“A vendor I know brings them up from California. Didn’t the nuns teach you that there is a season for everything, Catherine?” She started at the sound of her childhood on his lips. Her heart lodged in her throat, and he smiled again. “I want to call you Catherine when we’re alone. It is your name, after all.”
“Not any longer,” she managed to say. “I gave it up.” She almost winced, the words bitter as a pill. Her mother had bestowed on her an adult name, a rich and regal name, then given her no foundation upon which to grow into it. If there had been visits or letters, if she’d explained why she sentenced a little girl to a life behind walls, maybe Margaret Mary wouldn’t be so at sea now. Within the cloister, before knowing the truth, she had thought her life filled with joy and purpose. Now her habit weighed on her like a suit of armor.
More than anything she wanted to escape his gaze by bowing her head, to find the words to pray or at least to hide her hands beneath her scapular, but she still held the cup fragments. She brushed by him to drop the shards in the trash can. He reached out and grasped her wrist. She said nothing, unable to speak with a mouth dry as sand.
“You’ve hurt yourself,” Tipton said.
Before she knew what he was about, he held her hand under the cold tap. Thin trails of red water ran down the drain. Then, unbelievably, he took her finger into his mouth, sucking it in as far as he could. She gasped, trying to pull back, but his grip tightened. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart raced out of control. Her knees threatened to buckle.
I’m going to faint! Dear Lord, please help me!
“What the hell is going on here?”
She jumped back and whirled to face the doorway. Jordan stood there glaring at Brendan as though he wanted to kill him. Then his gaze found hers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. No!” She dropped her gaze and tried in vain to keep her voice steady. “Mr. Tipton, please leave. Don’t come back. Please.”
“Catherine. You don’t mean that. I’ll bring you those strawberries tomorrow. As a child you loved them.”
“Please do not.”
“Sleep on it,” he said. “If you can sleep,” he said for her alone.
When she looked up, both men were gone. She bent over the sink, feeling nauseous again. Had anything been left in her stomach, she would have brought it up, remembering the strange feelings whirling through her when Brendan took her finger into his mouth. She easily could have lost control of her mind and body. Was that what had happened to her mother? Had she fallen unwittingly into a situation she couldn’t manage?
Jordan walked back into the kitchen. He clasped her shoulder and bent over. Tipping her head back so he could see her eyes, he asked again, “Are you all right?”
No! The devil stood before me, and I nearly fell into his arms!
And then she was in someone’s arms. She sobbed into Jordan’s shoulder while he ran his hands up and down her back and made shushing noises in her ear.
“It’s okay. He’s gone and won’t be back. I took care of it. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I’m here.”
Gradually, his comforting calmed her, and she bit back her sniffles. She gently pushed away from him, embarrassed to have to wipe tears from her face. “Why did you come back?”
He gestured at the counter. “I forgot my briefcase.”
Thank you, God! “I’m very grateful.”
“Has he been bothering you? Because he thinks he owns this house and everyone in it.” He stopped, brows crinkled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Her heart stopped. “Do you mean…” She licked her lips, taking a moment to gather strength. “Do you mean Mr. Tipton and my mother were—”
“Don’t think about it,” Jordan insisted. “Your mother was a lovely lady. She did a lot for many people in this town, and no one here has any right to judge her.”
“So it’s true.” Margaret Mary fell back against the counter, no longer trusting her legs to support her. “He…kept my mother and wants me, too.”
“How do you know? Has he said something?”
The worry in Jordan’s tone led her to look up, to focus on the fact that he cared. It had been a long time since anyone had made her feel so protected. “Maybe I misunderstood his words, his expressions.”
Grim, Jordan answered, “He’s a bastard. I’m going to watch over you from now on.” He reached for her hand and, amazingly, she let him take it. Fear didn’t course through her with Jordan as it did with Brendan. “Do you want to come home with me? My mother would welcome you.”
She shook her head. “I think I will be fine here now. Thanks to you.”
He raised her hand and kissed her knuckles. Then he turned to pick up his briefcase. “I want to work on these figures a bit tonight. Are you going to Mass in the morning?”
“Lonnie is supposed to be here to pick me up at six.”
“I will be there to pick you up afterwards. Then we can come back and start.”
Now she had three men willing to bring her home. She had no idea how to handle such attention. “That’s not necessary.”
He met her gaze. The heat in his eyes warmed her through. “I’ll be there. Now be sure to lock up after I leave.” He stopped at the front door and turned to face her. “Don’t worry. I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”
When he left, she closed and locked the door, checked the windows, and went upstairs. She tossed her habit onto the foot of the bed, too tired to care about hanging it carefully in the closet next to the dresses and skirts she now knew belonged to her mother. She’d barely donned her nightgown when she fell into bed and a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eight
Once during the night she rose, thinking she heard a noise. Tiptoeing to the window, she cautiously drew back the curtains and peered down into the yard. A stealthy figure approached the fence nearest the cliff from the porch. He looked out to the ocean and then, hugging the perimeter of the yard, slunk back to the porch.
Margaret Mary had no doubts who the intruder was. Brendan Tipton had come sneaking around hoping to find a way in. Who knew why he waited out there now, but he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of finding her vulnerable. She looked for a weapon, settling finally on a heavy wooden coat hanger from the closet. Propping herself against the headboard, she sat tensely, waiting for him to make a move.
The next thing she knew, she woke to dawn’s weak light, slumped over and still clutching the hanger. The alarm clock showed the time to be nearly six. She leapt from bed, performed her ablutions, and dressed so hurriedly, she affixed her veil as she strode outside to meet Lonnie.
“Good morning, Lonnie.”
“Mornin’.” It didn’t qualify as a conversation, but this was as close as he had come.
“I don’t think I will need a ride home after Mass today. Someone else has offered to bring me.”
He met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Not Mr. Tipton.”
“No. Mr. Parnell. Jordan. Do you know him?” Did she imagine his relief when she confirmed that Tipton would not bring her home?
“Jordan’s a good man. Don’t come with Mr. Tipton no more.”
“No, I won’t. He scares me.”
Lonnie nodded. “Good.”
When Lonnie paid attention to the road once more, she saw herself reflected in the mirror. In the convent, nuns learned to live without mirrors since vanity was a sin. But now she took an appraising look at her face. Her eyes seemed far apart. A nice enough color, but not remarkable. Her nose had been broken when she failed to catch a hard-thrown dodge ball when she was ten, and a slight crook at the bridge kept it from being anything other than a crooked nose. Her ordinary mouth was too full by half. Her complexion was all right, but tended toward high color if she became excited or upset.
Was she beautiful? As a girl she’d never thought so, and she didn’t believe it to be the case now. There had been girls at school whom she considered gorgeous, but no one ever said those things about her. Why, then, did Mr. Ti
pton continue to harass her? He must find her weak, an easy target.
Before they pulled into the churchyard, she averted her eyes. Too much more attention to herself and she’d have to confess conceit as well as a lapse in saying her prayers lately. Just then, for instance, she had spoken with Lonnie and spent useless minutes examining herself rather than praying. Each day seemed to bring another break in her previously ingrained routine.
Quickly taking her place in the pew, she barely had time to say a decade of the rosary before Father Samuels began Mass. The hour flew by before she knew it, and then she was at the door.
“Sister Margaret Mary, your habit looks as though you slept in it.”
She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, Father. I will launder it today and take an iron to it.” She glanced into the parking lot. There was no Brendan Tipton, but no Jordan, either. Disappointment made her heart stutter. Well, she would rather walk than ride with Tipton again, but she would rather spend a few extra minutes with Jordan than walk.
“Tipton get you home all right yesterday?”
“Yes, Father.”
“I don’t like that he is showing an interest in you. You must make him stop.”
She must make him stop? She wanted to ask how Father Samuels proposed she do that, but she stopped herself in time from saying it. Then she’d have to confess disrespect to a priest. Her transgressions were building by the hour. “Yes, Father, although I’m not sure how.”
“The same way Eve should have dispersed the devil in the Garden. Tell him with firmness to leave you alone. The woman must always set the ground rules, Sister.”
What did he mean by that? Did he think she had any experience dealing with men? “Yes, Father.”
“There’s Jordan Parnell. I wonder why he’s here.”
A leap of joy replaced the earlier disappointment, and she jerked her head up to see for herself. Just as Father said, Jordan was striding toward them, his eyes on her. He smiled when he saw she noticed him, and there was no way she could keep from smiling back.
“Hello, Father Samuels,” Jordan said, holding out his hand.
“It’s good to see you, my boy,” the priest responded. “I’m sorry about your father. He’s sorely missed.”
Father Samuels had said nothing about her mother being missed or even acknowledging her death. For the first time, Margaret Mary had some inkling of what life must have been like for her mother, a disgraced woman kept by the town’s richest citizen, if his cars and actions said anything about Tipton.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What are your plans now that you’re home?”
Jordan cast a sideways glance at Margaret Mary and said, “Right now, my plans are to take Sister Margaret Mary home. I’m helping her with the inventory of her mother’s house.”
“That’s right. Tipton said so yesterday. I’m happy you came to get her rather than that—” He looked as though he wanted to say more. “Considering his relationship with her mother, it’s unseemly for him to show so much interest in her, too.”
“I don’t think we need to talk about that here or now, Father.”
Margaret Mary’s surprise at Jordan’s sharp tone focused her attention on him. The set of his jaw and the blaze of fire in his blue eyes were all for the priest. In her experience, no one spoke to a priest like that, but Jordan appeared unfazed. He seemed fearless.
“Shall we go, Sister?” He held out his hand, and without thinking, she took it. If Father Samuels thought anything of it, he didn’t make a sound.
Jordan led her to the car and opened the door on the passenger side. Minutes later, they were on the road, windows down and wind blowing wildly on her face.
“Do you listen to the radio at the convent?” Jordan asked over the sound of the wind.
“We used to listen to Bishop Sheen. Now Mother Superior hears the news and tells us at dinner each night if anything worth knowing happened during the day.”
“Would you like to listen to some music?”
“If you would.”
He turned a dial, and suddenly a man’s voice filled the auto with a cheerful song. “Dean Martin,” Jordan said. At the proper point in the song, right along with the singer, he belted out, “That’s amore!” Then he held out his finger as though keeping time and queued her to join in with the words at the next verse. By the time they pulled into the yard, she was laughing more than singing.
Jordan stopped the car and brought silence when he turned off the ignition. “I love the sound of your laughter. I was beginning to fear that nuns never smiled.”
“Oh.” As quickly as her laughter started, it faded away. “We spend a lot of time in prayer, and that’s very serious.”
“Isn’t there time for fun?”
She had to think. When had she last done anything she termed fun? “Teaching is sometimes fun. The girls say outlandish things that make the teachers smile. But I don’t teach. I help keep up the priests’ clothing and the altar cloths. I am part of the contemplative order.”
He stared at her in such a way that she felt uncomfortable. “Don’t pity me. I love prayer.” Then why have you missed doing it so much in the last couple of days? She couldn’t help but think she was trying to fool God, because at that moment, given the chance to sit and talk with Jordan or be on her knees in prayer, she would rather be with him.
“I wasn’t feeling sorry for you. I was thinking how sad it is that such a beautiful, intelligent woman should have missed so much of life.”
She laughed—she couldn’t help it—though she felt a warm glow inside. “I’m not beautiful!”
“You don’t look in the mirror enough.”
“We don’t look in mirrors at all. Appearances mean nothing. One’s inner thoughts and prayers are all that have meaning.”
He shook his head. “Well spoken, Sister, but not true. Inner beauty is important, but so is outer beauty. It’s how inner beauty reveals itself to the world. And you are beautiful.”
She ducked her head. “Thank you for saying so.”
Using his finger, he tipped her chin up. “Please don’t drop your gaze when we’re talking. I don’t want you to be subservient to me. We’re equals. We can look each other in the eye when we speak.”
Her breath threatened to leave her. Her heart might stop. “Yes, Jordan,” she breathed.
They sat silently for several minutes, his finger under her chin, their gazes locked. A seabird flew overhead, calling out, and the moment ended. Jordan pulled back his hand as though scorched, and she shrank to the door, as far from him as she could get.
“Before we start in the house, I have to tell you something,” she said. “Mr. Tipton came back last night.”
“He did?” Jordan frowned. “How do you know?”
“I woke up when I heard a noise. When I looked out, I saw him go from the porch to the cliff and back. I think he was trying to get in, though I didn’t hear anything else after that.”
Jordan smiled sheepishly. “That was me.”
“You!”
“I came last night to be sure he stayed away. I kept to the shadows on the porch, but I had to…uh…take care of nature a time or two, so I went to the cliff.”
She felt her face go scarlet with embarrassment. “Oh dear. I had no idea.”
“I didn’t want to worry you and thought I could keep you from finding out. You must be a light sleeper.”
Shrugging, she said, “We get up several times a night—”
“To pray,” he finished for her.
She smiled. “I guess we should get started. I’ll go up and change.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Margaret Mary climbed the steps thinking about Jordan and how remarkable he was. She didn’t remember ever being cared for, worried over, feeling valued as she had since meeting him. “Thank you, Father, for this wonderful gift.” It was the first truly heartfelt prayer she’d murmured in days.
Chapter Nine
Jordan opened the ki
tchen window, letting in a cool wind off the ocean. When Margaret Mary came down, they started once more in the kitchen, letting the sound of the surf pounding at the foot of the cliff and the circling gulls be their backdrop.
“Gravy boat,” she said. He marked it in his ledger. She set it on the counter and reached for the next piece in the cabinet.
Jordan picked up the gravy boat to examine it. “This is Limoges and looks to be quite old. Would you like me to have it appraised instead of packing it off? It might be worth something.”
“I don’t know.” She bit her bottom lip, brow wrinkled, staring at the piece in question. “What do you think?”
“I’d do it. It might bring some extra money, and that has lots of uses, whereas the gravy boat is good only on someone’s dinner table.”
“I see your point. One piece of china for one family or additional help for several families.” She beamed a smile, and his heart stopped.
Her face, which he’d thought pretty enough—when he actually looked at her—shone radiantly when she smiled. Surrounded by the white of her habit, she appeared angelic, almost saintly.
No, not saintly. He’d never jumped off the fantail of an aircraft carrier, but he imagined his stomach couldn’t do any more of a flip-flop than it had at that second, watching Sister Margaret Mary smile.
What a waste of a beautiful woman. He wondered what she looked like without the austere black-and-white get-up and how she might feel in his arms. It was just a short jump and cock rise to imagining what she might be like under him in bed.
When he went home yesterday evening, he’d reflected on how fascinating Sister Margaret Mary was. She’d barely said fifty words, yet when she had spoken, her voice was melodious and gentle on the ear. As opposed to most women he knew, her words were sparse and to the point. Working alongside the good sister meant he wouldn’t be forced to listen to a woman who loved the sound of her own voice prattling on.
Following her example, he’d kept his conversation to a minimum, too, choosing instead to record each plate, bowl, and serving piece she removed from the cabinets and then washed meticulously. Companionably, he dried and then wrapped the piece in newspaper and placed it in a cardboard box, which he’d brought for the purpose.
Seducing Their Nun [Unlikely Bedfellows 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 5