of him had made her palms sweat and blood race. She longed to run her fingers over his face, trace the line of his jaw, kiss his sweet lips.
All she’d ever wanted was Michael O’Fallen. After he’d disappeared from New York, she’d daydreamed about him: what it’d be like to be his and walk on his arm, sleep in his bed. Her fantasies had sustained her.
You’re being ridiculous. Perhaps, but seeing him brought it all rushing back. How delicious he was.
Amber rose from the chair and wandered to the sink, her mind turning over and over the predicament she was in. There was no way out of her commitment. She’d have to go. Otherwise, Mr. Finnegan would be disappointed and cast her out. He had a right to do that; this was his house. But this was also near Michael, and for that reason, she didn’t want to leave.
She cleared the breakfast mess and set about washing the dishes, the swish of the water working therapy on her thoughts. She should think of happier things. Her baby, for one. It was a boy. She was sure. He’ll have her black hair, her fine structured face. He’ll look nothing like his father.
His father. She frowned. As far as she was concerned he had no father, and she’d never tell him any different. This was her new start, and those days were best forgotten.
“They’re making you do dishes on your first morning here?” Anne asked.
Amber glanced over her shoulder, her stomach twisting. “I don’t mind,” she said.
She didn’t really. Domestic things, everyday things, were infinitely better than how she’d spent her days.
Awkward silence stretched between them. Anne grabbed a dish towel. “I’ll dry,” she said.
Amber nodded, and unspeaking, continued with the job. However, her discomfort only increased the longer they worked together. She didn’t dare glance at Anne’s face lest it start a conversation. What was there to say? I’ve dreamed about your husband?
She washed the last dish with a modicum of relief and moved to put the plates away. But in reaching for the stack, she met Anne’s gaze. Her expression was plain enough. Anne knew how she felt about Michael.
But why wouldn’t she? She’d told her that outright. Yet maybe it would have been better to keep her mouth shut and not make things more difficult.
The baby broke the tension with a wail, and Anne left the room.
Amber took a deep breath. She’d have to be more careful not to let her emotions out from now on, especially around Anne. She was, after all, Michael’s wife.
On the other hand, looking at him was free, and no one could stop her from doing that.
Her task completed, she left the kitchen and wandered down the hallway to the front parlor. Patrick Finnegan looked up from his place on the couch, a Bible draped over his knee.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” she said, entering.
He smiled and nodded, ducking his gaze, but fidgeted, casting surreptitious glances her way. After a number of minutes, he shut his Bible and set it aside, then rose and wandered to the window.
She stared at the span of his back, the curl of hair over his collar. She bothered him somehow. “Do I upset you?” she asked. Perhaps she shouldn’t ask, but she’d always been forthright.
He glanced back at her. “Upset me? No, of course not. Why would you?” His voice squeaked at the end.
“Because you seem distracted.”
“I ... well, you see ...” He inhaled. “I apologize. I’m afraid the recluse around here isn’t Michael, it’s me.”
But he hadn’t struck her as a recluse, reserved maybe. She offered him a smile. “You’re too hard on yourself. After all, I barged in unannounced, and I ... I know I’m not the most acceptable houseguest.”
He tilted his head, his expression mixed. He waved his hand. “Nonsense. You’re as acceptable as anyone else.”
But she wasn’t. She knew better. She might as well state that in the open. He knew. She knew. Everyone here knew. She folded her hands together. “I know that you know who I am.”
“Miss Dawes, I don’t think ...”
Amber walked up to him. “Call me Amber, please.”
“Amber,” he repeated. He swallowed, a nervous gesture.
“I don’t trust people, Patrick. People are cruel. And I trust men least of all, so can I trust you?”
He really did have the nicest face, benevolent gray eyes and a strong chin dusted with light brown hair.
“What is it you wish to trust me with?” he asked.
She hesitated. Despite his words of acceptance, she recognized his reaction to her—the glances, his trembling lip and shaking hands. Hadn’t he called himself a recluse? Just that morning he’d said he never dated.
She didn’t hold that against him. After all, she didn’t know how to date properly either. Yet to tell him something personal ... might cross the line.
“A secret. One which torments me.” She blurted the words, unsure why she even wanted to tell him.
He opened his palms, a gesture of surrender. “Whatever you say, it stays between us.”
She believed him. He struck her as honest, and honesty wasn’t something she’d seen a lot of in her life. Michael had it, in a measure, but he blinded her. She could never share her inner thoughts with him. He was lust, if she told herself the truth. She lusted after him, but he was married, so that was wrong.
Yet she’d slept with married men; they’d paid her bills. And she’d fought with angry wives. But Michael was different. This time was different. She was trying so hard to be different.
She regretted her presence tormenting Michael’s wife. His wife, she reminded herself. She couldn’t forget who Anne was.
“I’m afraid,” she said.
Patrick didn’t speak, but gazed back calmly, his agitation seemingly gone. “What are you afraid of?”
“It’s more what I am not afraid of.”
He waved toward the settee. “Please, let’s sit.”
Amber settled on the end opposite him and rested her hands in her lap.
He reclined, one arm over the back of the seat. “Fear works in direct opposition to faith.”
She wrinkled her brow. Faith? Faith in what? Growing up, she’d had nothing to have faith in. Her da had sold her out. Others had purchased her services at will. Both were selfish gestures, using her to their benefit.
“All anyone’s ever done is let me down,” she said.
He dropped his arm to his side. “I didn’t mean people. People are notoriously unreliable.”
But he struck her as very reliable man, the kind that would stick by you through thick and thin. “Except for you,” she replied.
His gaze softened. “Even me. No man is perfect. No, I was talking about faith in the One who will never let you down.”
There wasn’t anyone like that. He’d just said so.
“Do I need a husband then?” she asked. She’d wanted Michael and found him taken. Why did everything in her plans come back around to him?
Patrick looked away, his discomfort returning. “I’m speaking of God. He will never let you down.”
But hadn’t He already? He didn’t protect her from her da’s plans. He didn’t protect her from the baby’s father either. Where was God when that man had stood over her with a whip or a belt and beat her senseless?
“Is there a God? I see no evidence.”
He flinched at her words as if wounded. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. He undeniably believed in God, whereas she did not. God would have to prove Himself to her.
“The Bible says the human mind cannot comprehend God,” he said. “Add to that man’s ability to place things ahead of the light He sheds for us, and we further cloud our vision. To know God, we must look inward, not outward.”
“And if my insides are dark? If all I see there is confusion and fear?”
He stood to his feet and stepped before her. “May I?” he said, his hand aloft.
She nodded. What had she agreed to?
However, his action brought tears to her eyes. He laid his hand on her head and began to pray. For light. For wisdom. For peace. Beautiful, sincere words from a rich-timbered voice. And an odd hole opened up in her heart, a hole filled with regret. Regret that she didn’t believe like he did.
He released her and stepped away, and her disappointment somehow increased.
Curious. Why would she feel that way? She’d come here for Michael, thinking he would take care of her.
Why then did she have the distinct feeling Patrick Finnegan understood her greatest of all?
Patrick watched Amber leave the room, her every footstep walking into his heart, then stared down at his hands. He’d prayed for her without giving it the first thought, and she was horribly confused by that.
He could imagine her fears. Fear of people. Anyone who knew what she’d done for her livelihood would criticize her, though they hadn’t been in her shoes, hadn’t had to make those decisions, and had no idea what it was like. Fear of the future. She had nowhere to go as evidenced the fact she’d come this far for shelter.
She hid so much of herself inside.
Which made his worldly thoughts shameful. She’d come in and he’d been rattled, unable to read words he could ordinarily quote by heart. Instead, he’d stared at her, noticing the long, ebony waves of her hair, the cross that hung between her ample breasts.
He shut his eyes and uttered a prayer for her, and then a prayer for himself. Why did God bring her here?
His gaze wandered to the chair she’d occupied, and the image of her returned. And what did God want from him? That question beat a tempo in his head. He lifted his Bible and ran his hand over the smooth leather cover, the pages ruffling at his touch.
There was nothing wrong with finding her attractive. But this was more than simple attraction, more than him noticing a pretty face. What he felt for her was physical, and he’d never thought that would be something he’d have to deal with. He’d always controlled his approach to women. In his calling, it was important to hold himself upright and without reproach before God and man. So far in his life, that had been easy. He’d step back, assess the situation, and make a logical decision.
Why couldn’t he do that this time? She flustered him.
His prayer returned to his lips. Strength, he would pray for strength and the wisdom to know how to walk forward.
Patrick’s prayer seemed to travel with her into the hallway, and so she didn’t see Michael until they collided.
Her hand flew to her chest, and she called his name. “Michael.” He smiled and stepped back. But she felt him there still ... against her.
“I should watch where I’m going,” he said.
You should—
She squelched the thought.
“Are you all right?” he continued.
She waved one hand outward. “I’m fine. I was headed to the kitchen for a snack.”
He arched one eyebrow, and Amber’s cheeks warmed. They had just eaten. She should have thought of a better excuse.
He crossed his arms, his gaze piercing into her, and her tongue seemed to trip over itself. “It’s all this fresh air down here. It makes me so hungry.”
And the baby.
“You’re welcome to whatever we have,” he said. “Would you like some company?”
She tamped down the enthusiasm, that threatened to emerge, leveling her tone. “Only if you have the time. I don’t want to take you away from your work.”
He motioned her forward. “My time is my own. I’ll tell my employer I need a break.”
She shuffled into the kitchen, self-consciousness grabbing hold of her. She’d have to watch her need for food.
He opened a cabinet. “I think there’s some cake in here.”
“Cake?” Her mouth watered.
He set two saucers on the counter and lifted the remains of what looked like pound cake from a porcelain container.
“Yes, it’s one of those things people send me,” he replied. He sliced two pieces and set them on the plates. Sliding open a drawer, he removed two forks.
“Tell me,” she said. “Why do people send you things?”
He gave a shrug and seated himself. “I haven’t any idea.”
“You’re popular?”
He must be. He was in the paper in New York.
Michael took a bite of the cake, and she followed suit. Heavenly.
“It seems so. Something about my voice.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “Michael O’Fallen, you are a big tease.”
He grinned. “My wife tells me that a lot.”
“She’s right.” Amber pointed one finger at him, the fork clenched in her hand, then took another bite of cake. “This is very good. I don’t get cake often.”
His facial expression changed, and he set down his fork. “Amber, what happened after I left?”
She bowed her head. I traded away my soul. Had she even had one to start with?
He tipped her face up with his fingers.
Don’t look at me like that. It makes me love you even more.
“You know, the usual,” she mumbled.
The light in his eyes fell; he didn’t believe her. “Don’t talk like that. You know, everything I told you back then is still true. You are more valuable as a person than what any man can give you.”
“I know that now,” she said. “But ...”
“But what?”
She took another bite, the flavor sour now in her mouth. “But men are all I know how to do.” She would never dare tell anyone that except Michael. He understood her.
“What happened when I left New York?” He repeated the question.
She breathed in a shaky breath. “My life fell apart. The coppers came around asking questions.” Her New York accent became more pronounced. “And old Sam didn’t like it, so he threw me out.”
“Amber, I ...”
She stopped him with a shake of her head. “No, don’t tell me you’re sorry. My life was what it was, and it’s not your fault.”
He nodded. “Go on then.”
“He threw me out and so I took up with someone, lived there until ... until I couldn’t take it no more, so here I am.”
He became quiet, and she glanced up. Such a beautiful man.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“I’m not sure we have enough hours in the day to tell that one.”
“Well, how’d you meet Patrick then? He said he heard you sing.”
Michael’s infectious smile returned. “That’s where we met. I spoke to my wife in Gaelic and he knew what I said.”
“He’s a strange one, Patrick Finnegan.” Strange, but nice. Awfully nice.
“He’s my best friend.”
Sincerity emerged in his words. He meant that, and it spoke highly of both Patrick and Michael.
She switched the subject. “He pays you to translate a paper?”
“Yes. It belonged to his father.”
She finished her cake and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “The same father who didn’t like him much? Isn’t that odd? Why would he want to know what his father said if he was so hateful? Why my da ...” She stopped herself. She never talked about her da, and she wouldn’t start now.
Michael didn’t seem to notice.
“You’d have to ask him,” Michael said. “I only do what I’m told.” He said this cheerfully enough.
She changed course again. “And the singing?”
Michael singing in public was a strange thought. He’d never struck her as bold or outgoing enough.
“It seems the more I say no to people the greater the demand, so they seek to bribe me.”
“Hence the cake,” she added.
He inclined his head. “Hence the cake. I believe that was for a birthday party.”
She smiled. “Happy Birthday then.”
He laughed, and she soaked up the sight of it, how the muscles in his neck moved, how his lips twitched. A crumb of cake sat at the corner of his mouth, and unthinking, she brushed it away. But her fingers lingered.
“Michael, do you ever regret we didn’t ...” She had no right to ask that. He was off limits. “I think I’m tired. I’m going to go lay down.”
And without looking at him, she fled from the room.