‘You’re like a big old crow. From long ago.’
A knock on the door interrupted Evie’s teasing. Mrs Witts stuck her head round.
‘Don’t mean to interrupt, Reverend, but isn’t it getting a bit late? They’ll be waiting for you in Little Minching.’
‘Oh! Yes. Yes.’ He looked at the clock and sprang to life, gathering up books and papers for the service.
‘You coming to the kitchen with me, Evie?’
‘Yeah. Smells lush. Thanks, vicar. I feel like my spiritual life is about to begin. See you tomorrow night.’
She sailed past him with a wink, her scarlet silk dress swishing over her curves as she followed her aunt out to the hallway.
Once the door was closed, he sank to his knees beneath a wall-mounted crucifix and muttered prayers until the fever was past and he could embark on his trip in a pure frame of mind.
That night, he dreamed.
Evie sat at a desk, studying her Bible, but she was naked. Her hair spilled on to her round breasts and the nipples stood firm and proud.
He stood at the front of the room, a schoolroom. She inflamed him. He was powerless to resist. There seemed to be only one way to deal with the burgeoning heat in his groin, and she knew it before he even spoke.
She looked up at him and closed the book.
Lifting her hair and holding its heavy weight at the back of her neck, she rose, revealing a delicate covering of curls above her pubic triangle, though in reality he knew she was shaved there. Her body was healthily proportioned, blending pink and white, softness and firmness. She embodied fleshly temptation, sinful sensuality. Every move she made was a lure.
She walked to the side of the room and took from a cupboard a long willow switch. This she bore in both hands, palms upward, presenting it to him as an offering.
When he had taken it, she turned and wordlessly bent over the desk, pushing out her bare bottom.
Next time you spank me …
He looked at her sweet, white globes; unmarked, blank canvases. She wiggled her hips, as if impatient for him to begin.
He raised the rod and whipped it smartly down, exhaling along with the swoop of the lash, sighing as it made its crack of impact. A red line rose, beautifully contrasting with the pale skin it streaked. She made no sound. Before he stopped, she must beg for his mercy.
His arm powered back and forth, wrist flicking, switch falling over and over until that pert bottom was a criss-crossing welter of weals, bright red and raised. The endless giddy whoosh of the whip sang in his ears, the crack bumping along with his heartbeat. He made music, a flagellating symphony, and his blood fizzed with power. The girl was his. She submitted to his will, and through his will, the higher will.
He saved her with this switching. He saved her soul.
She spoke the words.
‘Have mercy on me, a sinner.’
He put down the rod and put his palm to that subjugated flesh. How it burned. His mark was upon her, and she would bear it on her soul and in her memory even after it faded.
He unbuckled his belt.
The image faded and altered.
Evie disappeared.
Confusion reigned until he awoke to wet sheets and dry, feverish eyes.
‘Have mercy on me, a sinner.’
But this time the words came from him.
Chapter Three