Sister Catherine’s words about loving God might as well have been a plague of locusts, devouring Madeleine’s peace and leaving barrenness behind. Passion had lit Catherine’s eyes even in the midst of her pain—a passion Madeleine had never known for her own vocation. She’d forgotten it was missing. It was easy to forget until someone rubbed your face in it, whether they meant to or not.

She could wallow in that problem all night, and maybe she deserved to. That didn’t change the question, though, which was: Now what?

She could refuse Mother Gertrude. Then, nothing would change. She’d remain Sister Madeleine, locked and bound into a life with restrictions and rules she could never alter, a purpose she lacked, and yearnings she dared not examine.

Except it was already too late for that. Gertrude’s request had opened Madeleine’s eyes when she’d fought to keep them shut. To close them again would be cowardice.

Whatever else she might be, Madeleine prayed she was no coward.

In her solitary bed, she trembled in a way she hadn’t since she was twenty-one and her brother had died, leaving her all alone in the world. You’re not alone, she tried to tell herself, you have your community. But did she?

Saint John of the Cross had called this the dark night of the soul. An apt phrase. In the dead of night, it was impossible to escape her thoughts. Including ones that had nothing to do, at least on the surface, with her decision.

Sister Bridget’s very pretty, isn’t she?

Madeleine rolled over onto her stomach and pressed her face in the pillow to muffle a groan. Oh no. These thoughts? Now, of all times?

Or maybe it was exactly the right time. If Madeleine were to consider this seriously, she had to confront her weaknesses. Lacking passion for her heavenly husband was one. Thinking unholy thoughts about other women was entirely another.

It wasn’t unholy to reflect that another woman was pretty. Madeleine could cut herself some slack on that score. She couldn’t imagine herself…doing anything…with Sister Bridget, unlike other women she’d wickedly fantasized about in the past.

Like her angel on the beach.

A shiver ran through her, along with a hot pulse between her legs that definitely wasn’t appropriate. The pulse faded in an immediate rush of shame. It was wrong, terribly wrong, to think of her rescuer in such a way, especially if that rescuer was heaven-sent.

But would heaven have sent her a woman who’d lain atop Madeleine, her naked body as warm as if she’d emerged from a sauna instead of the North Sea? So warm that Madeleine’s hips had rocked up to meet that weight, seeking something she’d craved for so long…

Return to me.

Madeleine bit her lip and shook her head silently in denial.

Sister Madeleine, help me.