Devil's Fire (9 page)

Like a striking snake, her hand found my pussy and the surprise of it allowed her to roll me on to my side. From there it was a contest to see who could inflict the most delicious pain. With feverish fingers we went at each other, raising our legs and jostling our way around the bed. Sybil challenged me with a sultry glare I didn’t dare look away from; her practised fingers danced against my slick skin while I answered her thrust for thrust. When she saw her chance, she rolled me on my back to straddle me, like a cowgirl astride a contrary mare.

Lifting my mound, she drove several fingers inside me, mercilessly, until I was raising her up with the arching of my spine. The spasms were gathering, inspiring me to writhe and stare brazenly at the nymph whose manipulations kept me craving more, riding a fine edge of madness. Sybil’s hair framed her body like a halo of flames; her earrings swayed crazily and her moans became low and frenzied. Her breasts loomed large from this angle, slapping softly against her body as she rode my fingers and kept pressing her own into my wet sex.

My head thrashed, and I cried out with the extreme pleasure cresting inside me. Cupping her with the heel of my hand, I wiggled my fingers against Sybil’s clit until her head fell back and she clenched wetly. When she collapsed on top of me, I didn’t have the strength to pull away, or to feel appalled by what we’d just done. She’d goaded me into it, and we had indeed got accustomed to each other.

‘Well, at least I came out ahead in something today,’ I murmured. ‘You didn’t expect me to win that one, did you, Sybil?’

My room-mate sat up, pushing her hair back so I could see her arch expression. ‘You call that winning?’ she mocked. ‘Seems to me you succumbed first, which signifies inexperience — or lack of control. So you lose, Mary Grace. Make your pallet on the floor. The bed’s all mine until you’ve got me begging for it the way you were.’

Although she was fighting a smile, I didn’t challenge her for bedding rights. It seemed no matter what I did here at Heaven’s Gate, the rules got changed just when I thought I’d figured them out, and Sybil was the mistress of the game. I slipped my nightgown over my head, and curled up on the small sofa across the room. I felt her watching me, ready to challenge the place I’d chosen to sleep.

But then the lamp went out and the bed creaked softly. I was too exhausted to know or care about anything else.

I
awoke with a horrible feeling I was off to a bad start because everyone else knew things I didn’t: the bed was neatly made, and Sybil was long gone to oversee breakfast. After donning my tunic and winding my hair into a knot, I hurried towards the back door of the abbey.

The kitchen was empty, except for the sweet yeastiness of freshly baked bread. I walked past the large fireplace, rejoicing when I saw heads bowed silently in the dining room. I could slip into a spot without calling attention to myself, or interrupting the morning meditation.

The only vacant seat was beside Father Luc. His eyes opened the moment I entered, so he could watch me trying to slip in without anyone being the wiser. His mouth quirked, making his moustache look even more sinister. As I was sliding on to the end of the bench, he stood up, taking me with him.

‘I’d like to introduce our newest resident,’ he announced in a voice that filled the room. About a hundred eyes took in my disgrace and half as many mouths fought smiles.

‘Mary Grace Michaels comes to us courtesy of Mr Fortune, and will be creating some extraordinary quilts,’ the abbot continued. ‘I trust you’ll make her welcome and assist her as she becomes accustomed to our schedule and our…chaste ways.’

Someone behind me snickered. Was I never to be free of that ignominious moment when Mrs Goodin threw open the carriage door to catch me with Hyde’s pants down? She was staring at me now, as though she’d also witnessed what Sybil and I did last night. The cottage had no curtains, so for all I knew, every person in this room considered us the grand finale of the hunt Father Luc sent them on.

‘We trust you rested well, and we’ve been praying for your arrival,’ my nemesis said with a slight bow. ‘It’s our custom to wait patiently, until all are present, before we break bread.’

Heat flared in my cheeks. Not only had I kept everyone else from eating, but the abbot had once again used my ignorance to humiliate me. ‘I — please excuse me, I didn’t know —’

With a lordly nod, Father Luc signalled for the serving to begin. The man at the end of each table stood, and began ladling oatmeal into bowls that were stacked in front of him. When a large pitcher of milk made its way around, a platter of plump raisin rolls followed it.

I took my seat, humbled. My room-mate had obviously risen hours ago to bake those glazed, cinnamon-scented treats. While I detested Sybil for not waking me before she left, or at least telling me about the meal-time customs, I realised I would have to take responsibility for myself now. I would have to ask a lot of questions, for no one volunteered any information.

A bowl of oatmeal clattered on to the table in front of me. ‘Thank you,’ I murmured.

The monk beside me, a wiry, balding fellow who wore rimless spectacles, placed the milk within my reach. When I mumbled my thanks again, his eyes widened ominously and he pressed his finger to his lips. Indeed, the hall was silent, except for the scraping of spoons. I’d committed a second sin, and I hadn’t been there three minutes.

Frustration welled up in my throat until I could hardly swallow the thick cereal. I thought of Hyde, probably halfway back to Mount Calvary by now, and desperately wished I’d gone with him. What had I got myself into? Why hadn’t he warned me about the monastery’s rules and rituals? I distinctly remembered talking during last night’s dinner, when I sat with him and Brother Christy. But the rules had apparently changed since then.

I was nibbling my raisin roll, thinking it might be the only thing I would enjoy all day, when the abbot stood up again. ‘Let us begin our work,’ he sang out. ‘Let us rejoice in this life, and make good use of our time and talents.’

The monks rose in unison, filling the room with the scraping of benches and their quiet conversation. I was jerked away from the table when the others scooted my bench back — and squeezed my roll too hard, to keep from dropping it. As I noted how everyone else had eaten very quickly, I also felt Father Luc looking down his imperious nose at me.

‘Shall we set up your work space, Miss Michaels? I know you’re eager to be useful.’ His gaze shifted to the misshapen morsel I held in a hand smeared with glaze, implying I was to leave my treat behind as punishment for being late and slow.

‘Certainly,’ I muttered, taking a bite despite his glare. The roll was as sweet and soft as I’d imagined, and I considered sitting on my bench until I’d savoured every delectable mouthful. The hall had emptied, however, and I thought better of being left alone with the abbot. ‘Where will I be working? I have a quilt top in progress, so once I’ve unpacked my fabrics, I’ll get busy. “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop”, they say.’

The abbot seemed amused, but something in his expression set me on edge. Sensing that each moment of my defiance would cost me, I preceded him towards the door. I would not allow him to deprive me of my breakfast! When I stepped outside, Father Luc followed me so closely his cassock swayed against the back of my tunic. I took another bite of my roll, trying to ignore his hovering.

The sky bloomed like a morning glory above us, the grass seemed set with emeralds, and the sun warmed my face. Brown-clad figures were walking towards the orchard, and others worked the garden with rakes and hoes. A few knelt along the walkway, clipping grass, and it was one of these monks the abbot hailed.

‘Brother Ben! I’d like you to meet Mary Grace,’ he said in a jovial voice. ‘She’s eager to learn our ways, so perhaps you can demonstrate the virtue of sharing what we have with others.’

When he raised his face, I saw he was the man I’d just sat beside — the monk who’d looked none too eager to share a smile with a confused newcomer. Now, however, his eyes glittered behind his lenses. He grabbed my hand and guided it to his mouth, taking a huge bite of my roll.

‘The pleasure’s all mine, Mary Grace,’ he said while chewing greedily.

‘I’m sure it is!’

My stunned expression made him laugh, a reedy sound that curdled my breakfast. And damned if Brother Ben didn’t go after more! He bit right to the ends of my fingers, swallowed, and then stuck my thumb between his lips. I released the last bite as though it were a burning coal, appalled at his audacity. He was licking the frosting from each of my fingers, making a lusty sucking sound as he moved from one to the next.

‘Brother Ben is performing a thoughtful service,’ observed Father Luc with a foxlike grin. ‘We wouldn’t want glaze getting on your quilt. He has also reminded you it’s far better to give than to receive. Just look at the enjoyment he’s found in your acquaintance.’

I stood speechless. The monk’s face shone as bright as his bald spot. His eyes were closed as he ran my middle finger in and out of his mouth with frightening reverence.

‘I think you’ve had enough,’ I said, withdrawing from his grasp. ‘Gluttony is a sin, you know. I’d hate to lead you down that heathen path.’

Brother Ben smiled, his eyes meeting mine only for a moment. ‘I thank you for your indulgence, Mary Grace. And I look forward to our meeting again.’

What sort of people inhabited Heaven’s Gate? I had assumed the unfortunates Hyde brought here might be misfits, and that those called ‘Brother’ were men of a religious bent — and that I’d be able to tell the difference. As I continued towards the main entrance with Father Luc, however, I wasn’t so sure. Brother Ben had looked downright aroused, and it wasn’t the glaze making him sweet on me.

When the abbot opened the monastery door, the gargoyles seemed to leer down upon us and the air inside felt stagnant, like the coolness of a tomb. I shook these thoughts away: I was a preacher’s daughter, accustomed to finding God even in the draftiest sanctuaries. When Father Luc ushered me towards the room where Mrs Goodin scrubbed me, however, a different chill crept down my spine.

‘I offered you work space here in the abbey without realising all our nooks were occupied,’ he said, opening that door to my humiliation again. ‘So you’ll have a corner here in my office. Perhaps over by the window.’

It was an outrageous lie, which Father Luc’s diabolical smile made no effort to cover. Somewhere on the grounds, there had to be space where I could sew without his constant supervision…his unnerving presence. But since I’d only seen Sybil’s cottage, the kitchen area and this little room, I had no idea where that might be.

What had I done to inspire this man’s meanness? I thought quickly, grasping at the only straw I knew. ‘I hate to intrude upon your privacy, sir, so perhaps I could work in the cottage. Sybil will surely —’

‘Sybil has nothing to say about it. I’ve made my decision.’

‘— be working in the…’

His stern expression warned me to accept my fate. The abbot gestured towards my new corner with a grandiose sweep of his arm: few residents warranted their own work space, so he probably expected me to bow and scrape for this favour he’d granted me. Rather than humour him, I assessed my cramped domain.

‘I’ll need a table — the size of two of those in the dining hall,’ I asserted quietly. ‘And some shelves for my fabric. And an armless upholstered chair, with an ottoman.’

‘You’ll be content with what I provide you. Trying to crowd me — or land yourself a different place — won’t get you far, Mary Grace,’ Father Luc replied. ‘Your self-serving inconsideration appalls me. We’ll have to work on that.’

With a sigh I walked over to where my trunks and two quilts awaited me. I could only hope that sewing every available hour — and earning a lot of money at auctions — would prove my worth to this unpleasant man, as well as convince him I didn’t need his constant supervision or whatever penance he had in mind for my selfish requests. There was no negotiating with the abbot. I knew, because I’d been raised by a clergyman who was very much like him.

I took my current project from a trunk, thankful that most of its pieces were cut and ready to sew. Then I unrolled the aspen quilt and sat cross-legged upon it, threaded a needle with scarlet embroidery floss, and began to appliqué a satin tulip petal to the muslin sheet where I’d sketched my design. Good working light came through the little window, but it didn’t compensate for the weight of Father Luc’s stare upon my back. He sat shuffling papers at his desk, but I sensed his attention was often directed at me. What he found so fascinating, I didn’t know. I didn’t really want to know.

An hour passed, and then two, marked by the ominous chimes of a clock somewhere in the abbey. My back and legs became so stiff I decided sitting against the wall, where I had to face the abbot, was better than suffering in my Indian-style position any longer. He watched me as I shifted, but I refused to acknowledge him. I simply lost myself in the bouquet of bright colours that would become a spring garden where a black velvet cat watched a trio of brocade butterflies. I’d learned to escape this way when Mama was asleep yet restless with pain I couldn’t alleviate, and the technique served me well.

I was so caught up, embellishing a butterfly’s wings with orange and green embroidery, that I didn’t hear anyone enter the room. It was the sucking-in of breath that made me look up into Brother Christy’s admiring eyes. He squatted beside me so he could see the picture right-side up, fingering the crimson tulips I’d completed.

‘Exquisite,’ he murmured, studying the sketch lines. ‘We’re in a garden, with tulips and daffodils and lilacs, so lifelike I can almost smell their perfume.’

‘Thank you,’ I breathed.

‘But sitting on the floor will ruin your spine, Mary Grace. Don’t you prefer a chair?’

I glanced surreptitiously across the office. ‘Perhaps the Lord will provide where the abbot hasn’t.’

Brother Christy’s forehead furrowed. ‘We’ll see to that after dinner. Meanwhile, I thought you might like a tour of Heaven’s Gate, since you arrived too late yesterday to see anything.’

He didn’t need to ask twice. Gripping the pudgy hand he offered, I rose to my feet as gracefully as my tunic and stiff legs would allow. My escort gave the abbot a little wave. ‘I’ll return her after we’ve walked the grounds and eaten dinner. You’ve got to allow our lady some fresh air and exercise or she’ll wither away, you know.’

Father Luc grunted and returned to his bookkeeping. If I hadn’t felt his gaze on me so often, I would’ve thought he considered me an imposition. I wasn’t sure I should discuss this with Brother Christy, however. My words and deeds had a way of reaching the wrong people, and then haunting me later.

The moment we stepped outside, I lifted my arms and face to the sun. Something about the monastery felt oppressive — perhaps because I was still unfamiliar with the routine and expectations of its inhabitants — so this moment of freedom was a blessing. I smiled over at the monk beside me, who observed my stretching with a curious grin.

‘As much as I love quilting,’ I began, ‘I appreciate this chance to get out and move among the others, and drink in the beauty of these surroundings. Thank you for understanding that.’

His expression turned quizzical. ‘Mary Grace, you’re free to move about whenever you choose. You’re not the abbot’s prisoner.’

I smiled ruefully. Brother Christy sounded sincerely puzzled about a situation I knew better than to question.

‘Matter of fact, he’s never situated anyone in his office. He’s taken a fancy to you.’

It was one of the least suggestive statements I’d heard since I arrived: Brother Christy impressed me as being too kind to think badly of anyone — not the abbot, nor his shrewish housekeeper, nor a young woman caught in a compromising position in a man’s carriage.

‘It’s not like I asked for special treatment,’ I insisted.

‘If you did, you wouldn’t receive it.’

‘And I would rather work anywhere than in his office,’ I went on, hoping this gentle monk would hear my plea without finding me ungrateful, as the abbot had.

Brother Christy’s expression resumed its benign boyishness as we strolled towards the cottages. ‘You’re the only new resident who’s come with her own vocation. Father Luc suspects Hyde’s lofty claims about your talents — and their income potential — might be too good to be true, so he’s keeping close watch on you.’