Jeans. Basic jeans. A white blouse buttoned up to a respectable level. Boots with a low heel. Hair in a ponytail. Almost no makeup. Surely that would be good enough, tame enough, vanilla enough for her mother.
Nora got into her BMW and headed out at near-breakneck speed. She wanted to get this punishment over with as soon as possible. Being here in Guilford so close to where her mother had moved had been a mistake. She should have known at some point Søren would order her to visit her mother. They’d been friends once—Søren and her mom. When Nora was merely a troubled teenager everyone called Elle or Ellie, the sainted Father Stearns and her mother had worked together a time to two trying to tame her wild side. Of course, Søren’s methods had proven far more effective than her mother’s hectoring and disdain. Nora knew her mother always thought her daughter had far too much of her reprobate father in her. It had been a miracle her mother had taken her in at all that day Nora had shown up at the front door still cramping from the drugs she’d taken, shaking from the shock of running from the only man she’d ever loved.
But her mother had taken her in, sheltered her, fought to keep her there when the others questioned whether Nora belonged there or not.
“She left her lover,” her mother told the others who wanted her out. “He won’t come for her here. He can’t. He abused her. Physically.”
Although it turned Nora’s stomach to hear her mother tell the lie, she’d kept quiet, praying that the others would take pity on her and let her stay. And finally they had. Nora had been given her own room, chores to do, and orders to keep her head down and cause no trouble. She’d caused trouble, of course. Couldn’t be helped. It was her nature. In her loneliness there at the house, she started to write a story about a girl running away from a man. Nora could see the girl in her mind’s eye, see her racing through trees, turning her head back every few seconds to see who followed her. And Nora had whispered to the girl in her mind, “Don’t run. He’s the only one you don’t have to be afraid of....” And with that one sentence, that one idea, she’d written her first book, The Runaway.
For that book alone, the book that changed her life, she’d be forever grateful for her year of limbo in that house with her mother. Søren once said that book had been her way of writing herself out of hell. But it hadn’t been hell in the house. Hell was leaving Søren. Hell was staying away from him. Behind the gates that Nora drove through…that was mere purgatory. And it was to purgatory she now returned.
Hell punished sin. Purgatory burned it away. She’d like to keep her sins, thank you very much. No matter how much they hurt.
Nora parked the car and headed for the main house. Finding the bell at the wrought-iron gate, Nora rang it and waited.
“Yes, child?” came a weak voice from an ancient face behind the gate.
“My name is Eleanor Schreiber.” Nora waited to see if the woman remembered her.
The old woman smiled and nodded.
“I’ll find her for you.”
“Thank you,” Nora said, entirely without gratitude.
She heard the sound of cloth scraping the ground as the woman shuffled down a hall. A few minutes later younger footsteps approached. A door at the side of the gate opened and two women stepped through—one in her eighties and one in her fifties.
“Sister Mary John, this is your visitor.”
The woman in her fifties heaved a deep sigh.
“Elle? What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Mom.”
* * *
When Michael awoke, the morning rain had dissipated completely and warm white sunlight filled Griffin’s bedroom. He guessed he’d slept to about noon or later, slept deeper and better than he ever had in his life. Griffin’s chest made the best pillow in the world.
Michael laid his hand on Griffin’s rib cage and felt his heart beating steadily against his hand. How had this happened? What had he done to deserve the right to be in Griffin Fiske’s bed with his hand over Griffin’s heart? It seemed the most ridiculous thing in the world. Like a gift. Like a grace. And entirely without meaning to, Michael leaned up and dropped the smallest of kisses on Griffin’s lips.
The touch of their mouths caused Griffin to stir in his sleep. His dark eyelashes fluttered and opened. Michael froze.
“Sorry, sir,” he said in a panic.
“Never be sorry for kissing me, Mick. That’s an order.”
Michael grinned.
“Your orders are really easy to follow, sir.”
“Take your clothes off,” Griffin said without blinking or missing a beat.
Michael’s hands went numb.
“Okay, I take it back.”
Rolling up, Griffin cupped the side of Michael’s face. With his thumb he caressed the arch of Michael’s cheekbone. With his fingertips Griffin kneaded the soft skin underneath Michael’s ear.
“I’ll help.”
Reaching out, Griffin gathered the fabric of Michael’s T-shirt in his hands and pulled it up. Michael hesitated before lifting his arms to help the process along.
“I’m so f**king skinny and you’re so—”
Griffin clamped his hand over Michael’s mouth as he sent the T-shirt flying across the room.
“I have the most beautiful sub in the world in my bed. If you insult him, the punishment will be swift and severe.” Griffin gave Michael a stern glare. “Understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Michael nodded in penitence even as his heart soared at Griffin’s words.