Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Now, he’s been caught by his superior in a compromising position with the tempting girl and his collar is on the line. He’ll have to pass a series of sensual tests, involving Farrah, to prove to the elder clergyman that he’s not going to forsake his faith for the beauty. And if he passes a single one of them, it’ll be a miracle…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Rune
When I joined the priesthood, I expected a huge lifestyle change.
That’s one of the major reasons I answered the calling.
Change.
There is one thing that continues to catch me off guard, however, and that is the way people react to me when I walk down the road in my cassock. Parishioners bow their heads or simply wave. They compliment me on the mass that morning.
Others are openly hostile.
They dislike the very sight of me and Monsignor Hannibal as we walk through the fruit stands and handmade goods vendors that make up the marketplace. Father Hannibal, hands folded at his waist, a rosary woven between his old fingers, doesn’t seem to mind at all. His superiority appears to be unshakeable.
I’m more curious about that hostility and what I can do to change it. Isn’t that why I became a priest at the age of twenty-eight? To spread good tidings in my community?
That’s not the original reason you joined the priesthood.
You damn well know it.
I clamp my teeth down on the inside of my cheek, biting until I taste blood. Only a few months into this new chapter of my life and that voice in my head remains relentless. I figured it would have faded away, now that I’ve established myself in the church and developed a routine, but no. It continues to haunt me. Call me a fraud.
But I won’t listen to it. I will overcome my self-doubts.
The church is where I belong, and nothing can shake that belief.
“I see a few choir members over by the silk trader,” says Monsignor Hannibal, a cajoling glint in his eye. “They always have the best gossip. Will you join me in speaking with them?”
Normally, I say no to this weekly invitation. I don’t want to engage in gossip, and it surprises me that Father Hannibal enjoys something that should be considered a sin. I do worry, however, that he’s beginning to feel slighted, so I start to say yes…
But something catches me eye. Long, vibrant red hair among a sea of grays and whites. The figure of a young woman weaves through the busy marketplace, barefoot, her dress looking like one of the garments I see in the weekly poor box. It’s tight. I know better than to notice the fit of her dress, but the blue material allows no mysteries. A deep breath could rip the bodice straight down the middle. And given she’s so slight in stature, the damn dress must be meant for someone much younger. A child, perhaps.
She is…
She is not a child, though.
Perhaps I haven’t seen her face yet, but the swells of her breasts make that clear.
I swallow with difficulty, the voice in my head laughing now as I try to look away. Try to look at anything but her.
I’ve almost succeeded when she lifts her head…and the sun shines down on the face of pure innocence and grace. She closes her eyes and smiles up at the sky, inhaling the steam from the nearby hot chocolate vendor, her hair fluttering in the wind—a red flag.
“Father McDaniel?” prompts the monsignor.
I clear my throat hard. Sure, I’ll join you.
Those words, the right ones, are perched there on my lips.
But then the barefoot redhead turns her head and looks at me, blinking two arresting gray eyes and I forget the question. I forget the name of the very town in which I’m standing. And obviously, I’m not the type of man to be distracted by women.
I am a man of God.
And I am nothing—nothing like my father.
But there is a simmering intuition in my blood telling me I was supposed to stumble across this woman today. That I’m not meant to simply observe her and walk away.
I’m not sure I could if I wanted to.
Get closer to her.
She’s in need. Of course she is, or she wouldn’t be barefoot in the dusty town square. Her dress would fit properly, instead of strangling her shapely hips, likely to the point of poor circulation. Her face wouldn’t be pale, as if she hasn’t eaten or gotten enough sunlight recently. She needs care, this girl.
The back of my neck prickles with alarm.
I’m supposed to be immune to the opposite sex. Not supposed to be looking at her body or marveling over the generosity of her mouth. I was raised in the household of a debauched man who flaunted sexuality, his promiscuous nature on full display. They called my father many names. Tom cat. Lothario. Womanizer.
The behavior and the shame heaped on my family name, including my mother and sisters, is what drove me to the collar. He humiliated us all by siring illegitimate children all over our hometown, acting like the victim when we finally left. That was the year I started studying for the priesthood. I won’t be like him. I won’t be a servant to lust. And I’m confident I can go speak to this girl and continue to abide by my vows. Principles.