The Sister and the Sinner (3 page)

"You have a choice," he growled impatiently. "You can take off your clothes and give them to me, and I'll let you sleep alone tonight. Or I'll rip your clothes from you, and you can go naked for days."

Her shoulders shaking as she wept, she began to remove the layers of clothing. First the black rosary with an ebony cross, which hung from the cincture around her waist. She kissed the rosary, then set it on the bedside table. Removing the cincture - a tight, leather girdle - usually brought a breath of relief, but not today. No longer bound at the waist, her black wool habit fell in loose folds from the throat to the floor, and longer in the back. Gingerly, she dropped the habit, stepping from the voluminous fabric with growing trepidation. Next came her slip, the white cambric veil, and finally, the binding and bloomers. For the first time in many years, Katherine Mary Francis Geraud was naked.

She stooped and gathered her garments in her arms, holding them in front of her as though they could provide her a modicum of modesty.

"Your hair," he whispered, his voice thick and gravelly.

Her hand went straight to her hair, tugging at the shorn locks. "It is customary to cut one's hair," she stammered, "as a sign of our humility before God. Thankfully, women don't tonsure their heads, as monks do."

"No, it's just, it's... God! It's red!"

Her chin thrust up, and her eyes narrowed. "The Lord's name!"

He approached, his gait uneven, and yanked the ball of fabric from her. "Sorry, sister. It's just, well, I've always been partial to redheads. You'd better get yourself into bed now."

Mary Francis did as she was told.

He limped to the doorway and tossed her clothes onto the floor. He stretched out on the floor, using her robes for a pillow.

"You - you can't sleep in here," she blurted.

"I can, and I will."

"But, but the floor is uncomfortable, and there are many beds to chose from!"

"Sister, I can't remember the last time I slept in a bed, and I won't start now, unless you're inviting me into yours."

"No!"

"Then please, do us both a favor, and shut up!"

Mary Francis closed her mouth, although she was screaming on the inside. She glared at him. He had the audacity to wink at her. She gave a most unladylike huff, then pulled the thin covers over her face.

Before long, the outlaw was snoring. It wasn't noisy, like Sister Mary Margaret used to snore, loud enough to rattle the floor boards. It was just a quiet sound, a constant, soothing sound that let her know she was no longer alone.

And he hadn't hurt her... much, she amended, as she rubbed the bruises on her wrists. He hadn't defiled her. He hadn't known her, in the biblical sense. He had threatened to spank her, which got her dander up. Mother Agnes had stopped spanking her when she'd transitioned from postulate to novice. She wasn't sure if it was because the Reverend Mother finally felt she was too mature for such childish punishments, or because the older woman was no longer physically able to administer them. She hoped it was the former, but suspected it was more the latter.

Would he really do it? Would he spank her?

Why did that thought not strike terror into her heart? Instead, she felt strangely warm. She fanned her quilt, trying to cool her naked flesh, until she remembered that she was not alone. She rolled over, trying to find a spot where the sheets were still cool. Still, it was awkward sleeping naked. Her senses were heightened. Her breasts ached and touching them did nothing to ease the discomfort.

"Oh God," she whispered. "What lesson is it that You wish me to learn from this?"

It was a long, long time before she was able to sleep.

* * *

Mary Francis was surprised that she awoke before the outlaw, for as little sleep as she'd been able to grab during the night. He lay perfectly still, no longer snoring... not even moving. Was he... was he alright? Had he succumbed to infection in the night, and passed away while a healer was not more than an arm's length away? Oh God! Please, don't let him be dead!

She flew from the bed, grasping the sheet around her, and tiptoed to the outlaw. She pressed two fingers to his throat to feel for a pulse, but seconds later she was tossed flat on her back, pressed into the floorboards by his great weight, his fist around her neck cutting off her air.

He looked furious, then a little confused, then hurt. It was strange how easily she read his emotions when he was still half asleep. The fury she could understand. The hurt upset her, and she felt strangely compelled to explain herself.

"I'm sorry for waking you, sir," she whispered, forcing the words out in spite of his firm grip. "I was worried, and only meant to find your pulse. I would not have harmed you."

He loosened his grip slightly. "You weren't looking for my knife?"

She shook her head. "And what would I have done with it? I treated your wounds; I could not have given you more."

He released her throat, then rolled off her, a gasp of pain escaping. The bandages had soaked through the shirt during the night. She'd have to do some laundry today, or the stains wouldn't come out.

"Let's go downstairs, and I can see to your injury," she said.

He wasn't listening to her, though. Instead, his eyes had darkened to a smoky blue, as he stared at her. Not at her face, but at her breasts now exposed, for the sheet she'd clutched had dropped a notch. She tugged it back up.

"It seems to me we have the matter of your spanking to attend to," he said hoarsely.

She rose to her feet, wrapping the sheet about her with as much dignity as she could muster. "You will not lay a hand on me, mister!"

He chuckled. "Is that so? You, little sister, need to learn that when I say something, I mean it. When I tell you to jump, you'd better be already jumping before you ask me how high."

"And you, sir, are too full of yourself!"

"You are the sassiest nun I ever met!"

"And how many nuns do you know?" she countered angrily.

He lunged for her, snatching the sheet from her hands. She screamed, grasping for it, without success. Furious, scared, embarrassed, and overwhelmed by the many emotions flooding through her, Mary Francis ran towards the outlaw instead of away. She pummeled his chest with her fists.

"I am going to give you your spanking, Sister. And then, and only then, will I allow you to get dressed. Do you understand?"

"You're a beast! A brute!"

"I never said I was otherwise. Now stop this at once, and get yourself down on that bed."

She stopped hitting him, and took a step back. She could resist him, for he was injured. He couldn't wrestle her to the bed with only one arm. But, there was the matter of her clothes... he was powerful and big, and fast, and she really did want to put her robe back on. She was exhausted from lack of sleep, and still much too hot for the time of year. And for some perverse reason she could not understand, she actually did want him to spank her!

She'd imagined it most of the night. His big hand on her bottom... it would hurt, no doubt. Mother Agnes had once been able to deliver a stinging swat and he was much bigger than the Mother Superior had ever been. But, after a punishment, Mother Agnes always held her and hugged her and told her how much God loved her. Would the outlaw hold her, too?

He took a menacing step towards her. Mary Francis scurried toward the bed. She lay down as he directed, with just her body and head on the mattress, her legs still on the floor. He put a leg between hers and tapped her ankles, to make her widen her stance. She grabbed fistfuls of the quilt in her hands and clenched her teeth. He was looking at her! He was seeing parts of her that she'd never looked at. This was wrong... sinful, and yet, utterly interesting. She prayed God would forgive her.

There was a sound, she couldn't place it, and glanced over her shoulder to see what it was. He had removed his belt! For a moment, she feared he would defile her, but then she saw that he folded the belt in his right hand and swung it down. She arched her back and cried out at the sudden blaze of pain it wrought.

"No, sir, please, no!"

"Hold still, or it might hit you someplace more painful than your pretty bottom," he warned.

"Please, don't!"

"A man is only as good as his word," the outlaw insisted, bringing his belt down again and again.

Mary Francis cried, not caring if the Reverend Mother heard her or not. She kicked, she twisted, which was a mistake, for the belt wrapped around her hipbone and it was much worse, just as he'd promised. Twenty times or more that wicked belt snapped at her viciously. She yelped and sobbed and begged him to stop. Until finally, he did.

"Now, sister, are you going to listen to me!"

"I'll try, sir," she promised.

He chuckled. She couldn't possibly imagine what it was that he found so funny, but it infuriated her. Maybe she'd stuff hot peppers in his wound, instead of garlic mash! Oh! Oh! He was the most awful person she'd ever met!

There was a slight hiss of air before his belt struck yet again. Her anger dissipated immediately, and only misery remained.

"You'd best be remembering, sister," he warned. "Now get dressed."

* * *

Her bloomers were made from course homespun, but that had never bothered her before. Now, though, the fabric hurt. Her bottom was ablaze, slightly swollen and quite red indeed. Every movement hurt. Every pain reminded her that the brute of an outlaw had seen her naked, had punished her - had spanked her! And slept in her bedroom! Heat, embarrassment, and wicked thoughts plagued her. She tightened her cincture another notch. The discomfort of it might help take her mind off other things. After adjusting her veil, she knelt before the bed and prayed. She prayed the Our Father, several Hail Marys, and then added a few words of her own.

He waited just outside her door, although he poked his head in several times urging her to hasten. Then, the brute asked her to help him with his belt!

Heat flamed her face as she touched the supple leather. "But sir, it isn't right," she blurted.

He swatted her poor bottom; she felt it even through the heavy robe. "Obedience," he reminded her. She threaded his belt through the loops, and fumbled with it awkwardly as she fastened the buckle. If his arm were hurting him that much, maybe he shouldn't even be wearing a belt, she thought angrily. Unless, of course, he only wore it so he would have it handy when he wanted to spank her again! Oh!

"Your face is an open book," he said. "You'd best be getting that red-headed temper under control right quick, sister."

"I'd best-." She stopped herself from uttering the hurtful words she'd meant to say. Then, taking a deep breath and letting it out, a gesture Sister Brigit had taught her to try when her temper threatened to get the best of her, she tried again. "I'd best be checking in on Mother Agnes."

He followed her into the bedroom. Mother Agnes was still asleep, her face relaxed and peaceful in a way that it had not been for many months. Perhaps she was starting to feel better? Mary Francis could hope. She would make a meaty broth for both her patients today. Then, slipping quietly from the room, she led the way downstairs.

* * *

"I'll tend to your wound first, sir," she said, directing him to sit at the table again. "Then I'll fix us something to eat."

He sat, shrugging out of the soiled shirt without her assistance, for which she was truly thankful. Still, that vast expanse of male chest was disconcerting. She didn't know where to focus her gaze. Heat crept up her neck, reddening her cheeks.

"Jeez, sister," he grunted. "You embarrass easily."

"That sounded almost like a curse, sir."

"But it wasn't. I'll behave."

"I doubt that. Now, stop talking so I can concentrate."

She removed the soiled bandages, nodding in satisfaction that there was no sign of infection. She'd done a thorough job of cleansing the wound. She mashed some more garlic cloves and applied the poultice to the wound, wrapping it in clean bandages. Then she tossed the shirt and soiled bandages into the washtub to be dealt with later. She searched through the mission barrel for yet another shirt. This one was not quite big enough, and fit his broad chest like a second skin. It did little to keep her from blushing, but it would have to suffice.

She built up a small fire from the coals in the wood stove, and soon had a pot of oatmeal and another pot with coffee simmering. She spared a bit of honey to flavor the oats, and asked the outlaw if he'd like some cream for his coffee. He declined. She added cream to hers, then gingerly sat at the table with him. She bowed her head to say a prayer, ignoring the scrape of his spoon in the bowl.

"Dear Lord, for what we are about to eat, make us truly thankful, Amen."

"I'm not sure he could," the outlaw said, smirking.

"The Lord can do all things," she replied, quoting from the Bible.

He scooped a glob of oatmeal onto his spoon and let it plop back into the bowl. "I don't know," he drawled. "I'm not sure I could ever be truly thankful for oatmeal."

She smiled. She'd felt the same way many a time. She'd learned that it tasted better if she ate it quickly. Once it cooled and thickened, it was almost inedible. At least it was plentiful. They still had a few chickens, a dairy goat, and the vegetable garden. There were apple trees, and wild plum trees. She had a few raspberry and blackberry brambles that she cultivated. But their diet was sorely lacking in meat. It had never bothered Mary Francis, as one day soon she would be making a vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience. She suspected, though, that the mostly vegetarian diet might annoy her outlaw.

Her outlaw... that had a nice sound to it!

Chapter Three

Mary Francis gazed out of the window longingly. She had hoped that she might convince her outlaw that she needed to work in the garden, or at least inspect the ground to see if he'd left a bloody trail for his pursuers to follow, but the thickening clouds and the darkness of their color convinced them both that rain would soon follow.

"I need to bring in more firewood," she tried.