The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,6

one he fought most often—the one that least befitted his role in life—was the sin of lust. It was a sad and truthful fact, but Randall Ward Howe—Reverend of the United Brethren Church of Boston, Massachusetts—lusted after women.

It was also true that, as he moved from parish to parish, he left weeping widows in his wake. Lonely women who’d been easy game for the sweet-talking preacher. Women who’d let themselves be swayed by the power of his voice and the caress of his hands. And, because they were widows, he had gotten away with his indiscretions. They were the women who had been relegated to the sidelines of society because they no longer had a gentleman to accompany them. It had been easy to slide into the role of protector. It had been even easier to become their confidante. After that, bedding them had been simple. The trick was staying on the far side of a wedding ring.

For a while, the joys of being wooed overshadowed the widows’ hopes of being wed. But that phase never lasted. Eventually the gullible women would begin to see that their expectations did not coincide with the reverend’s intentions.

That was when the hoo-haw began.

It was also the signal for the Bishop of the United Brethren Churches to once again step in, sternly admonish Randall Howe for his sins, and discreetly move him to another city. To Randall’s credit, his shame always seemed sincere, and his promises to do better rang true. But there was a limit to everyone’s patience and Randall Howe knew that his appointment to the Boston church was his very last chance. In fact, he’d heard it on good authority that had it not been for the fear of public scandal, the bishop would have already stripped him of his collar and shown him the door. Yet he was in Boston, and he had no intentions of betraying God, or the bishop, or himself again.

But that was before Priscilla Greenspan, widowed daughter of Ambrose Tull, the United Brethren’s deacon, sallied into the church. One look at the petulant pout on her lips and he knew his restraint was going to be tried.

By normal standards in any society, Priscilla Greenspan would have been called a fine-looking woman. For Randall, who had been abstinent for more than three months, she was a goddess. One look at her burgeoning bosom and trim waist, and his body betrayed him. Only the fact that he was covered by the mantle of his pastoral robes saved him from public humiliation. He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth as he reminded himself it couldn’t matter how lovely she was. He was here to spread God’s word, not sow his seed in unhallowed ground. And then she smiled at him. The battle was lost before it began.

Priscilla lay in the jumble of covers with a frown between her forehead and her lips in a pout. This was the fifth time in as many weeks that she had agreed to a secret assignation with the reverend, but her patience was running thin. Granted she’d been swayed by his fine figure and pretty ways. And there was the fact that she’d been ripe to be had. A widow for more than two years now, her needs as a woman had been brimming to running over. Randall Howe had taken care of everything, including the brimming needs, and she’d loved it.

But now that Priscilla’s fire had been dampened, her thoughts were turning to the future—hers and Randall’s. The only problem was he’d never even said he loved her. She didn’t want to give him up, but playing loose to keep him wasn’t in her plan. Last night she’d decided all he needed was a nudge. So she’d agreed to meet him again, telling herself it was to be the last time without benefit of vows.

“Randall, darling, there is something I simply don’t understand.”

Randall smiled at her as he buttoned his shirt. All rumpled and pink-cheeked from their recent bedding, she was a picture to behold, but his mind was already moving toward tonight’s church council meeting. His conscience pricked as he thought about what he’d been doing, but only slightly. This time he’d convinced himself it was different. This woman was perfect for him. She hadn’t demanded a thing from him except more lovemaking. He’d been happy to oblige.

“What’s that, my dear?”

He reached for his pants.

“Why have you yet to speak of our future?”

At that moment he knew, as surely