What had come after that hadn’t felt like a punishment, at Isaiah’s hands. It had been justice. An honor, even, to take the Mark.
In this place that felt a hundred times more sacred than the Church, she felt very much like the sinner that Brigid accused her of being.
If nothing else, this man’s coffee proved that Abby was a glutton.
Gluttony.Yes, she might have moments of that, especially if everything out here was as full of flavors as this man’s coffee. She glanced his way, but he remained concentrated on his plants, his hands slowing every now and then to caress a branch in a way that mesmerized her.
Unclip, pull. Unclip, pull.The crunch of her cold feet on frozen ground, the echo of Luc’s feet turning it into a kind of music, accompanied by the smell of dead vines and unfallen snow. The movements hypnotized, the quiet calmed, the rhythm lulled her farther and farther away from salvation. She tried to push thoughts of God and sinners and the Church from her mind.
But the questions kept coming.
Am I greedy? Do I want too much?If greed harkened back to the sin of gluttony, then she might qualify. But not for material things. No, her cravings were for knowledge and experience.
What about wrath?Yes, she’d felt wrath. When Hamish had fallen ill and they’d refused to give him medicine. Not even to ease his suffering. That was all he’d wanted. Oh, she felt wrath all right. A brittle branch cracked in her fist before she flung it to the ground, a bit too hard.
There was no reason to go through the other sins. Envy wasn’t something she liked to think about, since she was just about done comparing her life to anyone else’s. In the Church, it had always beenUsandThem.
Someday soon, she’d become Them. And Us would no longer matter.
What about lust?The question rang loud; she glanced at Luc to see if he’d heard it too.
Of course, that brought her right back to that hot summer day and the droplets of sweat she’d conjured in her mind. The way she’d dwelled on this man’s slick chest and taut belly in the bright, bright sun.
She swallowed as her eyes slid to where his sun-bronzed hands worked, thick knuckles and long, strong fingers. Even the missing one had an appeal. Imperfect and interesting. Was there sensation in that stunted digit? And how would those capable-looking hands feel on her skin? Would they work over a woman’s body with that same level of brisk efficiency, or would they linger?
Her tongue slicked over her bottom lip of its own volition, exploring things that had been forbidden for a lifetime. Lust. Good gracious, what would it feel like to taste, to touch, to feel the full weight of that particular sin?
“You are all right?” Luc asked, startling her back to the present.
His gaze was on her, brows drawn down quizzically. Abby realized, mortified, that she’d been caught staring. He’d tried to move on while she’d stayed stock-still, transfixed by his hands and stubble-covered, scratchy-looking jaw.
“Yes. Yes, sorry,” she stammered out. “I’m…” Goodness, what on earth was she supposed to say to this? Nothing. Best to say nothing.
He put a hand to her shoulder, and she stilled. The contact was so charged, she couldn’t move.
So few men had ever done this—touched her body at all. Only Hamish, toward the end, had shared touches with her. And Benji in that long-ago memory. Isaiah, too, but she didn’t like to think of that time.
“Lunch.”
Abby blinked through the haze of… What? What did his touch make her feel?
Best not to consider the weight in her belly or her frantic breaths. It could just as easily be from fear. Or disgust. Yes, that would be acceptable, wouldn’t it?
“You go ahead,” she forced out. “I’ll keep working.”
“Take this.” He thrust something into her hand: a messily wrapped package. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“No.” She blinked dumbly. Something hot washed through her as she stared at the package. “What is this?”
“It’sjambon beurre. Ham and butter. Eat.”
“I don’t…” Frustrated, she held out the sandwich. She had to give it back. “You didn’t have to buy this for me. What do I owe you?”
Head tilted to the side, he watched her closely, earnestly, she thought, with what might have been a hint of insecurity behind that grumpy facade. “I didn’t buy it, Abby. I made it. Now eat it, or I will think you don’t trust my cooking.” He turned and led the way to a large, flat rock at the end of the row.
After the briefest hesitation, during which she forced down a whole slew of messy emotions, she went to sit beside him and very carefully unwrapped the sandwich. Closing her eyes, she took a small bite and chewed, slowly savoring the first meal made for her by a man.
5
