The Sister and the Sinner (8 page)

J.D. put his heart in his eyes as he pressed slowly, carefully forward. He made love as if it were the first time, as if it were the last time. He made sure it was as good for her as he could possibly make it. He watched every expression that came to her face, to see the exact moment when she was ready shatter.

Her eyes went wide, and then she took a sudden, deep breath and grabbed his biceps. "Ah, uh, mmmmmmm." Mary Francis couldn't help it - she had to close her eyes. It always caught her by surprise; that new, throbbing need to be stretched and filled.

"Ah-ah-ah. Open." He wanted to see her, to treasure every mood, every nuance that she shared with him. Those beautiful eyes flew open and she blushed as he plunged inside, making her catch her breath each time as her body was forced to find new ways to accommodate his invasion.

He buried himself completely, deeply within her, and, as much as he wanted to savor the moment, he absolutely could not remain still. He had to move. J.D. reached down and coaxed one of her legs up, around his hip, and began to thrust - not quite uncontrollably, but awfully close. He tried to temper it as best he could, but he never had much control at this point around her. She brought out the animal in him.

Luckily, she was right there with him. No longer filled with grief and remorse, she shattered again and again, having reached her own pinnacle before him. She cried out, pressing her face into his chest, and impishly, unexpectedly, licked his nipple. That sent him over, and into those agonizingly pleasant spasms of paradise.

They lay there, on the bank of the stream, for the longest time afterwards, naked together as if that was the way they should always be. J.D. reached over and grabbed a cornflower, with which he teased and tickled her sensitive skin as he leaned on his elbow above her.

"Thank you," he said.

She cocked her head, drawing those delicate red eyebrows into a curious line above the greenest eyes he'd ever seen. "For what?"

"For granting me a safe haven while I healed. For not turning Higgens and his band onto me. For sharing yourself."

A deep blush crept up her pale white flesh. "You're welcome."

She made as if to go, but he didn't release her.

"We still have several things to discuss, young lady."

Mary Francis did not like it when he used that tone with her. It usually didn't mean very good things for the health and welfare of particular parts of her anatomy. "No we don't!" she snapped.

"We most definitely do. Tell me why you were scrubbing away your skin in the river. Tell me why you fled from me, although I commanded you to stop. Tell me what upset you - did Mother Agnes say something?"

Mary Francis closed her eyes, new tears leaking down her face. He caught the tears with his fingers and brushed them away. "Talk to me, Mary Francis," he said sternly.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "It just came to me," she confessed. "I had argued that it was okay to lay with you, since even Mother Agnes had sinned... but she didn't. She was married first, and joined a convent when her husband didn't return from the war. And I've... I've fallen... I'm a sinner, and yet, I really enjoy the sin. I don't know that I can make the same promise at the prostitutes did in the Bible, to 'go and sin no more.' It was just too much."

He held her, not knowing what to do to help. He was as much a part of the sin as she, more so, because he was older, and supposedly, wiser. But he couldn't find it in his heart to regret the precious moments they had shared, and prayed she would treasure them as well.

"I need you," she began, then bit her lower lip.

He kissed her lower lip, surprised that it wasn't constantly bruised for as much as she worried it. "I'm here, darling."

She pulled out of his grasp and sat up, surprisingly comfortable with her nakedness. "I need you to punish me," she said.

He could not have been more surprised than if she'd told him to grow wings and fly away. "What?"

"You heard. I want you to spank me. Hard. I know that you are leaving, so after you spank me, I need you to go. Just go. I'll be okay. But I've been sinful, and maybe if you punish me for it, I'll be able to forgive myself."

"Sweetheart, how can you ask me this? Making love with you has been the highpoint of my life. God made man and woman, and I can't believe that what we've shared is something dirty."

"Please, J.D. I've not asked anything of you in all the time you've been here. Do this for me."

Angrily, he got to his feet. He stomped through the woods, returning to the convent without another word. He would give her the spanking of her life, but he would have to calm down first, so he didn't break her in two.

Mary Francis carried her wet robe, walking gracefully, and fully naked, through the woods. After J.D. left, she would never be naked again. She would return to wearing bloomers and bindings, and all the layers of her office. She would repent and repent, and whenever a bittersweet memory of their lovemaking returned, she would try to focus on the way he spanked her, too.

She hung her robe on the clothesline in the yard, then stepped inside.

J.D. was in the dining room, his expression dark and threatening. Part of her wanted to beg his forgiveness, to tell him she'd changed her mind, but she knew she needed this. She could never survive his leaving her if he didn't punish her. She went into the dining room, her hands at her sides, doing nothing to hide her nakedness.

He held a hickory switch in his hand. She gulped, knowing the sting of the switch, although Mother Agnes had never used it on her. Sister Claire had switched her several times when she'd been a young teen, for doing poorly in her studies. Mary Francis learned to read perfectly and write with the prettiest penmanship because of it.

He pulled out a chair and sat down, gesturing for her to put herself over his lap. It felt different, and strangely humiliating, she thought, as she complied. He put his weaker arm over her back, then rested his right hand on her bottom. "I'm sorry I have to do this," was all he said, before he began to spank her in earnest.

He hadn't spanked her with his hand before. It was so intimate, and yet, quite painful. She clenched her eyes shut, trying not to think about him looking at her there, or touching her there. Trying hard not to enjoy her punishment. It wasn't working. She wiggled a bit, eliciting a series of stinging swats that had her rethinking the entire idea of punishment.

He rose, and for a brief moment she thought they were through, until she remembered the switch he'd been holding previously. Now he directed her to bend over the table. She did so, holding her breath while she waited for what must surely follow.

And when it did, she cried out piteously, for never had she felt such a sting before. He was not using one switch, or two, but all three at once! Three separate and distinct welts rose immediately from where the switches had landed, and before she could quite catch her breath, they struck again. Six welts, some overlapping the first set.

"Oh, no! No! Please, don't do this," she sobbed.

He did not speak, but continued to switch her viciously.

Nine, twelve, fifteen welts. Eighteen. She couldn't count. She twisted away, trying to pull free, but he grabbed her arm and held it behind her back. He continued to switch her legs and thighs, even though she fought to get away. She tripped over the chair, and he adjusted his swing to return his focus to her bottom. She coughed and sobbed and gasped for breath. She could no longer speak, so hard was she crying. She couldn't beg him to stop. She couldn't insist that he stop. Powerless, she could only lay there across the chair and accept it.

J.D. knew he was being cruel, but the agony he felt in his heart was crushing him. He needed to make her suffer as much as he was. How dare she treat their love as something dirty! Something shameful! So what if she couldn't marry him... couldn't she at least treasure his memory?

There were things he'd wanted to tell her. That he wasn't an outlaw, for one. He hated it that she thought he was a wanted man, a criminal, and wondered why she loved him anyway. He was a Pinkerton man, working to protect the innocent from evil doers. In a way, his line of work was a lot like hers, although he'd never thought of it that way before. The Sisters of Mercy took care of the weak and the poor, providing spiritual guidance along with their charitable deeds. He took care of the weak and the robbed, by making sure that the guilty thieves were thrown in jail.

But it didn't matter now. None of it mattered. He had to leave, and he would never return. She would forget about the wounded outlaw she had once loved and nursed, and go on with her life. As for him, he would never be able to do either.

One of the switches broke, and he tossed it aside, continuing to punish her with just two. When the second and third switches broke, he stopped. He stared at the brutal stripes he'd inflicted upon her, the skin broken and bleeding in places. Grief overcame him, and he gathered her into his arms and wept.

She comforted him! She, whom he had so viciously attacked, patted his shoulder and forgave him. She was crying, as well, but she smiled through her tears. He almost hated her for that.

"You need to go now," she managed to say. "But go in peace."

He claimed her lips one last time. One last kiss. One last embrace. And then, he fled from the convent without a backwards glance.

He was gone as mysteriously as he had appeared, disappearing into the woods and out of her life as if he had never been in it, leaving her more bereft than she had ever felt before in her life, mourning the loss of someone she never really knew. Someone she would never know.

Chapter Seven

Mary Francis indulged herself, giving in to her grief for the remainder of the day. She did little beyond crying and sleeping, barely eating, and crying herself to sleep.

But the next day she knew she had to get up. She had to get dressed - completely - and return to the ritual that had become her life. Pulling weeds, beating rugs, sweeping floors, milking the goat, and seeing to the needs of her patient. While once she might have found a simple pleasure in completing each task, now they brought her no joy. J.D. had ruined them all for her. Memories of him helping her pull weeds filled her thoughts. How he'd tried to milk the goat for her once, and ended up wearing more of the milk than what he managed to get into the pail. Memories of him reading aloud from the Bible to Mother Agnes, of how tender he was with the old woman... he'd left, but he'd neglected to take his spirit with him. Instead it remained here, everywhere, haunting her throughout her day.

She had already resolved that she would stay with Mother Agnes until the inevitable end, but now she considered what to do beyond that. Perhaps she would try to get a post as a teacher or a governess or something. She would not stay in the convent. She knew she could never wipe the thoughts of "knowing" someone, in the biblical sense, from her, and even though the welts he'd inflicted on her poor legs and bottom took nearly two weeks to heal, the pain was as nothing compared to the emptiness in her heart.

About two weeks to the day, things began arriving.

At first it was just an order from the grocery in town. Canned goods, staples, fresh fruits the like of which she had never seen. Not a huge amount of them, but enough for her and Mother Agnes.

The next day, Mr. Nelson the butcher, arrived with a beautiful ham, studded with cloves, as well as two small chickens and a goose.

Soon there was more food in the convent than she had ever seen in the entire time she had lived there, and no one seemed to be able to tell her where it had all come from. They said that the money had come through Western Union, with strict instructions as to how it was to be distributed and for the benefit of the Sisters of Mercy Convent.

And that wasn't the end of it. A nurse arrived a few days later to tend to the Reverend Mother. She refused to say who was paying her, although she allowed that she was getting a very generous salary, and that she had been expressly told that Sister Mary Francis was not to lift a finger to do anything more than provide companionship to Mother Agnes.

Mary Francis knew who had sent the gifts. They were guilt-gifts from her outlaw, she was certain. He needed to send them to assuage his conscience. She was tempted to refuse the gifts, but saw no need to make Mother Agnes suffer. And so, she accepted them. Not cheerfully, for nothing she did was with a cheerful spirit these days.

Even the Doctor was in on the conspiracy, as he seemed to appear on their doorstep with much more alarming frequency, and when she confronted him about it, he told her she should stop looking gift horses - and doctors and nurses and food - in the mouth and enjoy the blessings that God saw fit to bestow upon her, then he tromped out of the house.

And still, the gifts continued. A score of volunteers from town arrived to help her clean and repair the convent. She was told not to help, but merely direct their actions. A telegram arrived one day, which the sheriff delivered personally, from the diocese that supported their mission. Father Michael had been killed in an Indian uprising. Another priest was on the way to take over for him, and several sisters would be arriving as well. There were still settlers in the area, and they would need the school and health clinic the convent provided.

As three weeks turned into four, and then five, another thought crept into her guilty conscience and kept her awake at nights. Her monthly had not returned.

* * *

J.D. wasn't having such an easy time of it, himself. He'd been hauled up in front of his father as soon as he'd settled that little matter with Higgens and his gang. John Cartwright was ready to tear him limb from limb, and he hadn't even started on the part about the claim-jumping gang and J.D.'s position with the Pinkertons. It was a good thing his wound had healed well, because there was certainly going to be blood on the ground before he left his father's office, and it was all going to be his.

The old man was in terrible fit about Mary Francis.

J.D. shouldn't have even told him about her, but the information had been gleaned through careful interrogation. When he'd returned home, he was not the same man who had left on the last mission. He was sullen, moody, a complete ogre, if he were to be honest with himself. That it was a woman, his father had immediately surmised. But, while the old man had visions of grandchildren dancing in his head, J.D. had only his broken heart.