Read Online Comfort and Joy by Sandra Madden - Free Book Online Page A

Waving a paper sack in the air, his mouth turned up in a silly, broad grin.
    Maeve’s gaze flashed from her father to Charles. Her eyes narrowed on her husband as her little hands balled to fists at her hips and her fair complexion took on an ominous crimson flush.
    “Ye haven’t even told yer own mother!” she bristled. Her dark, arched brows burrowed into a furious frown.
    Dear God, what next?
    A single man living alone was unused to this…this pandemonium. Up until the moment he’d awakened to find himself in bed with Maeve O’Malley, Charles had lived in quiet contentment. He’d been satisfied with his well-ordered life and the gracious predictability of his days. From dawn until dusk he’d known exactly what to expect.
    Although little more than skin and bones, Beatrice weighed heavily against him. Charles eased his mother into the only vestibule chair just as Stella Hampton rushed in to join the melee. She carried her poor excuse for a dog under one arm. The miniature canine’s high-pitched yapping proved immensely irritating.
    The last drop of color drained from Stella’s face as her gaze flitted from one person to the next. “What’s happened? Who screamed?”
    “That was Mother.”
    “Oh, dear!”
    Charles felt Maeve’s blistering gaze upon him as he turned to Stella. But the young widow had become an innocent victim of this disturbance and she deserved an explanation. A Rycroft always did the right thing — even when in danger of losing his life, as Charles was now if the look in Maeve’s eyes was any indication.
    “There’s been a misunderstanding,” he told Stella with a forced, but hopefully reassuring, smile.
    “What ‘ave ye done to me girl?” Mick O’Malley growled, attempting to brush by the butler.
    Beatrice reared back as if she were being attacked by a mad dog. “Who is this man?”
    “Me name is Mick O’Malley an’ who would ye be?”
    “Oh!” Beatrice gasped.
    Unaccustomed to rudeness of any kind, Charles’s mother appeared to be on the verge of swooning.
    “Hush, Baby, hush,” Stella crooned to her detestable, pointy little dog as she hurried to Beatrice’s side.
    Charles drew in a deep breath. Dear God, let this madness end.
    Stuart remained at the door, steadfast and stoic, blocking the O’Malley men from entering. The cold winter wind swept in, an icy intrusion of an uninvited caller, but the group gathered in the gleaming marble foyer took no heed.
    “Close the door,” Dolly ordered as she bustled into the increasingly crowded entryway. After one bewildered look, the housekeeper made her way to Charles’s mother.
    “Have you brought my smelling salts?” Beatrice asked in a small, pathetic voice.
    “In my pocket, Mrs. Rycroft. Don’t you worry.”
    As Dolly gathered up Beatrice, Stella slanted a distrustful glance toward Mick and Shea before turning her attention to Maeve. The Irish beauty stood as still and proud as a Michelangelo sculpture while Stella blatantly scrutinized her from head to toe. At length the chalky complexioned widow raised an eyebrow and lifted her chin in a haughty cut. Without a word, she turned on her heel to follow Dolly and Beatrice up the stairs, cradling her bared-teeth, growling dog.
    Charles felt as if he were locked in a nightmare from which there was no escape.
    Scowling impatiently, Mick O’Malley pushed Stuart aside. Nonplussed, Charles’s butler simply stared as Mick strode through the door trailed by his son.
    With a curt nod, Charles dismissed Stuart. Obviously vexed, the tight-lipped butler took his leave.
    Old man O’Malley smelled faintly of whisky as he took another menacing step toward Charles. “What ‘ave ye done to me Maeve?”
    “I have done nothing to hurt your daughter. As you can see, she looks...” Charles voice trailed off as he dared another glance to where Maeve stood on the stairs.
    His heart lurched, a soft leap that took him by surprise.
    Maeve looked like a princess stepped from the pages of a