Daughter of Joy by Kathleen Morgan Page B

rocking. “Does it really matter, Mrs. Stanton?” he asked softly. “The rules remain the same.”
    In a rush of angry frustration, Abby’s patience fled. “How am I to live, if you deny me the right to speak freely of the God I love?” she cried. “How am I to win Beth’s trust and affection, if you forbid me the one way I know to convince her of my sincerity?”
    She fell to her knees before him, and placed her hands over his. “Please, Mr. MacKay. You said I didn’t have to hide my personal beliefs or their importance in my daily life. You said, ‘suit yourself.’”
    Gazing up at him, Abby searched for any sign of his acquiescence. He stared back, hard, unyielding.
    Then something imperceptibly changed. Conor MacKay’s gaze slowly, languorously slid up Abby’s body until it locked with hers. A chill of recognition, of woman’s intuition, swamped her.
    She leaned back, attempting to pull her hands from his, but he was too quick for her. His long fingers encircled her wrists, imprisoning her where she knelt. Abby’s mouth went dry. Her heart began a mad pounding beneath her breast.
    “Mr. M-MacKay … I …” she stammered.
    “Exactly what do you want from me, Mrs. Stanton?” He leaned toward her. “I can’t imagine you truly wish to bed me, yet maybe I’m wrong. Rarely do I find women on their knees to me, save in the most compromising of circumstances. Yet here you are …
    “I must admit, though,” he continued, “that you confuse me. One minute you’re talking about God, and the next”—his lips lifted in a feral smile—“well, you’ve been married. I’m sure you understand as well as I.”
    His breath, redolent of fine whiskey, wafted over Abby. Her heart sank. He’d been drinking, she realized, terror surging through her. He’d been drinking and now he was here, in her room, alone, and in total command.
    Total command …
    The two words stirred deep-seated, long-buried emotions. A memory of a crisp, fall, New England day flooded her mind. She saw her and her father walking through the leaf-carpeted forest near their home and heard, once more, his voice, firm but patient, explaining why she wouldn’t be going to college.
    “Your place is at the side of a good, God-fearing man,” he said. “Only there can you serve the Lord as He truly wishes you to serve Him.”
    Abby had stopped then, her heart pounding, the blood rushing deafeningly in her ears, and clutched her father’s arm. “There are other ways besides marriage to serve the Lord, Papa. I can teach. You always said I had a gift for teaching. And it’s not as if I never want to marry. I just want to do other things first, like go to college.”
    “You don’t need a college degree to teach in the mission Thomas wishes to set up, once you and he arrive out West.” As if explaining this to a child, her father smiled benignly. “You don’t need a college degree to teach the children you will have with him. And surely there will be opportunities aplenty to teach your friends and neighbors, wherever you live, college degree or no. All that truly matters, in the end, is serving the Lord.”
    But it wasn’t the way she wished to serve Him, Abby had thought that autumn day now over seven years ago. Neither her father nor Thomas, though, had ever considered, much less asked, what she wanted when it came to serving God. Indeed, they hadn’t ever seen the need to. They’d always imagined they knew what she needed far better than she.
    With a bitter, resolute shake of her head, Abby forced herself back to the present. Her gaze focused on Conor MacKay’s handsome face and slammed into the lustful, predatory gleam in his eyes.
    Resentment, followed swiftly by rage, swelled, engulfing her earlier fear. Never again, she vowed silently, glaring back at him. Never again would she allow a man to control her, use her, and expect her to deny her own selfhood.
    With a strength fueled by her anger, Abby jerked free and struggled to her