Her mother had been a…she couldn’t say the word even to herself. Stiffly, she folded the papers and stuffed them back in the envelope, locking the whole thing back in the desk. For the remainder of the day, Margaret Mary kept her mind totally consumed in prayer, but not in joy or peace. She prayed as a way to block from her mind the horrible truth she had discovered. Her mother had not been ill. She had not been at death’s door all those years of Margaret Mary’s confusion, anger, and loneliness. She simply hadn’t wanted her daughter.
Her mother hadn’t wanted her.
Chapter Four
Around noon, Brendan rode the acres of his coastline ranch searching out two calves that had strayed from the rich, grassy pasture into the thick woods edging his property. His land continued for another mile or so into the forest, a buffer he used to keep neighbors at a distance. And though he’d awarded Catherine distance by leaving the cottage that morning, he hadn’t banned her from his mind.
His first view of her had been a virginal white slip. She’d hiked up the black part of her costume, so that above the white, the black covered—and enhanced—the soft roundness of her ass, tilted up as she bent over a scrub brush. She cleaned the floor, swaying with each backward thrust of her knees. His cock had risen at the sight. He’d wanted to drop down and rub himself against her. Then she’d caught hint of his presence and stood.
She was covered from head to foot. A white bib apron masked a shapeless drape of black material to where she’d pinned it at her knees. Beneath the apron and white slip, black stockings ended in sensible black shoes.
A black veil capped her head. She’d pinned that back, too, leaving her face framed in pure white binding. She was angelic, her face small and round, her light-brown eyes wide at the unexpected sight of him. She was tall, like her mother. He’d have thought statuesque if that formless costume had allowed her shape to show.
But it was her mouth that captured his attention most. Lush and full, her lips made a perfect O when she stepped back from him. They were devoid of lipstick, yet he immediately pictured them bright red, saying a prayer before they slid over his cock and sucked him off.
He was hard even now, remembering his first sight of her. He’d wanted her then, and he wanted her now. She was Emma’s daughter—another turn-on—and he was old enough to be her father, though thankfully he didn’t deserve credit—or blame—for siring her. No, not a nun. He was more in the habit of spawning devils, like his son, David, an unrepentant gambler who was well on his way to becoming a dissolute drunk. Or his daughter, Nancy, spoiled as her mother could make her. Thank God she was married and now driving her husband crazy, whining and demanding everything under the sun. No, producing nuns wasn’t for him. But fucking them might be.
From what he’d seen that morning, he could pluck the tender, juicy peach from the branch any time he chose. The question was, did he want that on his soul? He snorted. His soul already sported so many stains, one more wouldn’t matter.
Far off, he spotted the two calves, foraging together among Douglas fir needles and fallen oak leaves. He nudged his horse to the right to get behind them. Closer, he clicked his tongue and called out softly, coaxing them to do what he wanted, to go where he directed. They cocked their heads to listen and then trotted ahead of him, docile and willing to let him direct them back to the herd.
Sister Margaret Mary—oh yes, he’d known her name since she’d surrendered herself to that unnatural place—would be just like the calves. Surrender defined her. She was used to giving herself over to someone stronger, someone in authority. She’d promised herself to God. Well, around here, he was God.
He’d never had to fight for a woman before, though he’d paid dearly at times to maintain his relationship with Catherine’s mother. But the idea of challenging the Almighty for the nun’s loyalty was a challenge to consider. This little coastline of Oregon could become Mount Olympus, with one god fighting another for control and power.
Yes, submission was the key. He wanted nothing less. Damn but his cock ached. Any more thoughts of Catherine’s surrender and he’d have to get off the damn horse and jack off. He wouldn’t continue his exile, not with the image of her sweet ass aimed at his cock and her luscious lips haunting his dreams.
Winning her over would take some time. He wanted her to come to him of her own free will. He needed someone to watch over her, to keep her safe from the town’s speculation and delay the process of her packing until Brendan could overwhelm her senses. He knew just the man.
He banished the virginal sister from his mind and concentrated on getting his cattle in one place on the high pasture.
* * * *
“Yes?” Brendan called out from behind his desk.
A maid stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Parnell is here to see you, sir.”
“Tell him to come in.” Brendan replaced the paperwork he’d been reading in the drawer of an oak desk that occupied a good portion of the corner.
His office was large enough for a sofa and two substantial leather chairs, a credenza that served as a liquor cabinet, two walls of books and his desk. It was a man’s room, the one place in the house his wife, Marlene, was forbidden to decorate. She wasn’t even allowed in there unless he invited her, and he never did. Bad enough he had to sit across the table from her at meals when their schedules happened to coincide.
After the birth of their daughter she’d indicated she wasn’t interested in having sex any longer. He’d acceded without argument. Just the threat of his visiting her room every night had been enough for her to grudgingly agree to his finding release elsewhere. By the time he’d installed Emma in the cottage on the cliff, Marlene’s objection to how that would look to the town meant less than nothing.
“Hello, Bren.” Jordan Parnell, though the age of Brendan’s son, used the familiar nickname that his father had adopted.
“Jordan, good to see you. How have you been?”
“Well, thanks. And you?” Jordan, son of Brendan’s best friend and attorney for more than thirty years, sank into one of the leather chairs.
“Good, I’m doing good. I understand you’re handling Emma Jacobsen’s estate, taking the case over from your dad.” Brendan walked to the credenza and poured a whiskey, neat. He held up the glass. “You want one, or are you holding off until lunch?”
“I’ll have one over rocks.”
“Pussy.”
Jordan laughed. “That’s my concession to the hour of the day.” He accepted the glass but didn’t drink. Instead, he set it on the edge of the desk, leaned back and crossed his legs, ankle over knee. “Dad was her attorney, so now that he’s gone I took over. Why? Is something up that I should know about? I’ve been in Portland the last few days.”
“Her daughter arrived yesterday. She’s a nun.”
“I know that. I sent the letter telling her about Miss Jacobsen’s death. I opened the cottage for her use while she’s here. Didn’t want her staying in town.”
“I’m glad you had such foresight. She should be at the cottage.” The better to catch her alone.
Jordan frowned. “I should have been here when she arrived, but I was stuck in Portland.” He lifted the glass from the desktop and took his first sip.
“I’ve seen her. She seems at home. But if you have time, I do believe she can use some help.” Brendan raised his brows. “Do you have any idea how much there is in that cottage?”
“No.” Jordan met his gaze. “The cottage was your territory, as I always heard the stories.”
Brendan smiled. “Her mother was the finest piece of ass I ever had.” He laughed outright when Jordan stood, looking angry. When his blue eyes blazed and his jaw tightened, he looked the very image of his father when he fought hard in the courtroom and won. “Calm down, son. I’m only speaking the truth. Emma had a way about her, a way with her body. She’s the only woman I never tired of fucking. But my thought now is for her daughter.” See, God? I can tell the truth.
Jordan took a deep brea
th and let it out. The years in the Marine Corps had shaped him into a fine man, fit and sharp. How he and David had graduated from high school in the same class, both from good families, and yet ended up so different was a mystery. He’d give his right arm to have Jordan for his son instead of the wastrel he had.
Stiffly, as though against his better judgment, Jordan took his seat again. “I’ll see if I can find someone for her.”
Brendan swallowed half the whiskey in his glass. “I think you’re the right person for the job.” When Jordan started to protest, Brendan cut him off. “You’re above reproach in this town, you’re her attorney, and you know exactly what needs to be done and how to do it. As you said, I’m familiar with the cottage’s contents. I can tell you with confidence that there are a lot of valuable items hidden among the sentimental trash, gifts from me, and—” He stopped and looked away from Jordan. “How will she know the difference?”
“How will I? I’m no antiques dealer.”
“But you have an eye for value. She’s a nun, for Christ’s sake. Help her out.”
The younger man thought for a few minutes. “I liked Miss Jacobsen,” he said finally. “She was nice to me the few times I met her. I’ll go out and offer my services.”
“Good man,” Brendan said, saluting him with the half-full glass. “I know you’ll do a thorough job, taking your time to make sure everything is accounted for.”
Jordan fixed him with an appraising gaze. “What’s in this for you?”
Brendan grunted. “What? You don’t trust that I can have good intentions?”
“You were my father’s best friend. But as good and decent as my dad was, you were always the opposite. Seeing the two of you was like looking in a mirror—whatever he did, you did the reverse.” He stood up, took a slug of whiskey, and put the glass back on the desk. “Please don’t take offense. You know it’s true.”
Brendan chuckled and slapped Jordan on the back. “No offense taken. I know I’ve raised a few eyebrows around here.” It was Jordan’s turn to chuckle. “But in this case, I only want Catherine to get what she needs.”
“Catherine? Was that her name?”
“Yes, before she gave up all hope of a natural life,” Brendan said dryly.
“Well, I’ll get out there tomorrow.” Jordan started for the door. “Oh, and so you know, the reason I went up to Portland was to talk to a buyer for Dad’s firm. I’ll serve as a silent partner until he pays off the note, and then he’ll be the lawyer for Ballymeade.”
Brendan looked up sharply. “Do you mean you’re selling out?”
“I’ve never been interested in being an attorney. I went to law school to please Dad, but face it, if I’d wanted to be a lawyer, I would have stayed here instead of joining the Corps after graduation. This way, I’ll keep an eye on things and Mother will have an income for as long as the firm is a working concern.” He opened the door. “I’m letting Dad’s clients know. The man who will be taking over has a good record. If you leave your business with him, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
“This would about kill your father.”
Closemouthed, Jordan said nothing for a moment. “Dad knew that I could have died in Korea. Have you read about Chosin? Do you have any idea of the hell we went through? I think he would want me to live life as I want to, not as he dreamed.”
“You don’t know your father at all.”
“I disagree. But at any rate, I wanted you to know my decision so you could make plans. And I will honor my father’s obligation to Miss Jacobsen’s daughter.” He gestured toward the desk. “Thanks for the drink.” He closed the door behind him.
Insults aside, Brendan couldn’t help but admire the man. He had made a name for himself in the war and won a medal for bravery. He wasn’t the lawyer “the Lion of Harvard” had wanted him to be, but he had turned into quite a man. “Unlike David,” Brendan muttered, finishing his drink. And then his thoughts wandered back to the virgin in the cottage.
He could imagine what Leo, Emma’s other lover, would say. She’s a nun. She doesn’t do sex.
But she will with me. As much as they’d had to pay to keep Emma, she had been worth it. He’d never known a woman who would do anything he asked and enjoy it. They’d fucked every which way, in public, in the ass, there on his desk while his wife entertained guests two doors away. She never said no, she never acted as though his requests were a burden. Emma was the anti-wife.
She hadn’t loved him. He hadn’t wanted her to. In romantic terms, she was his courtesan, his and Leo’s. He grinned, remembering the look of surprise and, yes, fear on Catherine’s face that morning.
In realistic terms, her mother was the world’s best whore. He knew in his gut that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Fair warning, God. If you want this woman’s soul, get in line.
Chapter Five
The next morning Margaret Mary waited outside the cottage for Lonnie. She was able to enjoy dawn as it crept over the hillsides and slid onto the ocean, changing the gray expanse into shimmering blue. She crossed herself after saying a prayer of thanksgiving for her night’s rest, disturbed as it was by thoughts of her mother and the letter hidden in the desk.
“Good morning, Lonnie,” she said, opening the back door when his car halted at the bottom of the steps. He said nothing, but it struck Margaret Mary that she had initiated a conversation with a man, for perhaps the first time in years. And she’d done it without thinking or worrying or praying that she was doing the right thing. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how to feel about her actions.
In church, she said the rosary until Mass began. The priest gave no sign of recognition when he gave her communion. He might have ignored her when she passed him at the door after Mass, too, but he didn’t stand alone. Mr. Tipton was with him.
“Good morning, Sister Margaret Mary,” Mr. Tipton said when she reached them, head down and hands tucked beneath her scapular.
“Good morning, Mr. Tipton,” she replied, talking to the ground.
The priest huffed. “Lonnie had to go, Sister. Mr. Tipton has offered to drive you back to Hollyhock Cottage. I told him you’d prefer to walk, most likely. Did you bring something to eat today?”
“No, Father. But I did have a slice of bread when I rose at four-thirty. And I would rather not inconvenience you, Mr. Tipton.”
“Don’t be silly,” Tipton said. “Why should you walk miles when I have my car here?”
“Walking is good for her soul, Tipton,” the priest said. “It gives her time to reflect and pray.”
“The walk is uphill a good part of the way. You’d have her wear herself out so she can reflect on what? On how much more work she could have gotten done at the cottage if she’d ridden home instead of marched?”
“She will reflect on the consequences of actions.”
Margaret Mary looked up. The priest’s stern expression was set on her, not Mr. Tipton. She knew—his look and words told her in no uncertain terms—what she should do.
“Thank you, Mr. Tipton, but I do prefer to walk.” She started past him. He reached out and stopped her with his hand on her arm. She should have recoiled, but the shock of being touched, even through the layers of clothing she wore, rendered her incapable. She simply stared at where his hand met her arm.
Not so, the priest. “Release her, Tipton!”
“I’m not hurting her, Samuels.” He gentled his voice. “Am I hurting you, Sister?”
Dumbly, she shook her head, and he let go. She continued to stare, sure she would see scorch marks in the outline of his fingers on her sleeve.
“Look at it this way, Father, the faster she gets home and working on settling her mother’s estate, the sooner she’ll be on her way back to Ohio, where she’ll be safe from the world. Isn’t that what you want? Besides, you heard her, she’s had nothing but a slice of bread today. What if she passes out on the way home?”
“Sister.” There was anger in Father Samuels’s voice. “I told you to bring
something to eat for after Mass. Do not disobey me tomorrow.”
She tore her gaze from her sleeve and directed it at the priest, whose eyes flamed with rage. “Yes, Father Samuels.” At least she now knew his name.
“Since Mr. Tipton has offered you a ride home, I suppose you might accept. Today.” He added, “Report to me tomorrow after Mass. While you are part of my parish, your soul is my responsibility.”
“Yes, Father.”
Tipton clapped the priest on the back. “Don’t worry, Father. Jordan Parnell—you remember him?”
Father Samuels nodded. “Good man.”
“Yes, he is. His father represented her mother, and Jordan’s anxious to be of service to the Sister. He’ll be helping her with the inventory and packing.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. A strange man would be with her every day at the cottage? But…but this would never work. Just the touch of Mr. Tipton’s hand had sent her into near paralysis. Being near him yesterday and again today had initiated feelings she’d rather not explore. How could she bear having a man with her day after day in close quarters? She looked at Father Samuels. Surely he wouldn’t condone this?
“Excellent. I couldn’t have chosen anyone better myself.” He actually smiled, and her heart fell.
“I’d really rather—”
“Jordan Parnell will be a great help, Sister. I’ll hear no argument. Let’s have this business concluded and get you back behind the walls of the convent where you belong.”
Under her scapular, her hands clenched. She bowed her head. “Yes, Father.”
“I think Jordan is probably waiting there now, so shall we go, Sister Margaret Mary?” Tipton turned to and walked toward a large vehicle parked at the curb. She had no choice but to follow.
The sporty-looking car he led her to was no beat-up Nash. A hood ornament denoted the front and fins decorated the back. There were only two seats, so she sank into a plush leather front seat. Tipton mumbled something and smiled before closing the door. She couldn’t have heard correctly, but it sounded like, “You’ll have to do better than that, God.”
Seducing Their Nun [Unlikely Bedfellows 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 3