A Light in the Window by Julie Lessman Page A

spiritually.”
    His handsome face screwed in a frown. “I don’t understand—we share the same faith.”
    She sighed and buffed her arms, not from the cold, but from the awkwardness of his statement. “Yes, we both belong to the same church …” she said carefully, “but we both don’t live by the same rules.”
    He frowned. “I’m confused—I go to church, to confession, and I’m good friends with Father Fitz …” He slacked a hip, her father’s portfolio limp at his side. “What more do you need?”
    She drew in a deep breath, not wanting to wound him, but intent on speaking the truth. “More, I’m afraid. You see, to me it’s a matter of faith that is real and deep and alive.”
    He flinched. “I have faith,” he said, a bristle of hurt in his voice.
    “Yes, of course you do,” she said quickly, gaze gentle as she tapped a finger to her head. “Up here.” She slowly slid a hand to her heart, taking great pains to soften her words. “But based on what I know of a man of your ilk, I worry that it doesn’t live here.” She studied the confusion in his face and tried again. “I believe that in your mind, your faith is deep—doctrine, precepts, catechism—but when it comes to living it?” Her smile was sad as she curled her hand over her chest. “I suspect it may be heart shallow.”
    “And how would you know that, Marceline?” A spark of fire glinted in his eyes for the very first time. “As I said before, you don’t even know me.”
    Releasing a tired sigh, she regarded him with a look of sadness that clearly bled into her voice. “No, but as I said before, Patrick, I know your reputation with women, your flirtatious ways, your disregard of rules …” A lump dipped in her throat as she paused, determined to make him understand once and for all. “Your lust for things of a more … carnal nature.”
    —
    Blood gorged his cheeks at the way she said it—like he was one of the degenerate sots that littered the alleys of Ann Street like garbage—and it stung his pride with the heat of humiliation. He blinked, suddenly feeling like a little boy instead of a man, and the very notion angered him. Never had a woman turned him away before, and frustration prickled the back of his neck like a thousand needles of guilt, telling him he would never measure up, never make the grade. “You’re a waste of a man, Patrick O’Connor,” his father would say, “selling your soul to the devil instead of living for God.” But then it was “God” Who belittled him through the very judgment in his father’s eyes, rejected him through the condemnation in his father’s barbs. While the devil had only given him free reign to be accepted and approved, if only in the eyes and hearts of Southie lasses. Defiance steeled his jaw. All but one. His gaze flicked up to blue eyes soft with pity and an angel’s face gentled with empathy that was nothing more than condescension in disguise. Oh, how he craved to turn his back on the very faith she espoused.
    But he was nothing if not determined and no one if not a man used to getting his way with the gentler sex, and so he controlled the anger that smoldered inside, taming his tone. “Marceline,” he said quietly, “I’m asking you to give me a chance, that’s all. I’ve been drawn to you from the moment I saw you, and I would like to know you better.”
    Seconds passed like eons before she finally shook her head. “I’m sorry, really I am. I like you as a person, Patrick, truly, but in the romantic sense, I have no desire to be involved with a man like you, a rogue who so casually equates lust with love.”
    A man like you.
    A failure, a sinner, someone not worthy of love. To his parents, and now, apparently, to Marceline Murphy. Her pious judgment detonated his temper. Fists clenched, he leaned in, looming over her with fury itching in his eyes. “So you’re judge and jury, then, condemning me without knowing me?”
    Her jaw notched up, his tone