Part Two

"Will you take some wine, Major?" The abbess held out an enormous goblet that looked like the bloody Grail. "From our own vineyard. Seventeen-hundred and eighty-nine, in some ways, at least, was an excellent year."

The remark was ambiguous, he thought. He felt restless and agitated, but still, thankfully, not itchy. She had led him into a second chamber, smaller than the first, and it was very warm, opulently furnished with a long, upholstered couch and an exquisite of pair of matched fauteuil, sinuously carved, lavished with gilt and covered in wine-colored velvet. This wasn't like any nunnery he'd ever imagined, and he began to wonder if his earlier suspicions had been correct, although this would certainly be a most absurd and unprofitable location for a brothel.

He held up his hand, refusing the wine. "Madame, I have come because one of my officers tells me that you are holding one of my men. I insist that you release him immediately."

She smiled faintly, still offering the wine. "Oh, but of course. And he is already gone. He is back in your camp by now, I am sure." She came closer, reached for his hand and placed the goblet in it. "Please," she gestured towards the chairs. "Sit?"

He clenched his jaw, his mouth set in a thin line. He breathed deep through his nostrils the heated air, scented with incense. Why did she keep a blazing fire in high summer? His woolen coat felt heavy on his shoulders, his high collar restrictingly tight. He set the goblet firmly down on a low table before the fire.

"What is the meaning of this, Madame?" he said lowly. "I am informed that two of your…novices wandered into my camp. Further, my officer tells me that they were comporting themselves in a, shall we say, somewhat demonstrative manner? These young women were then, I understand, escorted safely back here, no harm having come to them, at which time, I am told, you then contrived to prevent Sergeant-Major Sobey from returning to camp. I was told that he would not be released until I came for him, and now I am here, and you tell me that he is not— God, what is that?"

The abbess smiled, and slowly she turned in the direction of his gaze.

"Ah, yes. Is she not beautiful?" she sighed. "That is our Sainte Sabine."

Beautiful, yes, carved in satiny wood, burnished to a sheen that invited touch, the statue stood, or rather sprawled in its shrine, a niche in the wall that was lined with candles. Beautiful, the woman, her head thrown back in rapture, her slender, arching body outlined in perfectly executed classical drapery that exposed more than it concealed. Beautiful, and remarkable the skill of the anatomist who had rendered in such tantalizing detail the full, rounded breast she covered with one hand, and the other hand that gripped the enormous wooden phallus that disappeared between her polished thighs.

Beautiful, and quite possibly the most obscene object he had ever laid eyes on.

"What kind of--?" Momentarily flustered, he turned away. He strode three paces toward the fire and turned again, and she was there, just inches from him, tall enough to look directly into his eyes. Her expression was serene, her lips pressed together in the faintest of smiles; her skin had the luster of pearls.

"You do not understand," she said softly. "As men seldom do." She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them again to his. "Ours is a secret order, Monsieur, and an ancient one. Misunderstood, and persecuted over the centuries, but still we are here. Sainte Sabine the Beautiful and Beloved, Our Lady of the Pleasures, is the Mother of Joy. She is the Teacher, the Protectress of the Virgin Bride. Unto her, the angels gave the secret of woman's delight in the acts that are sacred to marriage. She is the Keeper of Bliss, who prepares the way to the greatest fulfillment of Holy love."

Slowly he shook his head and laughed, low in his throat. It seemed he did understand, finally. He looked into the wide, dark eyes, saw the moist, red mouth that quivered with such sincerity. She was standing so close that the peaks of her high, full breasts, all the more enticing for their cover of chaste white linen, nearly brushed the silver buttons on his chest. She was an uncommon beauty; he could not help but be stirred, and it was no easy thing to resist the urge to enfold her in his arms and claim that quivering mouth. He would have liked very much to press her back onto the velvet couch, to push those pristine robes to the tops of her strong, white thighs and have her, to relieve his pressing need. But he would not break his own prohibition. He would not ask of his men what he would not ask of himself. Smiling, he wondered where Sobey was hiding himself. The old joker had very nearly had him this time.

"Dominique," he said, allowing himself the indulgence of brushing the underside of her chin with his fingertips. Soft as eider. What a damned, damned shame. "You are lovely, and this, all of this, your little story, everything is quite wonderful." He reached into his weskit pocket for his purse. Damned nuisance to sully one's hands with cash, but when he was on campaign he always kept a bit of coin for petty gambling. "I don't know what the Sergeant has already given you, but please, with my compliments." He pressed the leather pouch into her hands. "And now I must get back to my men. I am sorry for your trouble."

She glanced at the purse in her hand. Her eyes searched his for a moment, and then quite suddenly she gave a little laugh. Quickly she crossed her mouth with one modest hand. "Oh, no, Monsieur! Truly, you do not understand. You are sorry? Oh, no. No. It is we who are to make amends to you. You must let me explain." Again, she gestured towards the furniture. "You have ridden all this way. Please, I beg of you, sit but for a moment and have some wine. I will fetch the girls. They will make their apologies, and then, of course, I understand, you must return to your men."

"Madame, I assure you there is no need—" he disliked the way he was feeling. Uncharacteristically embarrassed, confused, and now, most inappropriately, aroused. In truth, he wanted to bolt, to get away from the sultry heat of the room with its enervating, perfumed air, but something told him that retreat was not an option.

"Please," she said gently. He moved to seat himself on one of the lush fauteuil, but the arm would not accommodate his sword, so he detached the scabbard from its furniture and laid the long, encased blade across his knees. Resignedly, he sank back against the high back of the chair and accepted at last the wine goblet from the abbess's hand. Still, she made no move to go, but stood looking down at him. To oblige her, he took a sip of the wine.

"Yes," he said. "Very good, indeed."

"They are not really bad girls." The abbess said. "Justine and Juliette. They are ready to be married, you see, but the war…" She sighed. "It was thought best that they should remain. They are such beautiful girls, too beautiful to be left unguarded at such a time. I am sure you understand. But, it is difficult for them. Sometimes it happens, you see, with the girls who are brought to us for their protection, and to be prepared. They have learned so well, they become anxious to test their powers."

Protection. Prepared. Their powers. He frowned. What the devil was the woman talking about, and why was she not leaving? He took another swallow of wine, and when he lowered the great goblet he saw to his surprise that she had dropped to her knees before him.

"I do feel that I must explain," she said. "Will you tell me your name, Major?"

Well, why not, if it would end this quicker? "Alexander," he replied.

"Alexandre," she caught her breath and closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her closed fist to her breast. "Yes, Alexandre the Great, the lion, the warrior. You have the mane of the lion as well and the pride, the strength; I can see it. Such a handsome man. Like my husband. He, too, was Alexandre."

Good God. This woman shouldn't be a nun, or a whore, and truth to tell, he had as yet to establish his opinion as to which it was. She belonged on the stage. He half wished he was more of a mind to be entertained, but instead he felt he was being toyed with, and he was getting angry. And increasingly anxious to be gone.

"You are married, Alexandre?"

"No, I am not. Not yet. But one day, I must." It was none of her affair, why had he even answered? But still, he added, flatly, "I am the Earl of Edrington. I am the head of my family."

She nodded. "A noble man must have a noble bride. And she will be pure."

Well, of course. That was to be expected. He did not respond, though.

Her face was upturned to his. The white veil fell back a little from the lustrous hair, the color of old blood, the color of dark sherry wine. Her throat was a smooth, slender column of white. "And when she comes to your bed on your wedding night, your noble, virgin bride, what will she know of the congress of men and women? What secrets will she have been told?"

"As little as bloody possible, I should think!" he burst out, astonished by the intimacy of the conversation. "That will be up to her mother, but—" he paused.

She inclined her head towards him. "But?"

"I…" he began. Oh, hell. He took another large swallow of the wine. "I would…hope to love her. I would wish for her to love me. I would be gentle, careful. I would try to teach her."

She nodded again, smiling serenely. "And tell me, Alexandre, who taught you?"

Suddenly, he had to laugh. He couldn't help it, for her question brought to mind those first, hideous, fumbling attempts, some disastrous, some even painful. He thought of big-bottomed Nelly, the laundress, who would reliably surrender her charms to any wooer desperate and foolhardy enough the solicit them. He thought of milkmaids in the straw, and dry, unsatisfactory grapplings with girls of his own age and station; any number of bored, married ladies, mistresses of friends, of whores in places high and low. There were women he had fancied, women he'd desired to distraction; there were even some, he had believed, for a time, he had loved. During the year he had spent in Canada, he had lived for three months with a native girl who had lost her husband. Gentle and sweet, she had cared for him. He was seventeen. He might have stayed with that girl forever, he thought, had his father not died in that same year, reminding him of his place in the world.

Edrington smiled. "I have had a few teachers," he said. "All in all, I expect you could say, it was something of a hit or miss affair, but I learned."

She returned his smile, and he looked at her beautiful hands with their long, elegant fingers and smooth, glassy nails, curled demurely in her lap. She spoke again.

"The Creator conceived of the Act of Love, as the Creator conceived of all things. It is the sweetest of earthly pleasures, the most powerful of instincts, intended to strengthen and enhance the bond of love between a man and wife. It assures the continuation of life. It is a precious gift and it belongs, equally, to both women and men. But, sadly, I think you will agree, such is the way of the world, a certain degree of inequality has always existed between the sexes, most certainly in matters of intimacy. Outside of the bond of Holy marriage, purity and virtue are what Heaven desires of all of us, but would we not be in agreement if we were to say that in this world men are more readily forgiven their lack of virtue? A man may find his own way, as you have said, but for a woman…"

She paused. Again, he could not help but think that he was caught up in some kind of elaborate joke. At this point, he did not know whether to continue to humor her or to cut the charade short, once and for all.

"Madame, again I ask you, what is the meaning of all of this? This is all very interesting, I am sure, but I am still no nearer to understanding for what reason I have been brought to this place, coerced, it would seem on the flimsiest of pretexts—"

She seemed to ignore his demand, and carried on with her speech. "The creed of Sainte Sabine, and the work of her disciples, Alexandre, is simply to give glory unto the Creator by showing the woman the way to exultation in this most precious gift; to know joy, satisfaction, and love, never pain, degradation, nor fear. To bring to her husband the sacred knowledge, to bind him to her eternally in an ecstatic love that will save them both from sin, and to know, wholly and deeply, the full joy her feminine power." Slowly, gracefully, she stood once more.

"Justine and Juliette, you see, are full of their power, but they are so young, and they have been kept apart from the world. They need to learn to be respectful of—you will pardon me--the weaknesses of men. But they are not bad girls at all, only a little naughty, as children can sometimes be."

"Why am I here, Madame?" he began to rise from the chair, forgetting the sword across his lap and caught it before it clattered to the stone floor. "I have told you there was no harm done to the girls, and I assure you, my men took no offense. If the children are naughty, then punish them, for God's sake, what's it got to do with me?"

She stepped away from him and bowed her head slightly. "Forgive me, Major. I do understand that you have important things to do. I beg your indulgence. I will bring the girls."

She was backing away from him, and before he could stop her, or follow, she had slipped from the room, closing the door behind her. And he knew, before he had even laid a hand on the heavy iron handle, that it was locked.

Go to Part Three