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The sonorous rhythm of the train sent Gerritt off to sleep several miles into their travels. Head bowed against his chest, eyes closed, he grasped for a few moments of rest and almost succeeded until Maire spoke.
“You’re sleeping?”
His eyelid flicked open reluctantly.
“I was.”
Her gaze turned curious. “You didn’t sleep last night?”
Grudgingly, he sat up straight, prepared to answer, and rubbed his eyes. “Not really.”
At this, she tilted her head, and the graceful curve of her neck claimed his attention. He swallowed, his throat thick.
“Was I the problem?” she asked.
“You were ...” He sought for the right word. “Clingy.”
One corner of her mouth turned upward and a twinkle lit in her eyes. “Gerritt Finnegan were you bothered by me?”
“Maire Finnegan, yes, I was.”
His use of her married named brought a giggle to her lips. She muffled it with the back of her hand. But it was good to see her smile, to hear her laughter.
An older woman sporting an enormous feathered hat glared at them from across the aisle. Gerritt smiled broadly at her, a sudden desire to kiss Maire square on the lips, coming over him. The woman would be scared half to death, he supposed. His mood sobered some. His self-control would shatter at that point, however, and he’d be back to square one.
He leaned his head back on the seat and shut his eyes again. Maybe if Maire left him be long enough he could drift back to sleep.
“Excuse me,” a male voice said, ruining his chance. “I don’t mean to pry, but I overheard you speaking. Are you Michael O’Fallen’s daughter?”
Reluctantly, Gerritt dragged his eyes open a second time. The man speaking was well-dressed, his suit pressed, shoes shiny. He sported a new derby hat. Blond whiskers curled downward around a generous mouth.
“I am,” Maire replied. “And you are ...?”
The man made a polite bow and, unasked, took a seat at the older woman’s side, much to her chagrin. “I’m sorry. The name’s Thomas Gray. I knew your father years ago.”
“Mr. Gray, pardon my cluelessness, but one of two people usually approach me saying they know my father ... fans or newsman. Which are you?”
Thomas Gray laughed loudly at that, his head thrown back and Adam’s apple bobbing. “You are much like him,” he said, amused. “Always quick with the quip was Michael Seamus O’Fallen.”
Maire smiled wide. “I see you know him well enough. He never gives out his middle name. His dislike of it is too strong. Now, if you can tell me where it comes from, then I will believe you.”
Thomas Gray returned her happy expression. “It’s his father’s name.”
She dipped her head slightly. “Good enough. Where do you know my father from? You say it was years ago?”
“Yes, in his youth. We grew up together.”
Gerritt leaned forward for a better view. Any person who knew Michael O’Fallen that many years ago was a find indeed. Michael talked seldom of his youth.
“Gray is not an Irish name,” Maire continued.
Thomas Gray confirmed this with a nod. “No, ma’am, it isn’t.”
That he had called her ma’am attested to how well he’d been listening. Maire turned her gaze to Gerritt’s. “Mr. Gray, I’d like you to meet my husband, Gerritt Finnegan.”
“Finnegan, eh?” Thomas brightened. “The preacher’s son?”
Gerritt dipped his chin. “Do you know about my father as well?”
“First,” Mr. Gray replied, raising one hand. “My sincere congratulations on your nuptials. I heard his daughter was getting married. I’m happy to see it was to someone as fine as you. To address your question, I’ve kept track of Michael’s career since he became famous, especially since it’s so out of character.”
This drew Maire’s mouth into a pucker. “How is it out of character?”
A smirk rose on Gerritt’s lips. She was still probing. Maire was ever curious by nature.
“Well, Michael never cared for attention,” Thomas Gray replied. “But he was always drawing it in some way. He has this manner about him that gathers people like flies.”
This was the truth. Young, old, male and female, Michael was reluctant in his fame, but couldn’t halt it either. Maire, however, made no comment on this, but shifted the topic.
“So if you aren’t Irish,” she said, “then how did you grow up together? From what he’s told me everyone there was Irish.”
Thomas nodded, sharp. “Oh, they were, but I was an orphan with nowhere to go, and his mother took me in.”
Maire’s breath hissed as she inhaled. “Y-you knew Mama?”
He smiled. “The finest woman on the face of the earth, and one I owe my life to. As if life for her wasn’t hard enough keeping track of such an untamable son, she took me in as well.”
“If I might ask ... what ... what happened? She died and ... he’s always said he was alone.”
“He was, at that point. I was older than him by a couple years, so I had found a job on the other side of town, one with lodging. We’d parted for a time. When I heard she was gone, I looked for him, but it was as if he’d vanished. Then one day, years later, there it was in the paper ... the Golden Voice, it said. I knew it was him. He’d always had the voice of his mother.”
Maire grew silent and still. Gerritt took her hand and folded it into his own. A myriad of emotions crossed through her eyes.
“I’m sorry to upset you,” Thomas Gray continued. “That was not my intention.”
She waved her hand outward. “It’s all right. It’s just he worshipped the ground she walked on, and all we’ve ever heard are stories. To meet someone who knew her ... Did she sing a lot?”
“All the time. Like an angel. The purest, sweetest tone. I went to hear Michael sing that first time he came to New York. He was more nervous than a cat in a water bucket. Perhaps, others couldn’t see it, but I knew him well enough, you see.” His gaze drifted as if he were back in that place. “Even from my poor seat rows and rows away, I could tell it. The minute he opened his mouth ....” He shook his head. “He’s changed lives, you know. It’s more than his singing. It’s the honesty within him. He speaks of God as if he’s the person right beside you, and before it’s over, you believe him.”
Gerritt rolled Thomas’s words over in his mind. It was true. God was as real in Michael O’Fallen’s life as in that of his own father, Patrick. He’d never considered that until now.
His thoughts switched. It was too bad all of this couldn’t be recorded, written down for posterity’s sake. Gerritt’s eyes spread wide. “Mr. Gray,” he said. “My wife and I are on our honeymoon, but I know Mr. O’Fallen would like to see you. Do you have an address where you might be reached?”
Thomas Gray inclined his head. “I do. But I’ll do you one better. I’ll be in Lakesville just before Christmas. If I give you the date and where I’ll be staying, will you promise to look me up? To speak with him again will mean the world to me.”
Gerritt leaned over Maire and offered his hand. “I will. That’s a promise.”
Maire fixed her eyes on him once Thomas Gray had left, their green depths shading dark. “What are you up to Gerritt Finnegan?”
He tapped one finger on her cheek. “Just an idea squirming around in my head. I’d rather keep it to myself at present.” He faced squarely ahead on the seat then and shut his eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need some rest.”
The main steamboat service taking tourists down the St. John’s River picked up its initial passengers in Jacksonville. However, given the distance from Jacksonville to Lakesville, that was too far north to travel simply to take a boat ride. Add to that the fact Jacksonville had only months ago gone through a yellow fever outbreak, and Gerritt and Maire opted to catch a smaller service further downriver.
The port downriver was busy enough. Ships of all kinds used it as a means of not only transportation, but more often nowadays, as commerce. Yet, the increasing presence of the railroad within the state was rapidly replacing both the tourist traffic on the St. John’s as well as its use in business.
Gerritt’s concern, however, was locating their stateroom amongst so many others. The boat was larger than he expected. But then, he wasn’t sure what he expected. Following the path of the promenade, extending the length of the ship, they cut through an entrance leading into the social hall and from there to a companionway.
Michael’s money had purchased them the best stateroom on the ship. It was only one of two with an actual bed and private bath adjoining, more ideal for a honeymoon that the standard narrow berths. A porter brought their bags and set them at the foot of the bed with a bow.
“It’s almost like home,” Maire said. Indeed, if not for the motion of the ship and the lack of windows, you could close your eyes and be on land. She sat on the bed, spreading her skirt. Her chin lifted. “What was all that on the train, what you asked Mr. Gray?”
Gerritt curved one hand over the painted metal bed frame. “I told you not to ask.” He didn’t mean it harshly, but realized it did.
Her actions confirmed it. She thrust to her feet. “You’re keeping secrets from me now?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Where’s the secret in a simple idea? I don’t even know if it’s a good one.”
Her gaze altered then. She pressed close. “Gerritt ...” Her voice softened. “Kiss me like you did at the wedding.”
His grip on the bed post tightened. “Why?”
She didn’t answer right away, but raised a hand to his chest, lying over his heart, and it was as if her fingers curled around it.
“I want to know if we feel that again,” she replied. “You felt it. Didn’t you?”
It. The connection they’d had. Gerritt inhaled deep. “Why do you want to know, Maire? I thought we were agreed on my intentions.”
She bit her lip, kneading the pink flesh. “We agreed, but ... I ... I need to know.”
His reluctance seized hold. He’d said he wouldn’t do this, that the wedding kiss was enough. He’d promised himself to refrain for both their sakes. To repeat it would only make things harder. It certainly wouldn’t help him sleep or bring him peace.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.
She wound her fingers into the folds of his shirt, pleating the fabric. “Why isn’t it? I’m your wife.” She paused. “If I don’t ask again, will you do it?”
Gerritt hesitated. “You won’t ask?”
She licked her lips and the flicker of her tongue seduced him. “I ... need you. Please?”
His will crumbled with the plea in her voice. He couldn’t deny her. Somewhere in the last few weeks she’d worked her way into his thoughts, worse yet, into his heart, and she’d settled there, becoming an influence to his thinking. For her, he’d thrown away his greatest chance to write. For her, he’d cast aside his idea of the perfect life. For her, he suffered this torment inside when what he wanted was to flatten her to the bed and drive all consciousness from his brain.
He shook with the revelation. That wasn’t love. It was lust. She was no longer his sister, no longer his friend, but a woman meant to warm his bed and satisfy his body. That made him no better than the man who raped her, and above all else, he wouldn’t become like him.
“Gerritt, kiss me.”
Fire lapped at his senses, the flames spreading up his frame into his gut. From there, they spread outward along his arms and into his hands. The heat captured his lungs and lodged in his throat. Powerless in the face of it, he captured her mouth and groaned with the taste.
She pressed to him, eager, her chest heaving, and he clutched her there, parting her lips with his tongue. His reasoning failed. He could no longer set this aside as nothing. What he desired from her mouth, he desired even more from her body.
Gerritt yanked his head away, his eyes wild, and stumbled back against the wall. The cold metal seeped through his coat. She smoldered in his vision, an apparition determined to haunt his every thought, as hunger licking at his senses.
She crossed the room and stood before him, so close he could feel her again, and the surge boiled again upward. In one swoop, she dragged his mouth back to hers, demanding, challenging, entreating. And he capitulated, giving in to the powerful force that bound them together.
She pulled away, and he laid his forehead against hers, concentrating on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
“Why do you do this to me, Maire?” he asked softly.
Gerritt Finnegan was the strongest man Maire knew. He had faced down great opposition, never seemingly perturbed by what people said about him. Yet now with one kiss, he was reduced to a quivering mass of the most beautiful flesh.
The spell that erupted during the wedding was still there, only now it was worse because it had grown into something enormous, something neither one of them could contain. The thought of Gerritt Finnegan as truly her husband established itself in her heart. He wanted what she wanted. He’d proved that to her now. Yet, the memories of that horrible night, though banished in her dreams, still intruded in her actions.
He’s not that man. He’s not him. She told herself over and over. She would convince herself of it. What she had with Gerritt was greater than that; it was dynamic, driving, and compelling. She couldn’t stop the words from leaving her lips though she knew he wouldn’t return them. “I love you, Gerritt Finnegan,” she said. With all her heart. With everything in her. He was the man she wanted, the husband of her dreams.
He kissed her forehead. “I know you do, Maire.”
She suppressed her tears. He would love her ... one day ... and there would be no restraints. Until then, she would keep her word and not ask him for anything. She turned around and smoothed her hair in the mirror hung on the far wall. Her cheeks were pink, blushed with emotion, and her mouth swollen from need.
“If I could have ten minutes,” she said, “then we’ll go find the dining room.”
He nodded and slipped away. The room became much colder than it had been. Tears rose to her eyes again and a sob caught in her throat. “God,” she prayed, “I love him. Help him to love me.”
She prayed for her marriage? Why? What did she expect God to do? To cleanse her thoughts. To remove the last vestiges that held her back. Would God hear her? And if He heard, would He answer?
Gerritt knocked lightly on the door, calling her name. “Maire? If you’re ready ...”
She preceded him down the companionway into the social hall. The dining room was the most elegant room she’d entered so far. Tables laden with fine china and crystal stemware, reflected the gold-trimmed opulence of the walls. The host led them to a seat, and Gerritt pulled out her chair.
But seated, the atmosphere between them grew awkward. Now, she would have to talk to him ... now, when all that was in their thoughts was the past few minutes. She sought for something light and trivial to say. “So what will they have you doing at the paper?”
He’d taken the job before they wed without speaking a word. Gerritt laid his arms in his lap. “Not writing.”
Writing. That was his dream. He hadn’t wanted to be a paperboy.
“But perhaps in time they will move you to it,” she continued. Why wouldn’t they? He wrote well enough.
“I doubt it.”
She startled at the tone of his voice. He was angry? Her brow drew tight.
“They have two writers and an editor already,” he continued. “I am there to set type, clean up, and the like.”
And that’s not what he wanted. He need not say it. It hung in his words.
“I wouldn’t let that stop you from trying.”
“Maire, don’t.” He cut her off. “Don’t pretend things are the same because they aren’t.”
Her face heated. “I was only trying to make conversation.”
“I know,” he conceded, his manner lightening. “But conversation is not what either one of us wants. Let’s order and enjoy our meals.” He looked up for a waiter and waved his hand at a brown-haired youth wearing a stiff-pressed jacket.
The youth turned about and smiled. “Yes sir? May I help you?”
“We’d like a menu,” Gerritt said.
“Of course.”
Hearing his voice, Maire gasped, her lungs emptying of air. Clutching at her throat, she sought her sanity. But her mind slipped back to that place, back to the dock, the boards creaking beneath her, his body pounding hers. Her vision blackened, darkness capturing her mind.
This, he said in her thoughts. This. This. This.
“Maire? What’s wrong?” Gerritt’s voice entered her head from some distance away. “Maire?”
“Get help,” someone said.
Hands lifted her from her chair. Gerritt, familiar and safe.
“Maire, what’s wrong?” He cradled her in his lap, and she focused on his face. A lock of hair swept over his cheek. So beautiful.
But behind him, she gazed into eyes formed in a nightmare, hard-edged, scornful. Daniel nodded at her and winked.
“H-him ... him ... he’s ...” she said, pointing one finger.
Gerritt’s eyes wrinkled with worry. “Him who? I’m confused, Maire. What is it?”
She stared past him into a now-empty void. “Daniel ... Daniel Boon.”
“Daniel Boon? Maire, are you ill?” Gerritt laid a hand on her forehead.
Freeing herself, she struggled to her feet, but the crowded room swayed around her. People pressed in on every side, their faces filled with concern. “He was here,” she said, “the man who ... who ...” Raped me.