Free The Sister and the Sinner by Carolyn Faulkner Page A

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