Seducing Their Nun [Unlikely Bedfellows 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Read online

  Unlikely Bedfellows 1

  Seducing Their Nun

  Sister Margaret Mary comes home to clear out her late mother's house. There, she finds nothing about her past was as she had been told by the nuns at St. Agnes. Suddenly, after a contented life behind convent walls, Margaret Mary wants to experience all she's missed. When love sneaks up on her—first through her attorney, Jordan Parnell, and then his friend, Mark Collins—she sees the world, and life, in a new light.

  Jordan doesn't recognize Catherine Jacobsen's allure until it's too late. He may call her Catherine, but she's a nun. Still, he seduces her into loving him, too. When his friend returns from Korea badly wounded, Jordan knows that Mark and Catherine can help each other heal. Between them, he believes they can convince Catherine to stay. Then a terrible secret disrupts their lives and puts their future in doubt.

  Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre

  Length: 67,532 words

  SEDUCING THEIR NUN

  Unlikely Bedfellows 1

  Jenna Stewart

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  SEDUCING THEIR NUN

  Copyright © 2012 by Jenna Stewart

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62241-079-8

  First E-book Publication: September 2012

  Cover design by Harris Channing

  All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

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  DEDICATION

  At one point in my life, I longed to become a nun. I had great role models to choose to emulate, and I still think it’s a worthy and worthwhile vocation—for those who truly have the vocation, which obviously I didn’t. And isn’t Jack happy about that?

  This book is for Margie. Remember when we chatted at work about books that could never be written—much less published? One of us said a nun love story. I said a nun ménage, and you burst into laughter. I said when I wrote it, I'd name the nun after you. Well, it's taken a few years, but here she is. I hope you enjoy the story! I miss our talks and laughter.

  To my mom who (with Jack) has always been my greatest cheerleader and supporter, and to Sister Mary Paul, an inspiration of my childhood, though she might not appreciate it now. And as always, to the love of my life, Jack, the very best reason ever for my giving up entering the convent.

  SEDUCING THEIR NUN

  Unlikely Bedfellows 1

  JENNA STEWART

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  As soon as Sister Margaret Mary stepped off the train at Ballymeade, Oregon, she caught the scent of the sea, something as familiar to her as it was strange.

  “Can I help you with your bags, Sister?”

  “What?” Startled from her reverie, Sister Margaret Mary dropped her smile and turned to face the porter. He tipped his cap. She acknowledged him with a nod. “I only have this one.”

  Shyness overcame her. Speaking to someone was strange enough, but conversing alone with a man who was not a priest wasn’t something she’d done since before going to the convent more than twenty-five years ago, as a child.

  “Thank you,” she added hastily. He waited, with a slight upward curve to his lips. Should she tip him even though she required no help? She wished now that she’d asked Sister Celeste, who had traveled in the world a bit. She would have known the expectations of train porters. As it was, Margaret Mary had few coins to spare and no experience by which to judge what to do. So she did nothing. Finally, with a “Good day,” he walked off.

  Though the train had been filled with soldiers returning from Korea, she found she was the only passenger on the platform. A conductor farther down the track shouted, “Aboard!” She turned to watch. The brakes released with a hiss. The cars jerked forward, inches at first and then feet, picking up speed. She strained to see Sister Celeste or Sister Brigitte, both of whom were continuing south to help establish a new convent in California.

  There they are! She waved furiously, suddenly frantic to maintain contact. Sister Celeste returned her wave, smiling broadly and imparting encouragement in both actions. Sister Brigitte frowned, as was her way, but Margaret Mary knew it was with concern that she would be spending the next weeks alone. Any nun outside the convent without the company of at least one other sister was highly unusual. And now, as the train disappeared from sight, panic welled up. How long had it been since she stood outside cloistered walls, with no one nearby for solace?

  Automatically tucking her hand under the scapular of her habit for her rosary, she quickly recited ten Hail Marys, one for each bead in the decade, until she could breathe once again. Silence cloaked the station. Rooted to the spot, she stared southward long after the train had disappeared like a track-bound, reticulated snake, slithering around a curve and into a thick forest of fir.

  She was alone. No sisters surrounded her with their silent support or fellowship in prayer. No bells would organize her days and nights, enforcing a discipline that had become second nature. For th
e first time since childhood, she was stripped of all identity, except for her habit and the knowledge of her servitude to God within her.

  Hefting her black suitcase, she walked toward the station. The stationmaster stared openly from the doorway. For a brief moment they locked gazes, then she ducked her head and glanced past the building toward town. Three old men sat on the porch of a whitewashed, Victorian-styled building. A neatly lettered sign proclaimed it to be the Ballymeade Hotel and Rooming House. The men had stopped rocking while they stared back. One had a glass raised halfway to his lips.

  Fatigue overcame her desire to sink into the ground with self-consciousness. Safe within the convent’s walls she’d been protected from a stranger’s curiosity. For the next few weeks she’d have to learn to deal with it.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the stationmaster, “have you seen a Mr. Parnell? He was supposed to meet me.”

  “Robert Parnell died a few weeks ago. Ain’t seen his boy Jordan today. You Emma Jacobsen’s daughter?”

  Did she have to tell this man who she was? Was it his business? “Yes. Can you direct me to Hollyhock Cottage?”

  “Hollyhock Cottage. Are you sure that’s where you want to go? Not the hotel?”

  He looked her up and down in a familiar manner she found discomforting. She fought the urge to shrink away and instead stood straight and squared her shoulders. “Yes, please, if you know where it is.”

  “Oh, I know where it is, awright.” He walked to the edge of the platform and spit into the weeds along the building before pointing past the hotel. “Go to the end of Main Street. Turn right up Elm, and at the top of the hill go left on Route 83. About three miles on you’ll pass the entrance to Horsehaven.” He stopped and looked her dead on, his mouth pulled back in a smirk. “That’s Brendan Tipton’s place. You’ll know of him, I expect?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone in town.”

  “Ah.” He quirked his brows. “Well, then. Continue on another two miles and turn left. Once you turn, you can’t miss it. The house is about half a mile off the road.”

  On a normal day, she’d undertake the walk without a second thought, occupying her mind with prayer along the way. But the trip from Ohio had been long and tiring. Her back ached and her legs threatened to fold.

  “Is there somewhere I can purchase food to take with me? Some fruit, cheese, and milk?”

  “Store’s halfway up Main.” He spit into the weeds again and then stared at her boldly.

  “Thank you,” she said, backing away from his too-open gaze and the disdain she felt pouring off him.

  She walked down the platform steps and crossed the street toward the hotel. The men on the porch continued to watch her progress, though they’d started rocking again.

  “That be Emma Jacobsen’s girl,” the stationmaster called from the station. His tone held a meaning she didn’t understand.

  “Oh,” said one of the men, while another said, “Izat so?”

  “Sorry ta hear ‘bout your mom,” said the man with the glass.

  “That’s kind, thank you,” Margaret Mary replied.

  “You goin’ out ta the cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood and moved to the railing. “That’s a far piece for ya to walk. Ask for Lonnie at the gas station up the street. He runs the town’s taxi service. He can take ya, seein’ your mom’s just died an’ all.”

  “I don’t have money for a taxi.” She said the words, ashamed of the fatigue that made them sound something like a whine.

  “Lonnie owes your mom.” The man glared back toward the station where Margaret Mary thought the stationmaster still watched. “We all do, one way or tuther. Tell Lonnie that Jim Thompson says so.”

  “I will, Mr. Thompson, thank you.”

  “Be careful out there, that the same thing happened to your mom don’t happen ta you.”

  “Aw, Jim, she’s a nun for God’s sake,” said the first man, and then he tipped his head in her direction. “Sorry, Sister.”

  What could she say to that? Her mother had been sick since Margaret Mary was a child. That was why she’d been sent away to school so young, so her mother could rest and have the quiet she needed. Was there the chance she could contract the disease, whatever it was? And why would being a nun make her immune? Did that man think she had magical powers? People did think strange things about Catholics.

  “I’ll be careful,” she assured the men.

  The middle one laughed, but Jim Thompson just nodded and regained his seat. “See that ya are.”

  By the time she reached the gas station with suitcase in one hand and the grocery bag held in the crook of her other arm, she was about to drop from tiredness and heat. The black habit absorbed the sun’s rays, making the layers of clothing beneath stick to her skin. Sweat trickled down her skull under her veil and wimple, and she felt a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

  As Jim Thompson instructed, she asked for Lonnie. A large man ducked out from under a car on the hydraulic lift, wiped his hands of grease while listening to her request, and then went to talk to a man working under another car. Just as silent as before, he came back, took both the bag of groceries and her suitcase, and put them in the trunk of a battered blue car. Margaret Mary gratefully climbed in the back.

  After several minutes of grinding gears, starts and stops, and many more turns than she’d remembered the stationmaster mentioning, Lonnie turned sharply to the left. He wound along a mere track—not a road—much faster than she would have liked and finally ground to a halt before a charming little house. A white picket fence lined with flowers of an amazing variety fronted the porch. A good forty or fifty feet away from the house, another length of fence extended for several yards along where solid ground gave way to the cliff that dropped to the ocean.

  Lonnie threw the car into neutral, set the brake, and got out. He opened her car door but didn’t extend a hand to help her. Instead, he retrieved her possessions from the trunk, climbed the porch steps, and flung open the door of the house to enter. Mother Superior had notified the lawyer who sent the letter telling of her mother’s death when Margaret Mary would arrive and asked that he have the utilities working. It seems he should have locked the doors, or perhaps he hadn’t received the letter and the door had been unlocked since the funeral.

  “Thank you so much,” she said as he came out and strode to the idling car. He grunted in return, and before she could process anything else to say, he ground the gears into reverse and took off up the lane and out of sight, leaving nothing but a dust cloud in his wake.

  Slowly, feeling as though she were in a trance, Margaret Mary walked into her mother’s house for the first time in more than two decades. She didn’t expect to suffer a wave of nostalgia, and she didn’t. She’d been a small child when she last lived at the cottage. She barely remembered being there before her mother took ill and she was sent to the convent for schooling. When Margaret Mary wrote years later to say she planned to enter the order as a postulate, her mother hadn’t asked her to return home first, and so she hadn’t. By then, the cottage overlooking the Pacific was no longer home.

  A musty odor permeated the room. Margaret Mary left the front door open then spent time to raise the windows, too. The fresh breeze blew the curtains, immediately banishing the staleness of the empty house. Next, she carried the groceries into the kitchen. Relief flooded her when she heard the low hum of the refrigerator and the overhead light came on. She wouldn’t have to spend her first night in the dark.

  She put away the few items she’d bought, put on water for tea, and made a cheese sandwich. Dusk was falling. She took dinner outdoors and watched the sun set over the ocean.

  Waves crashed against rocks at the foot of the cliff, sending saltwater sprays feet into the air and nearly drowning out the screech of sea birds. Near the horizon, gold melded into amber before meeting the steel gray of the water.

  “Dear God,” she said aloud, “thank you for granting me a safe jou
rney and bringing me to this place of beauty.” She turned, stopped, then faced the sea again. “And please give me the strength to finish my work soon so I may return to Your work within the walls of St. Agnes.”

  As she turned back to the house, a car came down the lane. Back straight and hands hidden beneath her scapular, she waited for it to stop. A tall man got out, his suit jacket flying open as soon as the ocean breeze caught it. He strode to her with purpose and held out his hand. “Sister Margaret Mary, I’m Jordan Parnell. I’m very sorry to have missed you at the train this afternoon. I was in Portland on business that went unexpectedly long. I do apologize.”

  She stared at his outstretched hand and then up into amazingly penetrating blue eyes. By the time she decided she needed to at least take his hand, he pulled it back.

  “Sorry to come unannounced, too, but there’s no phone out here. Your mother enjoyed her privacy.”

  “As do I. I’m not used to having a phone.” Good heavens! She was becoming a regular chatterbox.

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know that I will arrange for someone to come out and help you pack. That is, if you and your fellow sister want help.”

  “No one else is with me.”

  His brow wrinkled, managing to make him look both confused and worried. “I thought nuns never traveled alone.”

  “Normally, no.” Mother Superior hadn’t been able to spare anyone to be with her. She had reluctantly allowed her to travel to Oregon with Sisters Celeste and Brigitte but said it would be a month or more before anyone else could leave the convent. She had written to the local priest to expect Margaret Mary and suggested she talk with him about finding someone to help her with the house.